Digitized by tine Internet Arciiive 
 
 in 2008 witii funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 littp://www.arcliive.org/details/artofsliortstoryOOgrabricli 
 
THE ART OF 
 THE SHORT STORY 
 
THE ART OF 
 THE SHORT STORY 
 
 BY 
 CARL H. GRABO 
 
 Instructor in English, the University of CbicafO 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON 
 
COFYKIGHT, 1913, BY 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
 I 
 
PREFACE 
 
 The principles of narrative structure which I 
 have set down here are for the most part true of 
 the novel as well as of the short story, though for 
 conciseness and clearness I have discussed their 
 application chiefly to the latter. They are, 
 most of them, commonly enough held, though in 
 my college work I have felt the need of a book 
 which should collect and relate them in simple, 
 orderly, and yet comprehensive fashion. The 
 material is scattered, and the amateur writer 
 cannot easily find it. 
 
 For other than commonplace and accepted 
 principles of structure I have relied chiefly on 
 Stevenson, whose letters and essays are filled 
 with comments of technical interest to writers. 
 It is unfortunate that he never wrote his promised 
 work, a "small and arid book" upon the art of 
 fiction. Most of my indebtedness to Stevenson 
 is specifically acknowledged in the following 
 pages. 
 
 The method of the book is in part based upon 
 Poe's The Philosophy of Composition. In this 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 he traces the development of The Raven, making 
 clear the steps of the creative process. Unfor- 
 tunately he did not perform a like office for his 
 short stories, an analysis which would have been 
 even more valuable. There is curiously little 
 material upon the psychology of story composi- 
 tion, the very thing which the beginner most 
 needs, for he is too often of the opinion that the 
 men he seeks to emulate work by mental proc- 
 esses too mysterious and profound for his under- 
 standing. There are invaluable hints — if skilled 
 writers would but give them — which might save 
 the beginner much time and mistaken effort and 
 as well inspire him with some small confidence 
 in the methods which he pursues, whatever his 
 despair at the immediate results thereof. 
 
 Could I analyze the masterpieces of the short 
 story with certainty and exactness, so that their 
 inception and development might be made clear 
 and explicit, I should rely upon them alone to 
 illustrate the mental processes of story writing. 
 But so exact an analysis is possible only to the 
 author. I have, therefore, in addition to quot- 
 ing from Stevenson, Poe, and Henry James, en- 
 deavored from my own experimental knowledge 
 to analyze the way in which the mind seeks 
 and selects a story idea and then proceeds to 
 develop it. I trust that what I have found true 
 of my experience may be of some value to others 
 
PREFACE vii 
 
 who are seeking to learn the difficult art of 
 working effectively at story composition. 
 
 I am greatly indebted to the following mem- 
 bers of the English department of the University 
 of Chicago for helpful criticism and advice: Mrs. 
 Edith Foster Flint, Mr. Robert M. Lovett, and 
 Mr. James W. Linn. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CBAPISR PAGE 
 
 I. The Short Story i 
 
 II. The Essentials of Narrative . _. 6 
 
 III. The Point of View ..._... 21 
 
 rV. The Unities of Action, Time, and 
 
 Place -37 
 
 V. Exposition and Preparation . . 65 
 
 VI. Introductions. The Order of Nar- 
 ration 96 
 
 VII. Character-Drawing 115 
 
 VIII. Description OF Person AND Place . 143 
 
 DC. Dialogue 175 
 
 X. Types of Story Ideas 198 
 
 XI. Titles and Names 214 
 
 XII. Suggestion and Restraint . . , 227 
 
 XIII. Unity of Tone 244 
 
 ix 
 
X CONTENTS 
 
 CBAPTKR PAGX 
 
 XIV. The Psychology of Story Writing 265 
 
 XV. Conclusion 284 
 
 Appendix: Poe's "The Philosophy 
 
 OF Composition" 295 
 
 Index 313 
 
THE ART OF 
 THE SHORT STORY 
 
THE ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Various attempts have been made to define 
 the short story as a distinct form of narrative, 
 much as a sonnet may be characterized as a 
 verse form conspicuously different from the 
 ballad and the ode. But though every one 
 knows in a general way what a short story is, no 
 single definition as yet devised has proved suffi- 
 ciently precise to win universal acceptance. 
 The reasons for this failure will be worth noting 
 at the outset of our discussion of short-story 
 technic. 
 
 It is impossible, in the first instance, to state 
 exactly what is meant by *' short." We have no 
 difficulty in classing the Odyssey as a long story, 
 an epic, or Vanity Fair as a novel. In compari- 
 son with these, the tales of the Arabian Nights 
 or the stories of Maupassant are relatively short. 
 Yet we may not define a ''short story" as a fic- 
 titious prose narrative of five, or ten, or fifteen 
 
ART' OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 thcusand woriis, for what, in that case, shall we 
 say of a story of sixteen thousand words? Must 
 this be called by another name, a "novelette," 
 perhaps? To draw so hard and fast a line is ob- 
 viously unsafe. Nor is the difficulty less if we 
 define a "short story" as one which may be read 
 at a sitting, for we read at varying speeds, and a 
 '* sitting" may be two hours or four. The char- 
 acteristic, shortness, is a relative, not a fixed, 
 attribute, and upon it we cannot frame a defini- 
 tion of the "short story." 
 
 We encounter equal difficulty if we endeavor 
 to base our definition upon some distinctive 
 peculiarity of form whereby a "short story" 
 may be differentiated from other types of short 
 narrative, such as the "tale" and the "allegory." 
 Rip Van Winkle is usually classed as a tale. 
 We feel readily that it differs somewhat from 
 the short story as practised by Kipling and 
 Maupassant. Yet there are many points of re- 
 semblance, too, and it is almost impossible to 
 construct a brief and intelligible definition which 
 shall make the distinction clear. Literary classi- 
 fications are not like those of chemical elements, 
 distinct and sharply drawn. A truer analogy 
 would be that of a gradation of colors. This 
 color, we say, without hesitation, is green; that 
 blue. But not always can we be so sure. There 
 are colors which partake of both, and which we 
 
THE SHORT STORY 3 
 
 may call blue-green, or greenish-blue, or by a 
 specific name which more or less loosely defines a 
 color commingled of the two. Thus it is with 
 the forms of fiction. It is almost impossible to 
 tell at what point one type begins, and another 
 ends, for they have many elements in common; 
 the structural principles of one resemble too 
 closely the structural principles of a seconds 
 Only when the contrast is extreme is a clear dis- 
 tinction easy. 
 
 A more profitable method whereby to approach 
 the difficulty is to consider the analogy of the 
 novel. The earlier forms of fictitious narrative 
 from which the novel has been developed need 
 not concern us here. We should note merely 
 that various novelists, each with the work of his 
 predecessors as a vantage-ground, have developed 
 the possibilities of the novel as a form of prose 
 fiction; have improved its technic and defined 
 its field so that at last we have a fairly clear idea 
 of what a novel is. Experiments, failures, and 
 half -successes have made clear what the novelist 
 may and may not attempt with a reasonable 
 prospect of success. 
 
 Of shorter fictitious narratives much the same 
 is true. Only by repeated experiment have cer- 
 tain of the possibilities of the form been revealed 
 ■ — as yet not all of them, we may well believe. 
 And, while the potentialities of the form have 
 
4 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 been indicated, so, too, have been its limitations. 
 Nowadays the skilled writer decides, before set- 
 ting pen to paper, at what length and in what 
 form he may best express his idea, for he knows 
 that some of the resources of the novel are denied 
 the short story; and, conversely, that an idea 
 effectively clothed in the shorter form may not 
 suffice for the more elaborate development de- 
 manded in the novel. 
 
 Between novels and short stories the difference 
 in technic is, at bottom, dependent almost solely 
 upon the length of the narrative. In two thou- 
 sand words I shall not, obviously, be able to do 
 what George Eliot, in Middlemarchy has done in 
 two hundred thousand. I should be foolish to try. 
 But what is true of stories so discrepant in 
 length as two thousand and two hundred thou- 
 sand words is true in lesser degree of stories two 
 and five thousand words long, though both may, 
 in the common acceptation of the term, be "short 
 stories." That there are structural principles 
 true of one form of fiction and not of another we 
 may not safely declare. Certain principles true 
 of all narratives, long and short, there are, and 
 at these we can arrive. We may also recognize 
 structural difficulties which bear with increasing 
 weight upon the writer as he attempts an ever 
 shorter form. But we are wise if we do not make 
 our theories too inelastic. 
 
THE SHORT STORY 5 
 
 The study of the technic of the short story 
 is nothing more than the critical analysis of ex- 
 periments made in the shorter forms of narrative. 
 From this analysis emerges a body of generaliza- 
 tions which will guide the writer in the effective 
 development of his idea — that is, a technic. At 
 the end of our study it may perhaps be pos- 
 sible to summarize results in a fashion sufficiently 
 concise to serve as a definition of the short-story 
 jrbrm, but to attempt such definition at the outset 
 would be unprofitable. We need first to under^ 
 stand the narrative principles true of all storieSj^ 
 long and short. Then we may consider more 
 minutely those structural principles which are 
 increasingly significant as the story form be- 
 comes shorter. 
 
 ^ y^ 
 
 X<^^^"^'^- ' K^J^ 
 
CHAPTER n 
 THE ESSENTIALS OF NARRATIV^E 
 
 There are, then, certain structural principles 
 true of all stories, alike short and long. These 
 we should understand before we seek to define 
 more particularly the essentials of short fiction. 
 We should learn first what a story is; and this 
 demands that we explain the meaning of narra- 
 tive, for a story is only fictitious narrative, narra- 
 tive imaginatively constructed to produce a de- 
 sired effect. 
 
 Narrative we may loosely define as a recor d. 
 in w ords, of experience. Thus history and bi- 
 ography are narratives no less than the stories 
 of Poe. The term is broad and inclusive. Let 
 us trace the steps by which we may develop one 
 of the simpler narrative forms, the autobiog- 
 raphy. 
 
 Th£_i:ibi g_ct of an autobiography is jto_ re cord 
 ^interesting and significant experiences. This 
 purpose is, in reality, twofold. The incidents of 
 his life being of interest to the writer, they may, 
 first of all, interest you as well, for through the 
 6 
 
ESSENTIALS OF NARRATIVE 7 
 
 imagination you are able to re-create, less vividly 
 to be sure, the accidents which have befallen 
 him. These experiences have, however, been 
 more than interesting of themselves; they have 
 affected and moulded him, made him what he is. 
 You, following them, become, in some sort, ac- 
 quainted with his personality. He is, in a sense, 
 the hero of a true story, and you trace his for- 
 tunes with some degree of concern. But how 
 does he select from his many experiences those 
 which are interesting and important only, for he 
 cannot tell everything he does and feels. Even 
 Boswell's Life of Dr. Johnson^ long as it is, fails 
 to record everything Johnson did and said. 
 Johnson himself could not have told all; much of 
 it he would have forgotten. 
 
 Memory it is that first sifts our experiences. 
 Were" one to keep a diary m which each night he 
 put down the events of the day, memory would 
 see to it that his journal was not too full. He 
 would not remember a tenth of his sensations. 
 Many of them would be so familiar or so trivial 
 as to pass unheeded. Yet there would be many 
 left, the record of which would serve as the story 
 of the day. Each day he would accumulate 
 more, and in the course of years an immense 
 quantity. So vast would the collection become 
 that with his future autobiography in mind, he 
 would soon reaHze that, for the sake of his read- 
 
8 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 ers, a discriminating selection was imperative. 
 Deliberately, therefore, he would reread his 
 diary, to cull from it only the best — the most in- 
 teresting, and the most significant. 
 
 As he rereads his diary the writer is imme- 
 diately struck with an important fact: many of 
 the incidents there narrated are highly uninter- 
 esting to him now, though indubitably he once 
 thought them of importance. They neither pos- 
 sess any enduring quality of interest, nor are 
 they of any significance in the light of after 
 events. They resemble, indeed, many passages 
 in the diary of the garrulous Pepys: they are 
 but evidence of the petty concerns with which, 
 for the most part, our lives have to do. 
 
 He is surprised, on the other hand, to note but 
 brief mention of an incident which he now thinks 
 vastly more important than many another told 
 at greater length. Wherein does his later judg- 
 ment differ from the former? The difference lies 
 here: the incident, unimportant at the time, is 
 truly significant by reason of its relation to sub- 
 sequent incidents of importance. It may have 
 been the introduction to a stranger who is now 
 an intimate friend; to an enemy who has since 
 injured him; to the girl who is now his wife. 
 He did not know the potentialities of the incident 
 at the time. Now he perceives its vast sig- 
 nificance. 
 
ESSENTIALS OF NARRATIVE 9 
 
 As he turns the pages he may chance here and 
 there upon entries which hnk themselves together 
 in chains. On this day he met again the woman 
 who is his wife. He was impressed by her 
 beauty or her inteUigence. Again, he called 
 upon her, or they met at the house of a friend. 
 From week to week he can trace the growth of 
 his romance. He is struck by the fact that it 
 constitutes a story, one of the many stories, 
 broken or complete, which make up the sum of 
 his life. 
 
 I have employed the term ''story" as one ap- 
 pro priate to such a chain of related incident s as 
 I-have out lined. What, then, is the distinguish- 
 ing char acter of a story? To grasp its essentials, 
 lef^us take for analysi s some st ory which has 
 bee n universally known for a long time, and 
 which, therefore, is presumably good, that is, 
 artistic. I shall briefly summarize the chief in- 
 cidents of Cinderella. • ■ 
 
 Cinderella is the beautiful and virtuous 
 daughter of a widower who seeks to forget his 
 loneliness by marrying a widow. The widow's 
 two daughters, less beautiful and good than 
 Cinderella, are jealous of her and abuse her. 
 The stepmother, also, because of them, is hard 
 upon the girl, and makes her the household 
 drudge. Cinderella's lot is a sad one, for, while 
 her stepsisters are enjoying themselves at balls, 
 
lo ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 she is without fine clothes, and pleasures, and 
 attention. 
 
 It happens that the king of the land is to give 
 a great ball to which all the young ladies of 
 position are invited, for from among them the 
 prince, his son, will make choice of a bride. 
 Cinderella would like to go, but she is without 
 the fine clothes necessary. On the night of the 
 ball she remains at home and bewails her fate. 
 As she is thus sorrowful, her fairy godmother ap- 
 pears, inquires the cause of Cinderella's grief, 
 and comforts her by transforming her rags to a 
 beautiful ball-dress and her worn shoes to 
 crystal slippers. She also provides a coach and 
 four in which Cinderella may attend the ball, 
 warning her, however, to leave the ballroom 
 before the last stroke of midnight, since the 
 charm has potency no further. Promising to 
 heed the warning, Cinderella departs, attracts 
 the attention of the prince, and dances with him 
 throughout the evening. At the stroke of 
 twelve she recalls the fairy's warning, and es- 
 capes hastily, in her flight leaving behind one of 
 the crystal slippers, which the prince finds and 
 keeps. Cinderella, arriving home in rags, there 
 awaits her sisters and their account of the ball. 
 
 The prince, the next day, begins his search for 
 the maid of the crystal slipper, whom he has 
 vowed to marry. The couriers who endeavor 
 
ESSENTIALS OF NARRATIVE ii 
 
 to find her whom the slipper fits come at last 
 to the home of Cinderella. After her sisters try 
 the slipper unsuccessfully, Cinderella is called 
 from the kitchen. The slipper goes on easily, 
 and as her sisters stare, incredulous, the fairy 
 godmother appears and transforms Cinderella's 
 rags to rich and appropriate garments. Cinder- 
 ella marries the prince and forgives her cruel 
 sisters. 
 
 In this outline of incidents there are several 
 salient characteristics. It differs from a biog- 
 raphy of Cinderella, first, in that it is far less 
 ambitious. Of the many things which might be 
 told of the heroine only a few have been selected 
 for the story. Sel ection of incident is the firs t 
 characteristic. But in a biography there was, 
 we found, selection of a sort. The difference 
 Hes in this: the purpose is unHke in the two 
 cases. Were I to write a life of Cinderella, I 
 should select the incidents which best revealed 
 the varied aspects of her character. In the story 
 of the crystal slipper not only is the purpose less 
 ambitious, but it is also different in kind. We 
 are interested in Cinderella's character only in- 
 cidentally. Our true interest is in the solution 
 of ^her diffi culties. We wisti to know what the 
 end of the narrative is to be, and look forward 
 to it eagerly. This is the first important differ- 
 ence to note in our comparison of biography or 
 
12 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 autobiography and a story. In the one our sole 
 concern is with the revelation of character. In 
 the other we are concerned only incidentally with 
 the character and much with the fate of the char- 
 acter — that is, the outcome of the compHcation 
 of events which we call the story. Because the 
 author's purpose differs in the two cases, his 
 selection of incident for the accomplishment of 
 that purpose differs also. 
 
 In the story the author is concerned with the 
 /^outcome, and has it in mind before he puts peji 
 "^^S^ to paper; it follows that, if he is skilful, he will 
 ^^^ include only such incidents as advance the story 
 K to that end. So, in Cinderella^ we learned noth- 
 ing of the heroine's girlhood, or of any traits of 
 character other than those necessary to make 
 the story intelligible and interesting. In a biog- 
 raphy of Cinderella we should ask far more than 
 is given here. We should ask to know her as 
 an individual different from all other girls in the 
 world. As it is, she is conventional, possessed 
 only of beauty, virtue, and patience under af- 
 fliction. 
 
 Not only would the addition of any further 
 detail to the story be superfluous, but conversely, 
 every incident as told may be proved vital to 
 the intelligibility of the action. None may be 
 omitted without making the progress of the 
 story to its objective point — that is, the happi- 
 
 J 
 
ESSENTIALS OF NARRATIVE 13 
 
 ness of Cinderella and her marriage to the prince 
 — to some degree, however slight, obscure. 
 Were we, for instance, to omit all mention of 
 the loss of the slipper, the whole conclusion of 
 the story would be distorted. Possession of the 
 slipper is essential to the prince's search. We 
 may set it down as an axiom that in the best 
 stories no incident can be omitted without mar- 
 ring the even progress of the story to its goal. 
 The fact that the story of Cinderella is so mem- 
 orable that one cannot easily forget any of its 
 details is sufficient proof that it is well con- 
 structed, that it contains neither too much nor 
 too little — the ideal of selection in story writing. 
 
 But the incidents of our story bear not only 
 each one upon the objective point; they have, as 
 well, a relation one to another, so that were we to 
 change their order of recital in any instance, we 
 should again injure our narrative. These inci- 
 dents are, indeed, virtually but a series of causes 
 and effects, and observe the relation of cause and 
 effect in external nature. Because of her loneli- 
 ness, Cinderella weeps; because of her grief, the 
 fairy appears and waves her magic wand; because 
 of her transformation, Cinderella attends the ball 
 —and so to the end of the story. 
 
 This vital relation of incident to incident is 
 in marked contrast to the events of real life, 
 wherein between any two related incidents may 
 
14 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Dccur a host of unrelated and irrelevant things. 
 Even in the autobiography previously cited, 
 only careful selection made possible any such 
 grouping of associated incidents, and these 
 groups we found were but a small part of our 
 Kves, stories embedded in our life's experiences. 
 
 Fig. I. Incidents of Biography 
 
 A graphic illustration may serve to make clear 
 this fundamental difference between a story and 
 the incidents of life as told in a biography. 
 "iTThe incidents of the biography have a rela- 
 tion one to another chiefly as they centre in a 
 common personality, the I. From this they 
 radiate as do the spokes of a wheel. Their rela-v 
 tion is chronological. Certain of the incidents] 
 may have a secondary or story relation, as, ioxJ 
 
ESSENTIALS OF NARRATIVE 15 
 
 (example, incidents 2, 4, and 6, with unrelated 
 incidents coming between. These secondary 
 groupings are stories in the rough, though it 
 would be well to note that, seeming to lead 
 somewhere, they have usually no clear objec- 
 tive point. 
 
 I > 2 > 
 
 3 > 
 
 4 > I > Objective point. 
 
 Fig. 2. Incidents of a Story 
 
 JP The incidents of a story, on the other hand, 
 are like the links of a chain: incident i is the 
 cause of incident 2, which in turn causes 3, and 
 all march resolutely to a definite and predeter- 
 mined end. They are selected for this specific 
 purpose. Whereas in a biography the relation 
 of incidents was chronological only, here it is 
 both chronological and logical. 
 
 The observing will have noted a seeming 
 contradiction to the statement that all the in- 
 cidents of Cinderella carried the heroine on to 
 marriage and happiness. Some of the incidents 
 seem indeed hostile to that end. There is that 
 almost fatal forgetfulness of the fairy god- 
 mother's warning, and, again, the delay in try- 
 ing on the slipper. We had thought the goal 
 in sight, and the girl in full sail for happiness, 
 when these misfortunes gave us a momentary 
 qualm, a qualm only, for we had all the while a 
 
i6 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 deep-seated conviction that she would pull 
 through. It was as though the author had de- 
 liberately set up difficulties for the fun of har- 
 rowing our emotions. That it is he has done, 
 and he has had a legitimate purpose in so 
 doing. 
 
 Were Cinderella's path too smooth we should 
 not be so interested in her fate as we now are 
 when it is bestrewn with obstacles. At the out- 
 set the author has cunningly enHsted our sym- 
 pathies in her behalf by picturing her as beauty 
 and virtue in distress. He has intimated a pos- 
 sible amelioration of her lot, and then he has 
 played with us, worked on our susceptible emo- 
 tions by pretending that he will not relieve her 
 situation after all. But in so doing he has inter- 
 ested and pleased us — his object all along. He 
 well knows that the very suspense and imcer- 
 tainty he has aroused is a pleasurable emotion, 
 one which can scarcely be too intense. We read 
 the story to experience that emotion and should 
 consider him a poor author if he failed to arouse 
 it. Yet though he has done all this, he has in 
 no place departed from the logic of his story. 
 The forgotten warning and the loss of the slipper, 
 which seemed for the moment fatal, turn out to 
 be the very means by which the prince is enabled 
 to rediscover Cinderella and claim her. Thus 
 the writer has secured his suspense legitimately 
 
ESSENTIALS OF NARRATIVE 17 
 
 and logically. In no case does he violate the 
 rules of the game. 
 
 It will be noted that the uncertainty created 
 by the pull of seemingly hostile incidents carried 
 the story to a pitch of interest, after which the 
 contest wavered for an instant, and then set 
 definitely to an unmistakable conclusion. At 
 this point, confident of the outcome, we relaxed 
 somewhat, though still curious to know the final 
 incidents. Were the author too slow in con- 
 cluding the story we might become bored. 
 
 The incidents which align themselves as favor- 
 able and hostile to the outcome of the story 
 have been called the positive and the negativ e 
 forces. All, it m ust be remembered , do really 
 a dvance the story, but some seem not to do so. 
 <rhose which openly help it to its goal are the 
 positive forces; those which seem to retard it 
 are termed the negative forces. The contest is 
 usually thought of as an up ward slope or climax, 
 tn e crest of whic h^ is the turning-point. Beyond 
 the turning-point, or crest, is a sharp descent, 
 at the bottom of which lies the conclusion. 
 
 Not always is the pull of forces which creates 
 and holds interest so easy of analysis as in Cin- 
 derella. Examine, for instance, Poe's famous 
 story. The Cask of Amontillado. The motive of 
 the narrator-hero of the tale is revenge. Noth- 
 ing in any way hinders him in the accompHsh- 
 
i8 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 ment of his purpose. The victim is easily 
 trapped, and goes unwittingly to his doom. 
 What, we may ask, are the negative or retarding 
 ibrces in a course of action so direct and undevi- 
 ating? The answer is not difficult. Incident 
 after incident of increasing grewsomeness flatters 
 the reader to anguished curiosity. Some hor- 
 rible culminating catastrophe there must be, 
 and the mind is on the rack until the solution 
 is disclosed. The delays which whet and sus- 
 tain curiosity, the record of trivial but significant 
 incidents, serve to create suspense. The emo- 
 tion here is not concerned with the fate of the 
 doomed man, for that is certain. Our interest 
 is solely with the manner of his end. The emo- 
 tion, though far more intense than that we ex- 
 perienced in Cinderella, is much the same in kind. 
 Suspense is created in a somewhat different fash- 
 ion, that is all. 
 
 It may be objected that not all stories illus- 
 trate so obviously as those we have selected a 
 conflict of forces. The negative incidents may, 
 at times, be few and weak, and the flow of action 
 sluggish, inadequate to arouse in the reader any 
 great curiosity as to the story's outcome. In 
 stories of this type we shall later find compen- 
 sating qualities of characterization or intellectual 
 content. It will suffice at this point to indicate 
 the general need in story-construction of well- 
 
ESSENTIALS OF NARRATIVE 19 
 
 balanced and strongly opposed forces. This 
 need is greatest in those stories in which the 
 reader's interest is with the action, the play of 
 incident. In a tale of adventure we should be 
 bored were the hero too seldom in hazardous 
 and uncertain situations. 
 
 Again and again the amateur writer will be 
 forced to a reconsideration of these fundamental 
 principles of story construction. Particularly 
 must he come to a realization of the essential 
 logic of narrative. If any incident of his story 
 may be omitted without breaking the vital se- 
 quence of cause and effect, that incident must 
 go. If any incident is without its rational 
 cause, that cause must be suppHed. Herein Hes 
 the difference between fiction and life. In life 
 we are plunged into a welter of experiences, 
 many without relation one to another. We 
 suffer what we call accidents, things unpre- 
 dictable. In a story we must have no accidents 
 .i 2r__happen ings . unpre pared for. Every incident 
 is anticipated by its stated cause if we have but 
 eyes to see.* Li fe, in a storv, is rationalize d, 
 lo gical; it is, in short, art . 
 
 I do not know how to bring home this distinc- 
 tion more emphatically. Perhaps it may be 
 well to put it in other terms. In a story it is 
 
 * See Chapter V, " Exposition and Preparation," for a 
 further discussion of this point. 
 
 ^ 
 
20 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 of no importance that the incidents did or did 
 not happen to a real person. Thby must seem 
 true, be rational, logical. One m^y take up a 
 newspaper any day and find in it true stories 
 which are incredible. With these the story- 
 writer has nothing to do. Young writers find 
 difficulty in grasping this vital distinction. "A 
 true story," they remark parenthetical^, and 
 from the phrase the experienced reader antic- 
 ipates a shock to his credulity. The ourden 
 of explanation is thrown upon that enigmatical 
 force — life. The skilled writer takes from life 
 y his materials, but these he arranges in a more 
 rational order than life sees fit to do. To his 
 problem there must be an answer at which he 
 may arrive by logical processes of thought, as 
 does the mathematician. To him two and two 
 must make four. If in life they sometimes seem 
 to make five, that is no concern of his. 
 
CHAPTER in ^ 
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 vl 
 
 Thi7 author who has mentally blocked out his 
 story/ determined definitely its objective point, 
 and selected some, if not all, of the incidents 
 which shall comprise the action, is confronted, 
 before proceeding farther, with the problem of 
 the p oint of vi ew. Justwhat is meant by the 
 phrase? In simple terms we may put the ques- 
 tion thus: who is to be the supposed narrator 
 of the story? We say of a story that it is written 
 from the point of view of a participaiit^j^f an 
 observer, or of the author; that is, it is seen 
 through the eyes of one of these. We must 
 consider the disadvantages and advantages to 
 the story of one or another of these points of 
 view. Our range of selection is really wider than 
 at first sight we should deem possible. 
 
 The simplest and most obvious point of view 
 is tha tof the chief pa rticipant. The story cen- 
 txfi g m him ; he was concerned in all the impor- 
 tant incidents. Thus we may imagine Cinder- 
 ella recounting to her grandchildren the romantic 
 
22 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 tale of her youth, the story of the crystal slipper. 
 It is from this point of view that many of the 
 world's famous stories, both long and short, have 
 been written. To mention but a few at random, 
 there are in English such novels, as David Copper- 
 fieldf Lorna Doone, Jane Eyre^ Treasure Island, 
 and Robinson Crusoe. Many of Poe's short 
 stories, such as The Cask of Amontillado, already 
 cited in another connection. The Black Cat, and 
 The Telltale Heart, are written from this point 
 of view. A fine modern illustration (slightly 
 modified by the author) is Joseph Conrad's 
 Youth. In the work of almost any voluminous 
 writer of short fiction one may find examples of 
 stories in this manner, though some writers have 
 far more predilection for it than have others. Let 
 us see what are its advantages and limitations. 
 Its chief advantage, I think, is that it carries 
 j^O with it a certain plausibility. It resembles in 
 form, autobiography, and, if it is well managed, 
 the reader is apt to accept the story as true, a 
 fragment of real life. John Ridd is as real to 
 me as many a person I have known, for I first 
 read Lorna Doone at an age when one readily 
 surrenders his imagination to an engaging tale. 
 This reahty with which the author has endowed 
 his story is due in considerable part to his choice 
 of the hero as the supposed narrator of events. 
 Had the author told these in his own person, the 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 23 
 
 action would have been at a further remove, 
 and so, perhaps, less real. Robinson Crusoe ap- 
 peals in like fashion. The prosaic Robinson is 
 one hard to disbeHeve, despite the surprising 
 nature of his experiences. Almost we forget we 
 are reading a romance, and not a page of auto- 
 biography. 
 
 Yet, plausible as it is, and frequent as is its 
 employment, the method is fraught with dangers 
 and limitations. The narrator, if the hero and 
 doer of brave deeds, must excite our admiration 
 and respect. He should not appear unduly 
 boastful in telHng his own exploits, or we shall 
 have small use for him. On the other hand, if 
 his deeds are evil, as in the case of the narrator- 
 actor of TIte Cask of Amontillado, we must not 
 be repelled, but find his personality fascinating, 
 if not admirable. The author's problem is two- 
 •1 fold : to tell the incidents of the story effectively, 
 i,\ and, as well, so skilfully to delineate the char- 
 "^ acter of the narrator that our interest will be 
 held throughout. 
 
 There are yet other difficulties. The actor- 
 narrator can tell only those events which can 
 reasonably come within his experience, or be 
 told him by some one else. If the action is 
 complicated, trouble will inevitably arise here. 
 Some event significant in the action of the story 
 is witnessed by another than the hero, and at 
 
24 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 some place remote from him. He could not 
 possibly see it himself. How, then, is the reader 
 to be informed of it, and the story made intel- 
 ligible? The author, to give us the necessary 
 information, is forced to the employment of 
 various devices, such as messengers and letters, 
 and weakens thereby the vividness of his story. 
 More often he will outrage plausibility, and take 
 his hero upon wild and inexplicable journeys, 
 simply that the narrator may be on the spot 
 when something important happens. 
 
 In Treasure Island, Stevenson at one point 
 meets the difficulty which his choice of a point 
 of view involves, by adopting for a time another 
 point of view altogether. Jim Hawkins has 
 stolen away from camp on adventures of his 
 own. Meanwhile events happen with which 
 we must be acquainted. To tell of these the 
 author drops the boy hero for a time and gives 
 us the Doctor's narrative of events in the camp. 
 Later he returns to the story of Jim Hawkins. 
 
 Tjig jDoint o f view her^^ ilhictrated, that of a 
 composite narr^ive told by various actors in 
 the story, will be better appreciated if we con- 
 sider the novels of Richardson. Clarissa Ear- 
 lowe is told entirely in le*^*'*'" ^'"rm. The various 
 actors of the story reveal their experiences by 
 letters to one another, some of great length. 
 If we may suppose all the characters confirmed 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 25 
 
 letter-writers, there are certain excellences in 
 this method. Every incident is told with ful- 
 ness of detail by a participant and eye-witness. 
 Moreover, there is a fine opportunity here to 
 differentiate character. This same incident may 
 be variously reported by several witnesses, 
 and in the discrepancies may be laid bare funda- 
 mental differences of personality. But it is a 
 method obviously lacking in conciseness, and so 
 almost certainly unfitted for short narratives. 
 It is conceivable that a short story might be 
 told by an exchange of letters, and, indeed, a 
 few stories so written may be found, but it is a 
 method unlikely to be often successful, in part 
 for reasons which will be apparent as we pro- 
 ceed. Meanwhile we may note that the com- 
 posite narrative, though infrequent, is some- 
 times employed in the novel. Detective stories 
 often resort to it. We have the hero's narra- 
 tive, the heroine's narrative, that of the butler, 
 the nurse, and the doctor. Wilkie Collins em- 
 ployed the device frequently, as in the Moon^ 
 stone, and Stevenson in The Master of Ballantrae. 
 Closely akin to the point of view of the chief 
 actor or the combined points of view of various 
 actors is that of the minor character who, 
 though given a small part in the story, serves 
 chiefly as an observer of events. This device of 
 story-telling involves, usually, most of the de- 
 
26 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 fects of the points of view previously consid- 
 ered, and yet achieves few compensating virtues. 
 The tedious Watson of Conan Doyle's detective 
 stories is an admirable example of this. He 
 must be present at all the chief episodes of the 
 story, and what he cannot himself witness he 
 must learn from the hero. He must be suffi-i 
 ciently stupid not to anticipate the correct] 
 solution of the mystery, and his personality/ 
 must be so colorless as not to divert our atten-y 
 tion from more important characters. The 
 reader tolerates him only of necessity. It is 
 doubtful if the stories gain sufficiently in credi- 
 bility and naturalness to compensate for these 
 defects. That is not to say that this point of 
 view is impossible, for one might readily find 
 excellent examples of its employment. Th(; 
 Little Minister is told from this point of view. 
 Turgenieff resorts to it, and Balzac. But it is 
 at best a leisurely and awkward method of nar- 
 ration, and the writer should carefully weigh 
 its defects before employing it in any instance. 
 It should be noted that all points of view are 
 mere devices by virtue of which the story comes 
 to be. They are conventions which readers ac- 
 cept as they do a three-sided room upon the 
 stage. By reason of conventions only is any 
 art possible. They are limitations upon that 
 art, but none the less a means to its accomplish- 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 27 
 
 merit. No one criticises a picture because it is 
 painted with pigments upon canvas rather than 
 with sunlight upon trees and water. No more 
 does the reader criticise the adoption of any 
 point of view the author may choose, provided 
 that point of view does not obstruct the story. 
 
 This would appear self-evident. Yet to many, 
 apparently, it is not. Amateur writers frequently 
 hesitate to tell their stories from the point of 
 view of the author. *'How can it be that I, the 
 author, know all these things?" they ask. "I 
 must trick my reader to the belief that some 
 one has told me this, that I am in possession of 
 some other's manuscript." The reader goes to 
 no such bother. " Give us the story," says he, 
 *'and with as little delay as possible." For this 
 reason the point of view of the author is usually 
 the most swift and least awkward of all methods 
 of story-telling. Just what is it? 
 
 In Cinderella some anonymous person in pos- 
 session of all the facts recounts the tale for the 
 benefit of the reader. It is as though a disem- 
 bodied personality or some one clothed in the 
 mantle of invisibility of fairy lore were an eye- 
 witness to all the important incidents. The 
 author can observe happenings at widely remote 
 points and times as well as here and now. He 
 knows what occurs simultaneously at separated 
 places. He is, in short, omniscient. 
 
28 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Complete omniscience includes the ability to 
 see into the hearts of characters and lay bare 
 their secret motives. Novelists whose interest 
 is chiefly character analysis, usually adopt this 
 point of view. Not only do they present their 
 creatures in speech and action, but they reveal 
 also the hidden processes of thought and emo- 
 tion. The method is justified to the reader in 
 so far as the analysis proves interesting and en- 
 lightening. We make no question of the author's 
 assumption of insight, but we may justly criti- 
 cise the result for its truth to human nature as 
 we know it. 
 
 The author may, however, if he choose, make 
 no pretension to godlike powers of omniscience. 
 He may, instead, content himself with a record 
 of deed and word by means of which we shaD 
 ourselves come to an understanding of character. 
 Ostensibly the author is, in such a case, scarcely 
 more than a sensitized recording instrument 
 which turns back the flight of time and reveals 
 to us the sense-impressions of a past scene. 
 When the author pretends to insight we say he 
 is omniscient. When he Hmits himself to purely 
 human powers of observation, though possessed, 
 if need be, of seven-league boots and the power 
 of invisibility, we call him the author-observant. 
 These are the two points of view of the author, 
 and before we consider any subtle variants upon 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 29 
 
 them we should consider the possibilities and 
 limitations of each. 
 
 The omniscient point of view includes the 
 lesser or merely observant. The author not 
 only sees but explains. It is a method well 
 adapted to stories of psychological interest in 
 which the dissection of motive is important. 
 Writers upon ethical problems, such, for exam- 
 ple, as George Eliot, depend largely upon it. 
 George Meredith and Thomas Hardy, of modern 
 novelists, write usually from this point of view. 
 But not only must the author analyze effectively, 
 he must also make his characters act and speak 
 appropriately. To be sure, his power of inter- 
 pretation permits him to make speech and action 
 which in themselves seem but colorless and 
 trivial, significant of something more profound. 
 Yet the problem is, nevertheless, considerable. 
 No action or word may be without its reason- 
 able and characteristic implication. If well con- 
 trived, the two, action and analysis, are comple- 
 mentary and mutually illuminating, and the 
 reader feels a genuine intimacy of understanding. 
 Its limitation is that it demands, usually, rather 
 more space than the purely objective method of 
 the author-observant, and its passages of analysis 
 may easily become tedious. Many readers pre- 
 fer speech and action solely, and are content 
 therefrom to draw their own interpretations. 
 
30 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 To such readers the observant or objective 
 method is preferable. The term "objective" 
 means simply that the narrative shall concern 
 itself solely with sense-impressions — word, deed, 
 and the various appeals to sense which we in- 
 clude under the term '* description." This in dis- 
 tinction from the "subjective" method, which 
 includes analysis. Objective narrative is anal- 
 ogous to the drama. In a play we see a story 
 acted out by the dramatist's creations. From 
 their speech and action we get not only a story, 
 but also knowledge of them as persons, and some 
 suggestion of motive. The writer has here to 
 do a difficult thing; he must make his puppets 
 reveal themselves. Everything they say and 
 do must be in character. . This implies, really, 
 that he know the motives which prompt them 
 to word and deed. They will not, otherwise, be 
 uniformly consistent and, so, convincing. And 
 it is a difficult thing to make action and speech 
 always significant, for oftentimes two or more 
 interpretations are possible unless we are very 
 sure of the actor's intent. Also, in common 
 speech, it is not easy so to dififerentiate characters 
 that they seem individual. But this the author 
 must do, for he has cut himself off from the help 
 of analysis. He has so limited himself, of course, 
 in the belief that the gain is greater than the 
 loss; that his story will move the faster and with 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 31 
 
 a greater effect of reality; that the reader may 
 not be bored by the author's own interpretations. 
 
 The analogy of this method to that of the 
 drama is further borne out if we consider the 
 author not only as playwright, but also stage- 
 manager and audience. In a play there are 
 certain accessories known as setting. In a story 
 the author-observant describes circumstances of 
 place and dress to aid our visualization of the 
 scene. Further, he may describe the groupings 
 of his characters, the play of feature, tones of 
 voice — those things in short which the spectator 
 at a play gets for himself by watching the actors- 
 
 That the point of view of the author-observant; 
 is a popular one in modern fiction is apparent 
 If well handled, it is particularly adapted, by 
 reason of its swiftness, to the short story. It; 
 produces the maximum of effect in the minimum 
 of space. This we may assume without discus- 
 sion to be a highly desirable characteristic of 
 short narratives. 
 
 We cannot, however, dismiss the problem of 
 the point of view without some further comment. 
 There are variations of method within the field 
 already outlined. Suppose, for illustration, that 
 the writer wishes to be in part, but not wholly, 
 omniscient; that is, he may desire to reveal one 
 character analytically and all others objectively. 
 There may be advantages in this method. The 
 
32 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 rt;ader in such a case will view the story through 
 the eyes of the character so interpreted, gaining 
 not only the necessary record of story-action, but 
 in addition an understanding of the motives of 
 one of the participants. He will put himself in 
 the place of the character analyzed, and experi- 
 ence, vicariously, not only his emotions, but also 
 his speculations as to the motives which prompt 
 other characters in the story to action. Appar- 
 ently this method has in it something of the 
 illusion of reality which we noted in the case of 
 the story told by a participant; but this accom- 
 panied by a detachment which makes possible 
 our understanding of the character as the author 
 sees him. A fine illustration of the method is 
 to be found in the two novels of Arnold Bennett, 
 Clayhanger and Hilda Lessways, in which much 
 the same series of incidents is viewed first through 
 the character of the hero, and then through that 
 of the heroine. In each case we look into the 
 character as though we analyzed our own mo- 
 tives. It is an interesting point of view, and 
 one admirably adapted to much short fiction. 
 
 Again observe the method of Hawthorne in 
 The Scarlet Letter. The author is here omniscient 
 only at times. Into some characters he sees 
 deeply; of others he professes often to be uncer- 
 tain, and is merely observant. The reason for 
 this self-imposed limitation is that, despite his 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 33 
 
 general desire to dissect character, he wishes to 
 surround his story with an atmosphere of mys- 
 tery. If he revealed clearly every hidden motive 
 the result would be too obvious. As it is, we see 
 but a part and guess the rest. The chief charm 
 of the book is that it provokes to speculation. It 
 is suggestive: that is, it induces the reader to 
 think and collaborate with the author.* 
 
 One further point and we have done for the 
 moment with the point of view. Many authors, 
 omniscient and observant, boldly take the stage 
 and comment upon their characters, the story, 
 or upon life in general. An author thus obtru- 
 sive we like in so far as he entertains or en- 
 lightens us. Thackeray is one of the most 
 obtrusive authors in English fiction. Openly 
 he discusses his ''puppets," or anything the 
 story suggests, and many readers find in this 
 mannerism one of the chief charms of his books. 
 Jane Austen, on the contrary, remains always 
 unobtrusively in the background, letting the 
 story tell itself. There are various middle 
 grounds. An omniscient author usually intrudes 
 to some degree upon his reader's attention, and 
 an author-observant may do so if he choose. 
 Fielding, who in Tom Jones keeps himself well 
 out of the story as it runs, permits himself occa- 
 sional short interchapters of personal comment. 
 
 * See Chapter XII, " Suggestion and Restraint." 
 
34 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 These, he advises the reader, may be omitted 
 without detriment to the story. The modern 
 tendency is generally in the direction of self- 
 effacement. The author tells his story imper- 
 sonally, and if he comments at all upon it does so 
 in casual remarks of not too individual a tone — 
 generalizations in keeping with the theme, and 
 such as the reader might himself give utterance 
 to. There is, however, no reason at all why an 
 author should refrain from gossip upon his own 
 story if he is certain his readers will enjoy his 
 comment. It is the uncertainty as to their at- 
 titude that deters. The author's personality 
 must be of interest, must enrich his story, if it 
 is to be tolerated. The modest author, recogniz- 
 ing the obligation, is therefore slow to intrude. 
 
 In conclusion, we may say that, important as 
 is the choice of a point of view in any story, it 
 is yet more important that the one selected be 
 undeviatingly maintained. A shift of the point 
 of view is certain to modify the character of the 
 story and to bewilder the reader, as the shift at 
 the end of the third chapter of The Old Curiosity 
 Shop well illustrates. The skilful writer indi- 
 cates at the outset the point of view he has 
 adopted, and never departs from it. A change 
 from the point of view of the author-omniscient 
 to that of the actor-narrator would, it is obvious, 
 be bewildering. The entire story would be 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 35 
 
 changed. Less flagrant shifts are equally repre- 
 hensible. The clearness of the story is thereby 
 clouded and its effectiveness impaired. 
 
 The Centre of Interest 
 
 Closely related to the problem of the point of 
 view is that of the centre of interest. A story 
 may tell the fortunes of a group of characters, 
 yet of these but one or two will be of superlative 
 interest and importance. Upon them the author ' 
 concentrates his attention. These it is which the 
 reader follows with the most concern, and it is 
 essential that they be always dominant. Other 
 characters are of importance chiefly as they affect 
 these major characters. For the writer to shift 
 the spot-light of his attention to the lesser char- 
 acters is to invite disaster, for the reader's in- 
 terest becomes then divided and so weakened. 
 The effect is to make the story's emphasis un- 
 certain, if not indeed to make two or more stories 
 of what should be but one. The chief characters 
 must hold the centre of the stage from the first, 
 and the story's action should never necessitate 
 their withdrawal from it for any length of time. 
 To them should fall the best lines and the most 
 interesting experiences. 
 
 In a long novel the author may, it is true, 
 divide his attention somewhat and drive several 
 related stories four-in-hand — as do Dickens, 
 
36 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 George Eliot, and Thackeray. The shorter the 
 story the greater the necessity for concentration, 
 so that in a truly " short" story but one character, 
 or at the most two closely related characters, 
 should focus our attention. With every division 
 and dissipation of interest follows an inevitable 
 weakening of effect. An examination of the 
 recognized masterpieces of short-story writing 
 will show this to be true. The point is, however, 
 one to be considered again in the next chapter, 
 under the head of unity of action. We note here 
 the close association of the centre of interest 
 with the point of view, and at times its depend- 
 ence upon it. Thus, if the writer is omniscient 
 in the case of but one of his characters, and of 
 the rest merely observant, he is almost certain 
 to keep the one constantly before us. If he is 
 observant or omniscient of all, he is sometimes 
 tempted to side issues which distract his atten- 
 tion from the true centre of interest. Whatever 
 his point of view, he will, if he is wise, select the 
 central figure of his story and keep that character 
 always uppermost in our attention. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE UNITIES OF ACTION, TIME 
 AND PLACE 
 
 The discussion of narrative principles has up 
 to this point been alike applicable to stories long 
 and short. In either, any incident should be 
 vitally related both to its antecedent and con- 
 sequent. Again there must always be choice of 
 a point of view best suited to the character of 
 the individual story. But as we turn more par- 
 ticularly to the technic of short fiction, we dis- 
 cover Hmitations both of subject and method 
 which present problems somewhat different from 
 those of the novelist. These we must now con- 
 sider. 
 
 That the reader shall derive the maximum of 
 interest with the minimum of attention we may 
 assume to be an ideal of all writing. The reader 
 wishes entertainment, identification of himself 
 mth imaginary characters and their fortunes, 
 but this easily, without conscious effort. The 
 writer must, therefore, determine what he may 
 attempt with reasonable likelihood of success 
 37 
 
38 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 within the space granted him, and, conversely, 
 what is certain to be a failure. 
 
 A highly unprofitable and hazardous theme 
 for a short story is, for example, t^e development 
 of a character through a considerable period of 
 time. Tolstoy's Resurrection and Fielding's Tom 
 Jones, utterly different as they are, have this 
 common purpose — but these are long novels. 
 Perhaps the larger part of character novels are 
 devoted to this problem of development, the 
 slow modification of a personaHty by the acci- 
 dents of existence. To treat of this effectively 
 requires ample room. As the action of time is 
 slow and seldom revolutionary in its immediate 
 effect, so must the writer have space in which to 
 record with deliberateness the series of incidents 
 which, singly trivial, are in the aggregate of vast 
 effect; so that, at the end of the story a character 
 may be far other than at first, yet the change be 
 so gradual as to excite not incredulity, but 
 acceptance. 
 
 In a few thousand words a character cannot 
 be so developed with any degree of convincing- 
 ness, for the simple reason that there is insuffi- 
 cient room for the necessary detail. The skilful | 
 writer seizes instead upon some one series of/ 
 incidents which leads to a crisis of character 
 development. Whereas the entire life of a man 
 is a series of crises, the theme for a short story is, 
 
THE UNITIES 39 
 
 most effectively, but one of these. This may 
 be treated with the fuhless of detail adequate 
 to its delineation were it but one of many in a 
 longer narrative. The writer merely eliminates 
 what precedes and follows this group of incidents. 
 And though he hmits his field he gains thereby 
 in concentration and emotional intensity. These 
 virtues, were his selection less exacting, he would 
 be almost certain to lose. 
 
 His scenes then, if of character, must not be 
 those necessitating slow development over a 
 long period, but instead be significant turning- 
 points — significant in that the character makes 
 some decision or enters upon some new relation 
 which alters the course of his life. ) The decision 
 may be momentous or trivial as the nature of 
 the story may demand; this is technically un- 
 important. But it is highly important that the 
 writer carefully limit his selection of incidents 
 to those which will make the turning-point fully 
 intelligible, but no more. The principle is, again, 
 that of selection; art and cunning are revealed 
 in the rejection of the superfluous. This selec- 
 tion becomes increasingly exacting as the space 
 which the author aims to fill becomes less. 
 
 Consider, as an illustration, Stevenson's story, 
 Markheim. The theme is a crisis in the life of a 
 weak man — one doomed to failure. The author 
 has selected that group of incidents which in- 
 
40 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 volves the character in murder, and then leads 
 him to a recognition of his true self and to con- 
 fession. The story, because of its shortness, can 
 make no attempt, as would a longer story, to 
 trace the slow disintegration of character to the 
 point with which, in this story, we begin. With 
 these earlier steps of his downward career we 
 have no concern save as they are suggested in the 
 delineation of character necessary to make the 
 man intelligible to us. The incidents relating 
 to his crime and confession are, however, told 
 with great fulness. We must have insight into 
 the man's psychology if the new conditions of 
 life which he faces are to be convincing. But, 
 once he is set unmistakably on the new path, 
 the story is done. Our imaginations may supply 
 supplementary details, but with these the author 
 is not concerned. 
 
 Such a turning-point in character development 
 may well be likened to a crossroads. The man 
 has been proceeding on a straight road for some 
 time past; at the crossroads he hesitates, and 
 his choice of possible paths is fraught with mo- 
 ment. It is in the immediate decision that we 
 are interested; for, though this involve but the 
 slighter afifairs of life, it is important by reason 
 of the significance which the choice of direction 
 implies. 
 
 We may generalize, JJien, thus much: the 
 
THE UNITIES 41 
 
 shorter the series of vitally related incidents in- 
 volving a crisis of character, the shorter the 
 space in which we may convincingly portray 
 that crisis. In a story of two or three thousand 
 words the incidents must be few indeed; in five 
 thousand words we may do more. 
 
 Limited as must be our choice of incidents re- 
 lating to a single character, it follows that we 
 can scarcely portray in a brief narrative two or 1 
 more decisions or turning-points of either one or \ 
 more characters. The first difficulty is one of 
 space, as we have seen. Equally vital is a sec- 
 ond, that of divided attention. Economy of the 
 reader's interest demands that we tell but one 
 story at a time. To divide our space between 
 two crises or two characters is to dissipate the 
 interest in either. This is true to some degree, 
 also, in longer works of fiction; but there the 
 division of attention is in part compensated by 
 the possibility of greater individual development 
 both of character and situation. The long novel ' 
 may properly be regarded as a group of related 
 stories, each of interest in itself, and taking on 
 new significance by their relation one to another. 
 In a short narrative there is possibility neither 
 of so great individual elaboration nor of the sig- 
 nificance due to correlation. 
 
 We demand in a short story unity of action. / 
 It should concern itself with some crisis, some 
 
42 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 turning-point in the life of a single character. 
 Though this crisis may, it is true, involve others 
 to a lesser degree, still it is primarily the story 
 of one person and only incidentally includes oth- 
 ers as tEey affect him. 
 
 This definition of imity of action is, however, 
 misleading in so far as we have spoken solely 
 in terms of character. In many stories character 
 is of minor importance, and our interest is 
 mainly in the incidents themselves. The prin- 
 ciple here is none the less binding. Let us con- 
 sider Poe's famous story, The Gold Bug. 
 
 Though The Gold Bug is commonly regarded 
 as a masterpiece, and though it is, undoubtedly, 
 a vivid and compeUing story, I am not sure but 
 there is a rather pronounced flaw in its construc- 
 tion. My reason for so thinking is this. In 
 casting about for a suitable illustration of unity 
 of action, my mind reverted to this story. It 
 is, I remembered, a capital tale of adventure in 
 which the decipherment of a parchment leads 
 to the discovery of buried treasure. I recalled 
 the treasure hunt vividly, particularly that grew- 
 some detail of the skull nailed to the Hmb of 
 the tree, and the gold bug which the negro 
 dropped through the eye-socket. A capital, 
 highly unified yarn! But when I turned to Poe, 
 what was my surprise to find that the recovery 
 of the treasure comes at a point considerably 
 
THE UNITIES 43 
 
 prior to the end of the story. What follows has 
 to do with the means whereby the mysterious 
 parchment was deciphered. To Poe the story 
 was primarily a mystery story; his interest lay 
 in the solution of the problem. To me, the 
 reader, the interest lies chiefly in the adventure. 
 
 Is the story, then, unified? To me it seems 
 two stories, inseparably bound up, to be sure, 
 but none the less in so far distinct that my in- 
 terest flags once the treasure is found. Suppose, 
 then, that the order of narration were reversed, 
 and the parchment deciphered for us as prepara- 
 tion for the treasure hunt. Were this the case, 
 the solution of the mystery would be but a step 
 to the treasure; there would be no sense of anti- 
 climax. Poe, to whom mysteries, problems, and 
 cryptograms afforded the keenest joy, reversed 
 what to me seems the true narrative order for 
 the purpose of heightening our interest in the 
 riddle; and in so doing he has made two stories 
 of what is but one, and so has dulled our interest 
 in the second. 
 
 Whether or not you agree with me in this 
 judgment, the point raised illustrates what is 
 meant by unity of action in a story of incident. 
 We may derive further illustrations from the 
 same story. Suppose that Poe, after the modern 
 manner, had sought to add a love-affair. The 
 simplicity of his story would then have become 
 
44 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 obscured, for our interest would have been dis- 
 tracted somewhat from mystery and adventure. 
 You will observe that Poe is careful to avoid any 
 such mistake. Moreover, though the story is 
 told by a minor participant in the action, we 
 know little about him. Our attention is riveted 
 to the one chief character and his adventures. 
 Note, too, that characterization and background 
 are permitted but minor parts, for the story's 
 concern is with action. To emphasize these 
 would again be to disconcert us. 
 
 This unity of action of which we speak is 
 really nothing more than a form of simplicity 
 born of singleness of purpose. Illustrated in a 
 good story (we may cite again The Cask of Amon- 
 tillado) it is obvious enough. In actual story- 
 construction it is not so easy to put into practice. 
 To excise superfluous incidents conceived in the 
 fine vividness of imagination and in themselves 
 entertaining, is a task calling for some heroism 
 and much clear-sightedness. It is an obligation 
 the beginner finds most difficult. He is perhaps 
 enamoured of decorative details and unable to 
 appreciate the beauty of a naked simplicity. 
 Thus he clutters the simple machinery of his 
 tale with superfluous incident — related to the 
 action, to be sure, and interesting, but, in the 
 highest sense, irrelevant. In so doing he fails 
 to achieve a true unity. 
 
THE UNITIES 45 
 
 Unity of Time 
 
 The necessity of economizing the reader's at- 
 tention gives rise also to the problem of time. 
 How long a period should the action of a story 
 cover? We can lay down no absolute rule, but ^ 
 can say promptly the shortest time compatible ; 
 with the effective narration of the necessary in- ■ 
 cidents. The reason is not hard to discover. 1 
 If between incidents two and three of my story/ 
 there intervenes the space of a year, my reader 
 will find it difficult to conceive those incidents to 
 be vitally related. Both experience and imagi- 
 nation teU him that the vitality of any incident 
 is weakened by the passage of so long a time. 
 The most absorbing episode of a year ago is to 
 him now of lesser consequence than many an ex- 
 perience of the last few days, less truly important. 
 Between two story incidents widely separated 
 in time there is a hke weakening of interest. 
 And if considerable intervals occur between vari- 
 ous incidents, the total effect will be hmp indeed. 
 Incidents, to have the true relation of cause and 
 effect, as we have seen they must, should seem 
 to happen in short space. They must give the 
 illusion of experience itself, which is an uninter- 
 rupted flow. The writer therefore endeavors, 
 first of all, to begin his story as near as possible 
 to its point of highest interest, relating antecedent 
 
46 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 events necessary to our understanding of the 
 story by various means which we shall discuss 
 in detail in a subsequent chapter. But what of 
 the incidents which remain? For these the 
 writer telescopes his action. Let us see what is 
 meant by the figure. 
 
 We shall assume that the writer has in mind 
 a story based upon experience, modified, of course, 
 and provided with a suitable and logical denoue- 
 ment, but in essence a ''true story." He first 
 carefully cuts away extraneous incidents, those 
 not logically necessary to the growth of the 
 action. In so doing he has removed the story 
 from the realm of hf e, in which logical sequence of 
 events is overlaid and obscured by irrelevancies 
 and he has made it to some degree art, selected 
 and related incident with a purpose. As he 
 examines the skeleton which he has so carefully 
 laid bare by his process of omissions he is con- 
 scious of rather long time-intervals between cer- 
 tain of the steps of his story. The incidents are 
 well enough related logically, but they occur over 
 a considerable period of time. Could this be 
 shortened there would be a gain in intensity; his 
 story would be without the enfeebhng delays of 
 which we spoke. Therefore he reduces the time- 
 intervals as much as he dares, bringing the re- 
 lated parts of his story into more immediate 
 connection. If a week in fact intervened be- 
 
THE UNITIES 47 
 
 tween incidents four and five, and if this inter- 
 val may be safely shortened to a day, or better, 
 an hour, he makes the alteration, for he gains 
 thereby in effectiveness. Or, it may be, he 
 merely avoids, in so far as possible, all specific 
 references to time-intervals, and emphasizes ac- 
 tion, seeking to intimate the flow of time only 
 indirectly. The reader is then unconscious of 
 definite time-intervals, though aware in general 
 that time has passed. 
 
 There is, however, a check upon this foreshort- 
 ening process. It may be that between the in- 
 cidents selected some considerable interval is 
 necessary if the second is to be accepted as 
 springing from the first, as, for instance, one 
 indicating a radical development of character. 
 People are usually slow to alter; time must be 
 given them that influences may have effect. If 
 the story relates the hero's meeting with the 
 heroine, his conversation with her, some service 
 he may do, a second meeting, his growing love, 
 and his proposal of marriage, we need some little 
 time to elapse if we are to accept the character 
 change as convincing. The incidents might be 
 arranged so as to occur within a single day or 
 evening, but did they do so we should not be- 
 lieve the hero truly in love. Such sudden infat- 
 uations take place in real fife, but they are 
 exceptional, and a story must be true not of 
 
l^J 
 
 48 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 exceptional experience but of typical experience. 
 If between the same series of incidents there 
 be permitted to elapse a slightly longer time, if 
 w. they be spread over a week or two, we shall be 
 far more likely to accept them as plausible. 
 
 The writer, then, telescopes his incidents as 
 much as he dares, his knowledge of life serv- 
 ing as a check upon the extreme exercise of his 
 artistic method. He may, indeed, overstep the 
 bounds of naturalness somewhat. The reader 
 will excuse a considerable degree of foreshorten- 
 ing as a convention of the art if thereby the 
 story's action is made more rapid. But there 
 exists always the danger of going too far. Good 
 sense, experience, and the study of good fiction 
 must all aid the writer in his determination of 
 the golden mean. . 
 
 An extreme example of foreshortening artistic- 
 ally managed, is Stevenson's The Sire de Male- 
 Jllf^ tr oil's Door. In this the hero meets the heroine 
 \ one evening and marries her the next morning. 
 But to render his solution plausible the writer 
 has carefully devised various compelling and 
 extenuating circumstances. These cause us to 
 accept his assurances without great effort. 
 Swiftness of action and a reasonable degree of 
 credibiHty are both achieved. 
 
 It is desirable, then, that a story cover as 
 short a time as is compatible with the reader's 
 
THE UNITIES 49 
 
 acceptance of it as typical of human experience. 
 There are many stories, however, which by their 
 very nature cannot be so hurried. Intervals of 
 time must elapse if the story is to include certain 
 of its essentials. Let us take an extreme case, . 
 Maupassant's The Necklace. In this the major (T 
 part of the action occupies but a day or two. 
 Then occurs an interval of ten years, which is 
 summarized in a paragraph. After this the 
 action is concluded within a few minutes. The 
 actual story incidents cover, it is true, but two 
 or three days. What of the ten years' interval, 
 however, which the author not only does not 
 ignore, but actually emphasizes? It is upon our 
 imaginative acceptance of this long period of 
 time that the whole power of the story depends. 
 Our minds must be staggered by it. We must 
 not, however, dwell so long upon it and its hap- 
 penings that the early incidents of the story lose 
 any of their vividness, for it is in contrast with 
 them that the last incidents exercise their power 
 of pathos. The author very nicely bridges the 
 difhculty. He gives our imaginations a moment 
 to grasp the significance of so long a period of the 
 life which in a few sentences he summarizes. 
 But he permits no specific incidents of the period; 
 for to do so would be to divert us from the in- 
 cidents previously narrated. He takes advan- 
 tage of the seeming difficulty, and yet maintains 
 
so ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 the unity of his story. But it is rather an ex- 
 ceptional instance, and the generalization we 
 have laid down is none the less binding. 
 
 A less unusual instance of a story which, of 
 necessity, covers a considerable period of time, 
 is Kipling's Baa^ Baa, Black Sheep. Here the 
 action requires several years, for the story is 
 concerned with the modification of a child's 
 character amid unwholesome surroundings. A 
 shorter period would not produce the indelible 
 effect desired. Let us note several specific in- 
 stances of the author's skill in bridging the 
 necessary intervals. I quote the transitional 
 passages: 
 
 Punch said it accordingly and for a month, 
 hugely against his will, stumbled through the 
 brown book. . . . 
 
 . . . The shiny brass counters in the Office 
 where Uncle Harry went once every three months 
 with a slip of blue paper and received sovereigns 
 in exchange. . . . 
 
 As soon as Punch could string a few pot-hooks 
 together he wrote to Bombay demanding by re- 
 turn of post ''all the books in the world." 
 
 "I shall be there soon," said he to Black 
 Sheep, one winter evenings when his face showed 
 white as a worn silver coin under the lights of 
 the chapel-lodge. . . , A month later, he turned 
 
THE UNITIES 51 
 
 sharp round, ere half a morning's walk was 
 completed. . . . 
 
 They put him to bed, and for a fortnight the 
 shadow of his sickness lay upon the house. . . . 
 
 Of Judy he saw very little. She was deeply 
 religious — at six years of age. [At the beginning 
 of the story we learned she was but three.] 
 
 As time went on and the memory of Papa and 
 Mama became wholly overlaid. . . . 
 
 The weeks lengthened into months, dinA the holi- 
 days came. . . . 
 
 The books lasted for ten days. . . . Then 
 came days of doing absolutely nothing. . . . 
 
 Holidays came and holidays went. 
 
 The weeks were interminable. 
 
 For the next three weeks Black Sheep was 
 strictly allowed to do nothing. 
 
 Aunty Rosa withdrew and left Mama kneel- 
 ing between her children, half laughing, half 
 crying, in the very hall where Punch and Judy 
 had wept five years before. 
 
 The instances cited are only the more obvious. 
 Numerous little touches less easily detached from 
 their context serve to keep the flow of time un- 
 checked. The open references are the mile-posts 
 upon the way. And all are possessed of one 
 
52 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 obvious characteristic: they do not disguise the 
 passage of time; indeed they mark it openly, as 
 is essential to the story. But never do they in- 
 dicate a break in the narrative. Always, in the 
 transitional sentence, some phrase links the 
 thought with that which has preceded. The 
 reader, keenly interested in the action, follows 
 first the thread of narrative. Only incidentally 
 does he make a mental note of the time covered 
 since the last specific reference. A series of these 
 marginal comments, and the reader accepts 
 within a few pages the passage of months. The 
 logic of the narrative is never broken to indicate 
 the flight of time. That is incidental in so far as 
 it attracts attention, though vital to the story's 
 progress. 
 
 The artistic handling of time discovers, per- 
 haps, its most striking illustration in Othello, 
 The play demands the utmost closeness of narra- 
 tive logic. Incident must crowd upon incident. 
 Yet there must seem to be a lapse of sufficient 
 time to permit the slow growth of Othello's 
 jealousy. The two, rapid action and slow modi- 
 fication of character, are antagonistic. Yet both 
 are so artistically conceived that it is possible 
 to plan two time schemes for the play. In one 
 the play covers seemingly a period of but a few 
 days. In the other the action requires not days 
 but months. The reader accepts both unthink- 
 
THE UNITIES S3 
 
 ingly, and both exercise their due effect upon 
 him. It is paradoxical that this should be so, 
 but there it is for any writer of stories to emulate. 
 A study of other of Shakespeare's plays will re- 
 veal the same good artistry, though in few cases 
 to so striking a degree as in Othello. 
 
 We may summarize: Make the time covered 
 by the action as short as is compatible with con- 
 vincingness. If the indication of the passage 
 of time is essential — and often it must be defi- 
 nitely given — subordinate it; do not let it mar 
 the even flow of the narrative. 
 
 Unity of Place 
 
 As in action and time, so in place, the writer 
 seeks to dissipate the attention of the reader as 
 little as possible. In a short story, if the action ; 
 occurs in too many and diverse places, the imagi- \ 
 nation will be fatigued, if not bewildered, by / 
 the shifts demanded. If the scenes in every in- 
 stance must be definite, and if these are many, 
 there will, too, be little room for adequate de- 
 scriptive detail. The writer must, therefore, 
 economize, as in the instance of time, and bring 
 his story to pass in but few places. With some 
 contrivance he should, in most instances, be 
 able to do this. It should be his practice to 
 make but one change of scene when his first in- 
 clination prompts him to two. Several scenes. 
 
54 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 if set in a single town or city, are usually more 
 effective, because easier to visualize, than are 
 those far apart and dissimilar; that a single 
 house or room be the scene of action is better 
 still. Do not misunderstand; as in the manipu- 
 lation of time, there is here no inflexible law. 
 An examination of good stories will show merely 
 no unnecessary changes of scene; usually there 
 are even fewer shifts than the average reader 
 could follow readily without confusion or loss of 
 interest. Unity of place is seldom absolute. 
 With rare exceptions some sHght change of scene 
 is inevitable in the shortest of stories; and the 
 longer the story the more changes there will 
 usually be; certainly the more changes there 
 may be without loss of effectiveness. 
 
 Yet to enumerate the changes of scene in sev- 
 eral famous short stories will be to illustrate the 
 general truth that the skilful writer makes very 
 few. Thus in Poe's Purloined Letter we have 
 but a single change, that from the apartment of 
 the narrator to the hotel of the minister D. The 
 scene in the latter place is noteworthy for its 
 simple artistry in the treatment both of time 
 and place; it is really two scenes occurring on 
 two successive days. Observe the transitional 
 sentences: 
 
 I . . . took my departure at once, leaving a 
 gold snuff box upon the table. 
 
THE UNITIES 55 
 
 The next morning / called for the snuff box, 
 when we resumed, quite eagerly, the conversa- 
 tion of the preceding day. 
 
 The reader who has visualized the scene is not 
 called upon to wipe the picture from his imagina- 
 tion and shortly to recreate it, despite the fact 
 that in the interval between the visits have oc- 
 curred incidents necessary to the narrative. 
 These the author brings in later in the following 
 fashion : 
 
 In the meantime, I stepped to the cardrack, 
 took the letter, put it in my pocket, and replaced 
 it by a facsimile (so far as regards externals) 
 which I had carefully prepared at my lodgings . . . 
 
 In the same passage mention is made of the 
 scene in the street without, to which the atten- 
 tion of one of the characters, not the centre of 
 interest, is attracted. But as this, too, is subor- 
 dinate in interest, care is taken to minimize it, 
 and the reader's visuaHzation of the room and 
 the action therein is unmarred. 
 
 In other of Poe's stories the observant will 
 note the same care to avoid unnecessary change 
 of place. In some, indeed, as in The Pit and the 
 Pendulum, the place is absolutely fixed; the 
 action occurs within the walls of a single room. 
 Like attention to this obvious principle is to be 
 noted in stories by other famous writers. They 
 
56 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 do not always, it is true, confine the action to a 
 single place, for the incidents selected will not 
 always so permit; it is merely a principle to 
 which they conform as nearly as possible. But 
 before we consider such stories and the means 
 by which transitions of place, when necessary, 
 can be made most effectively, we should con- 
 sider stories in which the place of action is not 
 fixed at any time but is constantly moving, so 
 that we can scarcely say that the story occurs 
 even in a number of places. Our illustration is 
 Poe's Cask of Amontillado. 
 
 In this the story progresses from the street 
 in carnival time to a house, from the house to 
 the cellars, and from the cellars to the cata- 
 combs. The place is never fixed: that is, the 
 scene ceases to change only when we reach the 
 very end of the story. Immediately, as we read, 
 we are struck with the likeness of the flow of 
 scene to that of time, which we saw to be char- 
 acteristic of well-constructed stories. In these 
 there were no appreciable breaks in the flow of 
 action, no unbridged intervals of time — this by 
 reason of a well-contrived coherence of incident. 
 What is the position of the reader, the imaginary 
 onlooker, as he follows the story's characters in 
 the present instance? 
 
 He, of course, visualizes them in their progress 
 from the street to the catacombs. It is true he 
 
THE UNITIES 57 
 
 does not see everything which they actually 
 observed; he sees instead a series of selected and 
 blended objects. It is as though he passed by 
 these at a pace faster than that of reahty, a 
 pace too rapid to permit the observation of all 
 details, but not so fast that significant details, 
 those by which the progress from one chamber 
 to another is made quite clear, may not be re- 
 corded. The reader fancies that he walks with 
 the characters at a normal pace, though in fact 
 his progress is greatly accelerated. It is this 
 effect of reahty at which the writer aims. Omis- 
 sions, inevitable to selection, are unnoted. Be- 
 cause of the suspense which the story creates, 
 our progress seems even slow, and we hurry over 
 the Hues impatient of the end. 
 
 Because of this flow of scene so perfectly and 
 uninterruptedly maintained, it is legitimate to 
 declare the unity of place constant throughout. 
 Certainly, there is no strain upon the imagina- 
 tion of the reader, no radical change which a 
 sudden shift of setting would necessitate. We 
 may regard the reader as one witnessing a pro- 
 cession. Or again, the incidents are like the 
 changing panorama seen from a smoothly flying 
 train: the countryside, not the observer, seems 
 to move. The writer in fixing so firmly the 
 view-point of his reader has achieved the effect 
 of perfect unity of place in the story itself. 
 
58 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 The problem in Poe's story is, we say, simple. 
 The time is short, and the change of place, cov- 
 ered at an even speed, is, in the aggregate, slight. 
 The illustration avoids the difficulties which are 
 met with in a story of diverse scenes, those 
 actually far apart and different in kind, which 
 must be fused in a single narrative. But before 
 we proceed to an examination of a story typical 
 of this problem, let us pause for a moment to 
 consider the psychology underlying the whole 
 question of change of scene. 
 
 From what we have already learned in our 
 consideration of place, and from analogies which 
 we made to the problem of time, we may lay 
 down a few generalizations. I fancy we shall 
 be psychologically sound if we regard change in 
 time and place as much the same in their effect 
 upon the reader. If a narrative is broken, either 
 to indicate the passage of time or a change of 
 scene, the effect upon the reader is identical in 
 kind, however different in degree: he is momen- 
 tarily awakened from the story illusion, the es- 
 sence of which is an unbroken flow of impression. 
 In other words, he has again to take up the 
 ^read of the story. The time-interval is, how- 
 ever, more easily bridged than a change in place, 
 for the nature of the incidents on either side the 
 time gap may be the same; whereas to change 
 from one scene to another requires a fresh crea- 
 
THE UNITIES 59 
 
 tive act of the imagination rather than the re- 
 sumption of a state of mind already created. 
 
 We may then suppose that change in place, 
 requiring more imaginative power in the reader 
 than the acceptance of a time-interval, would be 
 less seldom permitted by a skilful writer, and, 
 when unavoidable, either would not so often be 
 successful or the artistic devices to efface the 
 fracture would be the more refined and subtle. 
 That the unity of place is more exacting and 
 less often achieved than the unity of time is, I 
 think, true. A story may cover a considerable 
 period of time and still be unified. But if in 
 Baa Baa Black Sheep there were as many specific 
 indications of a change of scene as there are of 
 the passage of weeks or months, the story would 
 be far from creating its unified impression. 
 What changes of place must be, are either 
 bridged by the device of emphasizing the co- 
 herence of the action — which we saw was true 
 also in the case of time-intervals — or resort is 
 had to the flow of scene, the device of The Cask 
 of Amontillado, 
 
 There is, however, another method, closely 
 analogous to the flow of scene, which will often 
 serve, wholly or in part, to obviate difficulties. 
 When the scene is not vital to the intelligibihty 
 or vividness of the action, the writer may tell 
 his story with but slight suggestion of definite 
 
6o ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 background, just as, in time, there may be no 
 definite indication of time-intervals. The story 
 enacts itself in such case as though freed from 
 the restraints of time and place; the flow of in- 
 cident creates the illusion of reahty. It occurs 
 nowhere in particular, and the reader, conscious 
 of no sharply defined setting for any specific 
 episode, is called upon for no effort to change 
 the scene in imagination. His attention here is 
 concentrated upon action or character; place is 
 of no importance. 
 
 Yet another practice of good writers is to 
 economize in scene by recurring, when change is 
 ^^ inevitable, to a scene which has already been 
 employed for previous incident. The reader re- 
 creates the setting with facihty for the reason 
 that he is aided by memory. The sense of famili- 
 arity which this practice evokes is also highly 
 valuable in impressing the reader with the truth 
 of the story; it is as though he returned to the 
 scene of a former experience. Maupassant's 
 story, The Piece of String, will illustrate not only 
 this last method of effecting transitions, but, as 
 well, the others previously mentioned. 
 
 The story begins with a description of Norman 
 peasants coming to town on market-day; the 
 scene here is a flowing one. A definite place is 
 first indicated in the description of the square 
 to which the incoming peasants have led us. 
 
THE UNITIES 6i 
 
 From one of the doorways opening on this square 
 Master Malandain observes Master Hauchecorne 
 pick something from the mud. The scene and 
 setting are definite and static. 
 
 The story then turns to the hfe of the square, 
 and the transition to the next scene is made in 
 the following fashion: 
 
 Then, Httle by little, the square became empty, 
 and when the Angelus struck midday those who 
 lived too far away to go home hetook themselves 
 to the various inns. 
 
 At Jourdain's the common room was full of 
 customers, as the great yard was full of vehicles 
 of every sort. . . . 
 
 The inn is then described, and those seated at 
 dinner. They are aroused by the drum of the 
 town crier and rush to the door to hear his news 
 (anticipatory of the next incident). A little 
 later. Master Hauchecorne, dining with the rest, 
 is summoned to appear before the mayor. The 
 transition is thus made: 
 
 He started off repeating 
 "Here I am sir." 
 And he followed the brigadier. 
 The mayor was waiting for him. 
 
 After this scene the place does not again be- 
 come definite for a considerable space. We 
 
62 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 follow the man to his home, but this is not de- 
 scribed, for it is of no importance to the story. 
 
 The incidents immediately following, though 
 they cover a week and occur in a variety of 
 places, are thus summarily dismissed: 
 
 All day long he talked of his adventure; he 
 told it in the road to people who passed; at the 
 wine-shop to people who were drinking; and 
 after church on the following Sunday. 
 
 No place is allowed to assume more than a 
 momentary and most casual definiteness. 
 The next transition is: 
 
 On Tuesday of the next week he went to 
 market at Goderville. . . . Malandain standin^j 
 in his doorway began to laugh. . . . 
 
 Here the scene, though short, is definite; but 
 it is identical with the first fixed scene of the: 
 story. The next is of like sort: 
 
 When he was seated at the table of Jourdain^s 
 inn. . . . 
 
 The last transition is: 
 
 He returned home. 
 
 Again there is no definiteness of scene, either 
 here or in subsequent incidents. 
 
 Throughout the story there are but three defi- 
 nite scenes — those in the square* in the inn, and 
 
THE UNITIES 63 
 
 the mayor's office. The first two are again 
 briefly echoed, the writer reveahng in these his 
 economy of materials by refusing to devise new 
 settings. Our imaginative pictures are confined 
 therefore to these parts of a single village. The 
 incidents which do not occur here might happen 
 anywhere, do happen anywhere, for they are 
 attached to no specific place. The fleeting refer- 
 ences to wine-shop and church produce but a 
 momentary picture; these in no sense can be 
 said to constitute scenes. We should note, 
 also, the simple transitions from place to place. 
 From the reference to dinner we are whisked to 
 the dining-room at Jourdain's. When the hero 
 is summoned to the mayor's, it is said: *'He fol • 
 lowed the brigadier." He is then there, and 
 our imaginations make no difficulty of the transi- 
 tion. But though content for the most part tci 
 picture the flow of events as unattached to a 
 specific background, the writer is careful to at- 
 tach the most vital incidents to a definite setting. 
 It is as though the stream of incident crystallized 
 at crucial moments, and in so doing made clear 
 the place of action. Then the action dissolves, 
 later to crystallize again. The writer is careful 
 not to make these pauses too frequent, and as 
 we recall the story we see only the square with 
 the tragic picture of the old peasant as he picks 
 up his piece of string, or as he is taunted by his 
 
64 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 enemy; or the inn, whence, bewildered, he is 
 summoned to the mayor and where, later, he is 
 angered and hurt as his fellows twit him with 
 his supposed theft. 
 
 A few general principles emerge from our 
 rather long discussion of the unity of place: it 
 is well to present but few definite scenes, and 
 these coincident with the most vital episodes of 
 the story, serving thus to emphasize and make 
 memorable such incidents. For the rest there 
 need be no definite place; the incidents need be 
 attached to no specific setting. Or the scene 
 may be a flowing one and not static at all. Last 
 and most important, transitions in scene must 
 be so deftly made that the reader's thought and 
 imagination easily bridge the gap — this by reason 
 of the coherence of the narrative. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 
 
 A STORY must do more than relate the vital 
 incidents of the plot; there is another element, 
 purely expository, the object of which is to make 
 the circumstances of the story intelligible to the 
 reader. He must know who are the characters, 
 something of their history, and their relations 
 past and present to one another, as well as other 
 antecedent and coincident matters. This in- 
 formation may be much or little as occasion 
 may demand. The means whereby it is intro- 
 duced into the story constitutes a problem in 
 technic, a problem dependent in large part 
 upon the choice of the point of view. 
 
 As our introduction to the subject let us, then, 
 select a story written from the point of view of 
 the actor-narrator and examine the initial exposi- 
 tion. The story is Stevenson's, The Merry Men, 
 of which I quote the second paragraph: 
 
 I was far from being a native of these parts, 
 springing, as I did, from an unmixed lowland 
 stock. But an uncle of mine, George Darnaway, 
 6s 
 
66 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 after a poor, rough youth, and some years at sea, 
 had married a young wife in the islands; Mary 
 Maclean she was called, the last of her family; 
 and when she died in giving birth to a daughter, 
 Aros, the sea-girt farm, had remained in his pos- 
 session. It brought him in nothing but the 
 means of Hfe, as I was well aware; but he was a 
 man whom ill-fortune had pursued; he feared, 
 cumbered as he was with the young child, to 
 make a fresh adventure upon Kfe; and remained 
 at Aros, biting his nails at destiny. Years passed 
 over his head in that isolation, and brought 
 neither help nor contentment. Meantime our 
 family was dying out in the lowlands; there is 
 little luck for any of that race; and perhaps my 
 father was the luckiest of all, for not only was he 
 one of the last to die, but he left a son to his 
 name and a Httle money to support it. I was 
 a student at Edinburgh University, living well 
 enough at my own charges, but without kith 
 or kin; when some news of me found its way 
 to Uncle Gordon on the Ross of Grisapol; and 
 he, as he was a man who held blood thicker than 
 water, wrote to me the day he heard of my exist- 
 ence, and taught me to coimt Aros as my home. 
 Thus it was that I came to spend my vacations 
 in that part of the country, so far from all 
 society and comfort, between the cod-fish and the 
 moor-cocks; and thus it was that now, when I had 
 done with my classes, was returning thither with 
 so light a heart that July day. — (The Merry Men.) 
 
 There is no attempt here to disguise the pur- 
 pose of the paragraph, which is frankly inform- 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 67 
 
 ing, and though somewhat more interesting than 
 the cast of characters on a playbill, or a descrip- 
 tion of stage setting, serves much the same pur- 
 pose. We learn who the hero is, somewhat of 
 his history, and his reason for being at Aros; 
 we learn, too, of his relatives and their history; 
 the character of the place, and the time of year. 
 All this the author considers necessary to our 
 proper appreciation of what he has later to tell. 
 What of the fitness of the narrator to be our in- 
 formant? With his own history he is, naturally, 
 sufficiently familiar. But can we suppose him 
 to know so much of his uncle and cousin? What 
 means had he of learning the facts he gives? 
 We read that he had spent several vacations on 
 the island, and by reason of his kinship we may 
 suppose him familiar with the superficial facts 
 of his uncle's history. But he states, also, that 
 his uncle feared to adventure and so remained 
 ''biting his nails at destiny." This, if we accept 
 it without criticism, we must attribute to the 
 hero's powers of observation, or to confidences 
 his uncle may have made. There is, indeed, 
 nothing in the statement difficult of acceptance, 
 and the reader passes over it without question. 
 Yet it serves to define a difficulty of exposition 
 in a story told by one of the participants. The 
 information must be such as lies reasonably 
 within the knowledge of the narrator. He must 
 
68 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 not know too much, or the story illusion, which 
 we gladly accept if we may, will be incomplete. 
 At no point may the actor-narrator introduce 
 exposition other than that which comes naturally 
 within the circle of his observation. 
 
 For our second instance let us select a story 
 told by the author-omniscient. These three ex- 
 pository paragraphs follow immediately upon the 
 opening dialogue of Kipling's Without Benefit oj 
 Clergy: 
 
 The man did not move. He was sitting on 
 a low red-lacquered couch in a room furnished 
 only with a blue and white floor-cloth, some 
 rugs, and a very complete collection of native 
 cushions. At his feet sat a woman of sixteen, 
 and she was all but all the world in his eyes. 
 By every rule and law she should have been 
 otherwdse, for he was an Englishman, and she 
 a Mussulman's daughter bought two years be- 
 fore from her mother, who, being left without 
 money, would have sold Ameera shrieking to 
 the Prince of Darkness if the price had been 
 sufficient. 
 
 It was a contract entered into with a Hght 
 heart; but even before the girl had reached her 
 bloom she came to fill the greater portion of John 
 Holden's hfe. For her, and the withered hag 
 her mother, he had taken a little house over- 
 looking the great red-walled city, and foimd — 
 when the marigolds had sprung up by the well 
 in the courtyard* and Ameera had established 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 69 
 
 herself according to her own ideas of comfort, 
 and her mother had ceased grumbling at the in- 
 adequacy of the cooking-places, the distance 
 from the daily market, and at matters of house- 
 keeping in general — that the house was to him 
 his home. Any one could enter his bachelor*s 
 bungalow by day or night, and the life that he 
 led there was an unlovely one. In the house 
 in the city his feet only could pass beyond the 
 outer courtyard to the women's rooms; 'and 
 when the big wooden gate was bolted behind him 
 he was king in his own territory with Ameera 
 for queen. And there was going to be added to 
 this kingdom a third person whose arrival 
 Holden felt inclined to resent. It interfered 
 with his perfect happiness. It disarranged the 
 orderly peace of the house that was his own. 
 But Ameera was wild with deUght at the thought 
 of it and her mother not less so. The love of a 
 man, and particularly a white man, was at best 
 an inconstant affair, but it might, both women 
 argued, be held fast by a baby's hands. "And 
 then," Ameera would always say, "then he will 
 never care for the white mem-log. I hate them 
 all— I hate them all." 
 
 "He will go back to his own people in time," 
 said the mother; "but by the blessing of God 
 that time is yet afar off." 
 
 We learn from this several things : the present 
 relations of the characters, the incidents leading 
 to this relationship, the place, and something of 
 the man's nature. As the point of view is that 
 of the omniscient author, we accept without 
 
70 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 demur all that he tells us. He is supposed to 
 know these things. Our later criticism must be 
 directed to the manner of the exposition, and its 
 effect upon the action into which it has been in- 
 corporated. For the moment we shall ignore 
 these points and consider as a third instance the 
 point of view of the author-observant, who pro- 
 ^f esses ignorance of circumstances antecedent to 
 / the story. What he tells us must be in dialogue 
 ^and description, elements of the action itself. 
 How may we separate from these the purely 
 expository element? But our illustration must 
 precede the discussion. The passage is from 
 The Love of Romance, of E. Nesbit's clever vol- 
 ume, The Literary Sense: 
 
 She opened the window, at which no light 
 shone. All the other windows were darkly shut- 
 tered. The night was still : only a faint breath 
 moved among the restless aspen leaves. The 
 ivy round the window whispered hoarsely as the 
 casement, swung back too swiftly, rested against 
 it. She had a large linen sheet in her hands. 
 Without hurry and without delayings she knotted 
 one corner of it to the iron staple of the window. 
 She tied the knot firmly, and further secured it 
 with string. She let the white bulk of the sheet 
 fall between the ivy and the night, then she 
 climbed on to the window-ledge, and crouched 
 there on her knees. There was a heart-sick 
 pause before she grasped the long twist of the 
 sheet as it hung — let her knees slip from the 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 71 
 
 supporting stone and swung suddenly by her 
 hands. Her elbows and wrists were grazed 
 against the rough edge of the window-ledge — 
 the sheet twisted at her weight, and jarred her 
 shoulder heavily against the house wall. Her 
 arms seemed to be tearing themselves from their 
 sockets. But she clenched her teeth, felt with 
 her feet for the twdsted ivy stems on the side of 
 the house, found foothold, and the moment of 
 almost unbearable agony was over. She went 
 down helped by feet and hands, and by ivy and 
 sheet, almost exactly as she had planned to do. 
 She had not known it would hurt so much — that 
 was all. Her feet felt the soft mould of the 
 border: a stout geranium snapped under her 
 tread. She crept around the house, in the 
 house's shadow — found the gardener's ladder — 
 and so on to the high brick wall. From this she 
 dropped, deftly enough, into the suburban lane: 
 dropped, too, into the arms of a man who was 
 waiting there. She hid her face in his neck, 
 trembhng, and said, ''Oh, Harry — I wish I 
 hadn't!" Then she began to cry helplessly. 
 The man, receiving her embrace with what 
 seemed in the circumstances a singularly moder- 
 ated enthusiasm, led her with one arm still 
 lightly about her shoulders down the lane: at 
 the corner he stood still, and said in a low 
 voice — 
 
 "Hush — stop crying at once I I've something 
 to say to you." 
 
 She tore herself from his arm and gasped. 
 
 "It's not Harry," she said. "Oh, how dare 
 you!" She had been brave till she had dropped 
 
72 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 into his arms. Then the need for bravery had 
 seemed over. Now her tears were dried swiftly 
 and suddenly by the blaze of anger and courage 
 in her eyes. 
 
 ''Don't be unreasonable," he said, and even 
 at that moment of disappointment and rage his 
 voice pleased her. "I had to get you away 
 somehow. I couldn't risk an explanation right 
 under your aunt's windows. Harry's sprained 
 his knee — cricket. He couldn't come." 
 
 A sharp resentment stirred in her against the 
 lover who could play cricket on the very day of 
 an elopement. 
 
 "He told you to come? Oh, how could he be- 
 tray me!" 
 
 "My dear girl, what was he to do? He couldn't 
 leave you to wait out here alone — perhaps for 
 hours." 
 
 "I shouldn't have waited long," she said 
 sharply; "you came to tell me: now you've 
 told me — you'd better go." 
 
 "Look here," he said with gentle calm, "I 
 do wish you'd try not to be quite so silly. I'm 
 Harry's doctor — and a middle-aged man. Let 
 me help you. There must be some better way 
 out of your troubles than a midnight flight and a 
 despairingly defiant note on the pin-cushion." 
 
 " I didn't," she said. "I put it on the mantel- 
 piece. Please go. I decline to discuss anything 
 with you." 
 
 "Ah, don't!" he said; "I knew you must be 
 a very romantic person, or you wouldn't be here; 
 and I knew you must be rather sill — well, rather 
 young, or you wouldn't have fallen in love with 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 73 
 
 Harry. But I did not think, after the brave 
 and practical manner in which you kept your 
 appointment, I did not think that you'd try to 
 behave Hke the heroine of a family novelette. 
 Come, sit down on this heap of stones — there's 
 nobody about. There's a light in your house 
 now. You can't go back yet. Here, let me put 
 my Inverness about you. Keep it up around 
 your chin, and then if anybody sees you they 
 won't know who you are. I can't leave you 
 alone here. You know what a lot of robberies 
 there have been in the neighborhood lately; 
 there may be rough characters about. Come 
 now, let's see what's to be done. You know you 
 can't get back unless I help you." 
 
 ''I don't want you to help me; and I won't go 
 back," she said. 
 
 But she sat down and pulled the cloak up 
 round her face. 
 
 "Now," he said, *'as I understand the case 
 — it's this. You live rather a dull life with 
 two tyrannical aunts — and the passion for ro- 
 mance. ..." 
 
 "They're not tyrannical — only one's always 
 ill and the other's always nursing her. She 
 makes her get up and read to her in the night. 
 That's her Hght you saw -" 
 
 "Well, I pass the aunts. Anyhow, you met 
 Harry — somehow " 
 
 " It was at the Choral Society. And then they 
 stopped my going — because he walked homa 
 with me one wet night." 
 
 "And you have never seen each other since?" 
 
 "Of course we have." 
 
74 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 "And communicated by some means more 
 romantic than the post?" 
 
 "It wasn't romantic. It was tennis-balls." 
 
 "Tennis-baUs?" 
 
 "You cut a slit and squeeze it and put a note 
 in, and it shuts up and no one notices it. It 
 wasn't romantic at all. And I don't know why 
 I should tell you anything about it." 
 
 "And then I suppose there were glances in 
 church, and stolen meetings in the passionate 
 hush of the rose-scented garden." 
 
 " There's nothing in the garden but geraniums," 
 she said, "and we always talked over the wall — 
 he used to stand on their chicken house, and I 
 used to turn our dog kennel up on end and stand 
 on that. You have no right to know anything 
 about It, but it was not in the least romantic." 
 
 "No — that sees itself! May I ask whether it 
 was you or he who proposed this elopement?" 
 
 But for one or two touches which intimate the 
 girl's secret thoughts, the point of view here is 
 strictly observant and unobtrusive. Virtually 
 we have the lines of a play, the description serv- 
 ing as the stage business. From the dialogue and 
 descriptive touches we <nust not only follow the 
 story action, but also grasp the present situation, 
 and learn from what it has developed. This we 
 have no difficulty in doing. We learn of the 
 elopement and the manner of courtship which 
 preceded. We gather something of the char- 
 acters of those concerned, and our interest is 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 75 
 
 aroused in the man who extorts all this infor- 
 mation from the girl. The dialogue serves the 
 double purpose of exposition and narration. If 
 it does all this without seeming at any moment 
 forced or unnatural, it is good dialogue, and we 
 take an intellectual pleasure in observing the 
 author's dexterity. 
 
 Dialogue, to serve this dual purpose, must have 
 recourse to various expedients so that talk re- 
 lating antecedent events may be elicited in a 
 natural manner. Not every young lady can be 
 prevailed upon to tell the details of her court- 
 ship. Anger is the device employed, a device 
 hoary in stage-craft, which, dependent upon 
 tricks of this kind, has developed many. Other 
 expedients by which dialogue may be turned to 
 the exposition of antecedent events will readily 
 occur to every one. A lawyer may rehearse his 
 client's position and thus acquaint us with im- 
 portant facts; a letter may be introduced into 
 the story, or a newspaper clipping, or a passage 
 from Who^s Who ; a palmist may tell the life of 
 his visitor, and from the visitor's conduct we 
 may judge the information to be exact. In 
 The Rise of Silas Lapham, Mr. Howells intro- 
 duces a reporter who asks the hero the important 
 facts of his career for newspaper publication. 
 In The Scarlet Letter, from the talk of the Puri- 
 tans gathered about Hester Prynne in the pillory 
 
76 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 we learn of her offence and other relevant cir- 
 cumstances. The merit of these devices is that, 
 while they serve to inform us, we yet feel the 
 story to be progressing. This we do not feel 
 when the author steps aside from his story to 
 tell us what we need to know. 
 
 Nevertheless the greater number of good stories 
 do not rely solely upon dialogue and description 
 for exposition. Though they employ it to a 
 considerable degree, they depend chiefly upon 
 direct exposition. The feeling which prompts 
 this choice is, doubtless, that the obviousness 
 and conciseness of direct exposition is less haz- 
 ardous than the indirect or dramatic style. 
 Nothing is so bad as dialogue forced into an im- 
 natural channel for the story's purposes. The 
 illusion to be satisfactory must be complete. 
 Authors employ, therefore, a variety of means to 
 make the story clear: they may sketch briefly 
 antecedent events; they may read the thoughts 
 of the characters, which, if turned to the past, 
 serve as exposition; for the setting forth of 
 present relations, they employ dialogue. If all 
 these means are utilized, the point of view of the 
 author-omniscient (or that of the actor-narrator) 
 is inevitable. 
 
 Before we take up further aspects of this topic 
 let us turn for a moment to the passages quoted 
 from Stevenson and Kipling and note their place 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 77 
 
 in the story. Neither comes at the very begin- 
 ning. Stevenson introduces The Merry Men 
 with a brief narrative paragraph which serves to 
 get the story under way. Kipling begins with 
 a fairly long scene in dialogue, which serves in 
 part an expository purpose. Then he pauses to 
 explain the situation. My own feeling is that 
 Kipling's explanation is unduly long, coming as 
 it does sharp upon an interesting passage in 
 dialogue. In The Merry Men the difficulty is 
 not so great, for our interest in the story as 
 aroused by the first paragraph, is tepid, so that 
 the author's digression — this, too, in the hero's 
 own words — seems not much to matter. The 
 keener the interest aroused at the outset, the 
 greater the contrast with the expository matter 
 following. 
 
 It is for this reason that many authors preface 
 the story with the exposition. Thus Maupas- 
 sant's The Coward: 
 
 He was known in society as "the handsome 
 SignoUes." His name was Viscount Gontran 
 Joseph de Signolles. 
 
 An orphan and the possessor of a sufficient 
 fortune, he cut a dash, as they say. He had 
 style and presence, sufficient fluency of speech to 
 make people think him clever, a certain natural 
 grace, an air of nobility and pride, a gallant 
 mustache and a gentle eye, which the women Hke. 
 
 He was in great demand in the salons, much 
 
78 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 sought after by fair dancers; and he aroused in 
 his own sex that smiling animosity which they 
 always feel for men of an energetic figure. He 
 had been suspected of several love affairs well 
 adapted to cause a young bachelor to be much 
 esteemed. He passed a happy, unconcerned 
 life, in a comfort of mind which was almost 
 complete. He was known to be a skilful fencer, 
 and with the pistol even more adept. 
 
 "If I ever fight a duel," he would say, "I 
 shall choose the pistol. With that weapon I 
 am sure of killing my man." 
 
 The exposition here is brief but adequate to 
 its purpose, and every detail is vital to the story. 
 
 Our discussion has so far had to do with ex- 
 position only of present and retrospective sig- 
 nificance. Still more important is that exposi- 
 tion which anticipates the action to come, so 
 that in the heat of the story the action need not 
 pause for explanations essential to clearness. 
 The passage from The Coward illustrates this 
 function of exposition admirably. We learn of 
 SignoUes that he was gallant and wished to cut 
 a figure before women; that though expert with 
 sword and pistol, he had never fought a duel. 
 All this is vital to the story, for it explains what 
 is to come. From this introduction the experi- 
 enced reader anticipates much of the action, 
 for he has learned to observe all details which 
 an author sees fit to give him. If the author 
 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 79 
 
 knows his business and selects as he should, no 
 detail will be without its reasonable implica- 
 tion. We guess, therefore, that Signolles will 
 fight a duel over a woman. From his expressed 
 desire to employ pistols in such a contingency 
 so that he may be "sure of his man," we sus- 
 pect him to be somewhat of a braggart, and de- 
 spite his marksmanship doomed to disaster. 
 The manner of his failure constitutes the story; 
 yet knowing so much as we do, our interest is 
 in no sense weakened; rather is it enhanced by 
 anticipation. 
 
 In Kipling's story also we have this foreknowl- 
 edge, though less explicit. The remark of 
 Ameera that Holden will return to his own peo- 
 ple in time, we feel prophetic of the end. Con- 
 scious of Holden's genuine passion for the girl, 
 we surmise that only some tragic event can force 
 the issue. What that is, we read to see. 
 
 How great is this necessity of an accurate 
 preparation for events to come may be well illus- 
 trated by a passage from Stevenson upon the un- 
 certain artistry of Scott. In Guy Mannering, 
 one of Scott's hastily constructed tales, occurs 
 the incident which Stevenson quotes: 
 
 "I remember the tune well," he says, "though 
 I cannot guess what should at present so strongly 
 recall it to my memory." He took his flageolet 
 from his pocket and played a simple melody. 
 
So ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Apparently the tune awoke the corresponding 
 associations of a damsel. . . . She immediately 
 took up the song: 
 
 "'Are these the links of Forth/ she said; 
 *0r are they the crooks of Dee, 
 Or the bonny woods of Warroch Head 
 That I so fain would see?' " 
 
 "By heaven!" said Bertram, "it is the very 
 ballad." 
 
 On this quotation two remarks fall to be made. 
 First, as an instance of modern feeling for ro- 
 mance, this famous touch of the flageolet and 
 the old song is selected by Miss Braddon for 
 omission. Miss Braddon's idea of a story, like 
 Mrs. Todger's idea of a wooden leg, were some- 
 thing strange to have expounded. As a matter 
 of personal experience, Meg's appearance to old 
 Mr. Bertram on the road, the ruins of Dern- 
 cleugh, the scene of the flageolet, and the 
 Dominie's recognition of Harry are the four 
 strong notes that continue to ring in the mind 
 after the book is laid aside. The second point 
 is still more curious. The reader will observe 
 a mark of excision in the passage as quoted by 
 me. Well, here is how it runs in the original: 
 "a damsel, who, close behind a fine spring about 
 half-way down the descent, and which had once 
 supplied the castle with water, was engaged in 
 bleaching linen." A man who gave in such 
 copy would be discharged from the staff of a 
 daily paper. Scott has forgotten to prepare 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 8i 
 
 the reader for the presence of the "damsel"; he 
 has forgotten to mention the spring and its re- 
 lation to the ruin; and now, face to face with 
 his omission, instead of trying back and starting 
 fair, crams all this matter, tail foremost, into 
 a single shambling sentence. It is not merely- 
 bad EngHsh or bad style; it is abominably bad 
 narrative besides. 
 
 In the artistry exhibited in this important 
 matter writers vary widely. Some are even too 
 well aware of the necessity for preparation, and 
 give overmany hints. Thus in De Morgan's 
 novel. Somehow Good, so great stress is laid upon 
 the heroine's love for swimming that we expect 
 nothing short of a shipwreck or a second deluge. 
 The discriminating reader treasures every hint 
 granted him, but he resents overemphasis as 
 an insult to his intelligence. 
 
 Poe's Cask of Amontillado is an excellent, 
 though somewhat obvious, illustration of care- 
 ful artistry in exposition, both retrospective and 
 anticipatory. I shall call attention to a number 
 of passages, though the reader should examine 
 them in their context. The introductory para- 
 graph explains the motive of the story — revenge. 
 We are promised revenge of which the victim 
 shall not fail to know the source, but for which 
 the doer shall go unpunished. This is the pro- 
 nouncement of the story's theme. Then we are 
 
82 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 told that Fortunate had one weakness: he prided 
 himself upon his connoisseurship in wine. We 
 expect, from this, poison, but hope for something 
 more novel and exciting. 
 
 At the beginning of the action we find For- 
 tunato under the influence of wine, and from 
 this suspect him an easy prey to his enemy, 
 a suspicion made certain when Montressor says: 
 "I was so pleased to see him that I thought I 
 should never have done wringing his hand." 
 Knowing Montressor's secret purpose, we un- 
 derstand his pleasure to spring from some evil 
 design. A little later Fortunato offers to accom- 
 pany Montressor to the latter's wine-cellars for 
 the purpose of testing the wine. The sinister 
 stratagem emerges more clearly as Montressor 
 describes the unhealthful atmosphere of the 
 cellars, which cannot but be dangerous to one 
 with a cough. Later: 
 
 "Come, we will go back; your health is pre- 
 cious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; 
 you are happy, as once I was. You are a man 
 to be missed." 
 
 Again: 
 
 "Enough," he said, "the cough is a mere 
 nothing; it will not kill me. I shall not die of 
 a cough." 
 
 "True — true," I replied. 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 83 
 
 There are other obvious hints, but one more 
 citation will suffice: 
 
 "Then you are not of the brotherhood." 
 "How?'^ 
 
 "You are not of the masons." 
 "Yes, yes," I said, "yes, yes." 
 "You? Impossible! A mason?" 
 "A mason," I replied. 
 "A sign," he said. 
 
 "It is this," I answered, producing a trowel 
 from beneath the folds of my roquelaire. 
 
 The surprise of this is admirable, though it in- 
 timates the catastrophe perhaps too clearly. 
 
 In classifying all these touches as exposition 
 we are, it may be objected, doing violence to the 
 term. Many are integral parts of the action, 
 and do more than forecast incidents to come; 
 they interest of themselves. It is not a valid 
 criticism. Exposition, as in The Coward, may 
 simply inform us of things we should know; or 
 it may come as dialogue and action, and serve 
 a double purpose — narrative and expository. 
 Yet expository in the main it is, for it makes the 
 reader's knowledge of impending events greater 
 than that of the actors in the story. 
 
 If, then, in a good story, important turns of 
 action are clearly predicted, we must at this point 
 consider accident and coincidence, and determine 
 what part, if any, these may play in story struc- 
 
84 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 ture. Life abounds in accidental happenings, 
 by which we mean turns of fate that cannot be 
 anticipated. Nothing is accidental in a sense; 
 that is, everything is the result of natural law, 
 and this result is predictable to any one fully 
 cognizant of the causes. To the all-seeing Cre- 
 ator life may work itself out like a problem in 
 mathematics, and its conclusion be ever inherent 
 in its terms. This is not the case, however, 
 with human vision. Some things, it is true, we 
 may safely predict from our knowledge of life 
 and human relations. But how may I know my 
 death? A tile may fall from the roof of the 
 building before which I pass and I be instantly 
 killed. Accidents no less extraordinary occur 
 daily, as the newspapers attest. What use may 
 the story writer make of such accidents? 
 
 A clear understanding of the matter may best 
 be had by an examination of the point of view 
 of author and reader. To them, the develop- 
 ment of the story is not, as is life, subject to 
 accidental happenings, but is, as the whole of life 
 to the Creator, predictable. Thus the hero of 
 the story may not know as he rides into battle 
 that he goes to his death; but the author and I, 
 the reader, know this as certainly as from a 
 ghostly premonition. The death of the hero 
 has been predetermined, and the action so de- 
 signed as to intimate clearly this d6nouement. 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 85 
 
 The characters of the story are unaware of this 
 prearrangement, but the author, and to a less 
 degree, the reader, view events from a higher 
 plane of understanding. For them chance does 
 not exist; this characteristic of life has, in the 
 story, been done away with. Thus we say the 
 story is more logical, that is, more predictable 
 than life. Much of our pleasure in reading lies 
 in our appreciation of this story logic. 
 
 The exact nature of the accidental happening 
 — accidental, that is, from the point of view of 
 the character — may not always be guessed from 
 the early circumstances of the story. Sometimes 
 it is desirable to prepare only in general terms 
 for the event to come, its exact nature being left 
 ambiguous and thus exciting our curiosity and 
 interest. Often, however, the very character of 
 the conclusion may be predicted. Thus in The 
 Cask of Amontillado the reader guesses almost 
 exactly the expression of Montressor's revenge. 
 In Kipling's Without Benefit of Clergy we know 
 early that Toto and Ameera will die of the plague. 
 In Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet we do not at 
 first know the exact means by which the hero of 
 each shall die, though that means is clear some 
 time before the result. The tone of the story, 
 of which we have later to speak, determines 
 always the character of the conclusion. The 
 preparatory incidents intimate with varying de- 
 
86 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 grees of clearness the specific means by which 
 the conclusion is realized. 
 
 Coincidences are a kind of accident. Life is 
 filled with them. It is a coincidence that I 
 meet a friend on the street in Paris or in New 
 v/ Zealand. A story permits coincidehces only if 
 the result is not momentous, or if the coincidence 
 is at the basis of the story. Let us endeavor to 
 make the point clear. The story may grow out 
 of the chance meeting of two characters thrown 
 together in the haphazard fashion of life. With 
 this we do not quarrel; the writer may, at the 
 outset, make whatsoever assumption he choose. 
 But suppose the story under way and every- 
 thing dependent upon the meeting of two per- 
 sons, the whereabouts of each unknown to the 
 other. That they will meet is a chance in a 
 million. If I seize upon that chance I make too 
 momentous a result hinge upon too slight a 
 possibility. My reader is incredulous, for he 
 feels I am forcing probabilities unduly. Smith, 
 whom I knew in Des Moines, Iowa, a lawyer by 
 profession, I meet in Vladivostock. The cir- 
 cumstance is improbable; if, in a story, much 
 depends upon this meeting, it is, unless pre- 
 pared for, incredible. But if Smith and I are 
 both interested in Russian affairs, and fond of 
 travel, and this is made known at the outset of 
 the story, then the meeting is permissible, for 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 87 
 
 the reader has been led to expect something of 
 the sort. The writer, who deals not in chance, 
 but in the logical sequence of events, must pre- 
 pare for coincidences by previous suggestion. 
 Then, whatever they may be in life, they cease 
 in the story to be accidents at all. 
 
 I once read a story developed in the following 
 terms : A young woman has broken her engage- 
 ment with a young man because of a misunder- 
 standing. She meets, on a railway journey, an 
 old lady unknown to her, who volunteers the 
 story of her son's broken engagement, and makes 
 clear the honorable cause of misunderstanding. 
 The girl is, of course, the son's former fiancee, 
 and thus events are shaped to a happy conclu- 
 sion. There are here too many chance elements 
 involved. That the mother and girl should meet 
 as they do is in itself improbable; that the mother 
 should take a stranger — and this one of all possi- 
 ble strangers — into her confidence concerning the 
 affairs of her son is incredible. It might occur 
 in life, but in a story we should not believe it. 
 The mechanism is inadequate to the story's de- 
 mands; the two persons must be brought to- 
 gether and made to talk in some more plausible 
 fashion. 
 
 Not infrequently the writer will violate the 
 consistency of his characters to force a story 
 conclusion. This is of like kind with accident 
 
88 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 and coincidence, for the story turns upon a devia- 
 tion from its own conditions. An example may 
 be found in Guy Wetmore Caryll's otherwise 
 sound story The Next Corner. The situation is 
 this : A young diplomat who has run through his 
 means determines upon suicide. As he returns 
 to his apartments he meets with an odd character 
 who demands a drink, and whom the hero, in 
 whim, invites to eat with him in his rooms. 
 They talk, and the guest suspects his host's 
 purpose of suicide. All this is credible, and we 
 accept it readily. But when the visitor pro- 
 duces a revolver, and, intimidating his host, ties 
 him securely in a chair, we are unconvinced. 
 Why should a man resolved on death be so 
 easily cowed? It is true that he might be, 
 but no revelation in his character hitherto has 
 I ed us to expect the inconsistency when it occurs. 
 The reason for his action is that it is necessary 
 to the solution of the story. He must remain 
 bound until the next morning, for he is then to 
 receive a cablegram announciiij the inheritance 
 of a bequest which solves his dSficulties, and re- 
 moves all cause for suicide. The story is in 
 many ways plausible, but the inconsistency of 
 Ithe character at the crucial moment — and this 
 unprepared for — is a fatal weakness. Even the 
 excitement induced by the incidents fails to 
 blind us to the improbability. 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 89 
 
 In the instance cited, that of a character 
 change unanticipated, we call the weakness in- 
 adequate motivation; there was not sufficient 
 cause apparent to move a man such as portrayed 
 to the action described. Motivation thus in- 
 volves the question of character-drawing as well / 
 as of adequate preparation, that is, announce- 
 ment of impending action. In As You Like It 
 Oliver, the wicked brother, undergoes a sudden 
 transformation, makes restitution to Orlando, 
 and wins the love of Celia. The change is in- 
 adequately motived, and the action dependent 
 upon the change is consequently weak. Further- 
 more, we were unprepared by any hint for so 
 marvellous a transformation whereby we might 
 have been led to anticipate Oliver's change of 
 heart, even though we disbelieved in it. 
 
 Weak motivation, that is, action resulting 
 from defective or inexplicable characterization, 
 is only too common in all but the best literature. 
 The hero must be put into hazardous situations 
 for the creation of suspense. Therefore passing 
 strangers conceive violent dislikes and pursue 
 him with various menaces. He must be saved; 
 therefore other characters inexpHcably assist 
 him. This is but a variant upon the employ- 
 ment of accident or coincidence. To the hero 
 it is truly an accident that he is endangered or 
 saved, but the cause therefor springs from an 
 
go ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 inadequate or illogical motivation of character. 
 Yet our discussion has not touched the root 
 of the matter. There is another element in- 
 volved in the rationalization of experience which 
 is the essence of a good story. Accident, coin- 
 cidence, and weak motivation, true perhaps of 
 life, are unsatisfactory in a story, for the reason 
 that a cause is not assigned for each effect; and 
 a story, being a logical structure, must be a 
 chain of causes and effects. Not only this, but 
 the cause must be adequate to the effect; too 
 vital a conclusion must not depend upon too 
 slight a cause. 
 
 The instances of Bruce and the spider and oi 
 the horseshoe-nail which lost a kingdom are 
 cases in point. Their moral is that great re- 
 sults depend logically upon trifles. Tliis, in life, 
 is true, but in a story the discrepancy between 
 the immediate cause and its results should not 
 be great. The hero stumbles over a stone in 
 the road, and his enemy's bullet miscarries. 
 Even though we have seen the stone and antic- 
 ipated the fall, too much depends here upon a 
 slight cause. A disaster is avoided by a trivi- 
 ality or, in another instance, caused thereby. 
 This is a shock to our logical sense or to some 
 deeper sense of justice with which the universe 
 is not altogether in harmony. Stevenson notes 
 somewhere a vital turn of story-action dependent 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 91 
 
 upon a mistake in time. The hands of a clock 
 are turned back, and an otherwise unavoidable 
 happening thus prevented. If the circumstance 
 were trivial, the means would suffice; as it is 
 vital, the means is inadequate. In life we are 
 shocked when chance plays too large a part in 
 destiny and moulds events in haphazard fashion. 
 Our sense of justice demands that great results 
 hinge upon commensurate causes. It is a matter 
 of logic. If a chain of causes is established, each 
 more vital than the last, we may from a trivial 
 beginning evolve as momentous a conclusion as 
 we choose. But if the intervening causes are 
 removed and the trivial first cause brought 
 abruptly in contrast with a catastrophic conclu- 
 sion, the disharmony is offensive to us. We 
 then enter the realm of accident, with which 
 story writing has not to do. 
 
 Accident and coincidence, then, if called to 
 the writer's aid in plot solution, must be so pre- 
 pared for that they are no longer, for the story, 
 what these terms indicate. A vital develop- 
 ment of the story must not depend upon chance, 
 but upon forces previously set in motion. If 
 the incident is not vital to the action, but merely 
 contributory, accident and coincidence are less / 
 objectionable, for they have some sanction from 
 the world without. It is when the stake is large 
 that they are inadequate. 
 
92 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 The surprise story seems at first glance to 
 violate the principle we have laid down: that a 
 story is a logical structure, the conclusion of 
 which is predictable from the initial incidents. 
 It is not in reality such a violation. The gen- 
 eral tenor of its conclusion must harmonize with 
 its established tone — be tragic or humorous, 
 pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be.* 
 The exact terms of the conclusion are not, how- 
 ever, so apparent. If they are too obvious we 
 cannot anticipate them with interest; most 
 stories should, therefore, contaia some slight 
 element of surprise; that is, the sj)ecific terms 
 of the conclusion should not be too accurately 
 guessed. 
 
 In the true surprise story the terms of the 
 conclusion not only should be unguessed, but 
 the imexpectedness should give pleasure. This 
 pleasure cannot be, however, unless the reader 
 feels the surprise to be justifiable, that is, that 
 he has deceived himself into expecting one solu- 
 tion, whereas a second was equally inherent in 
 the terms of the story. The detective story will 
 afford a simple illustration. The writer here 
 virtually constructs his story backward. He 
 commits his crime in a certain fashion, con- 
 structs a chain of antecedent circumstances, and 
 then endeavors to obscure this chain. It is as 
 ♦See chapter XIII, "Unity of Tone." 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 93 
 
 though he first made a path to his goal, the ob- 
 jective of the story, and then, that the path 
 might not be too obvious, constructed a number 
 of blind or false paths which cross the true and 
 perplex it. The logical sequence of incidents is, 
 to change the figure, embedded in a mass of 
 irrelevant happenings which serve to confuse 
 the reader. In this maze the reader finds pleas- 
 ure. As he looks back upon the story he should, 
 however, be able to discern clearly the true se- 
 quence from which he has been legitimately 
 seduced. He^hould feel that, had he been more 
 clever, he wuld have arrived at the correct 
 rather than the false solution. 
 
 Not all writers of detective stories respect this 
 obHgation. The story is too bafiiing, and the 
 reader feels at the end a distinct sense of dis- 
 appointment. The game was not a fair one; 
 he has been tricked. I recall a detective story 
 entitled The Mystery of the Yellow Room and 
 its sequel. The Perfume of the Lady in Black, 
 both of which violate this requirement, and 
 which are, therefore, not honestly constructed. 
 In the first the criminal proves to be the chief 
 of the detective bureau. How this criminal, 
 long sought by the police, could in a few years 
 enter the force, rise to be chief, and escape de- 
 tection the while, defies explanation. In the 
 second story the criminal kidnaps the prospec- 
 
94 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 tive second husband of his own former wife, 
 disguises himself, and, taking the place of the 
 bridegroom, himself marries the woman. We 
 cannot swallow so impossible a situation, and, 
 inasmuch as the story turns upon it, we are be- 
 wildered and baffled, and in the end disgusted 
 — not with our own inability to solve the mys- 
 tery, but with the author's craftsmanship. He 
 has not played the game fairly. 
 
 The surprise should, then, be prepared for, and 
 our momentary shock at the revelation be fol- 
 lowed by acquiescence and pleasure. Upon re- 
 viewing the story we should detect the hints 
 which would have sufficed to guide us had we 
 been truly alert. These must be adequate or 
 we shall feel ourselves to have been cheated; 
 they must not, however, be too transparent, for 
 the story will then fail of its purpose. It is not 
 easy to hit upon the mean. 
 
 Stockton's The Lady or the Tiger is the most 
 famous example of the surprise story. In this 
 the author builds up a series of incidents sub- 
 ject to two solutions. Either will be acceptable, 
 for the story turns upon an ambiguous point of 
 psychology. The surprise is the author's re- 
 fusal to commit himself to either alternative; 
 he leaves the nicely balanced problem to the 
 reader. The device is excellent, but cannot 
 often be repeated. Stockton employed it a 
 
EXPOSITION AND PREPARATION 95 
 
 second time, but with less effect, in The Discour- 
 ager of Hesitancy. O. Henry employs a variant 
 upon it in Thimble Thimble. O. Henry has 
 written a number of excellent surprise stories, 
 but these fall, for the most part, under a later 
 division of our subject, "Unity of Tone," a 
 chapter supplementary to many of the points 
 here discussed. 
 
 The importance of the principles we have 
 formulated in this chapter the reader will best 
 appreciate upon an examination of many stories. 
 Let him ask himself these questions: Why does 
 the author tell me this? Is he overexplicit? Or, 
 at the conclusion of a story: Did the writer tell 
 me everything I should know? These questions 
 the author endeavors to anticipate as he writes. 
 It is required of him that he plan his story care- 
 fully, and that at the outset he know the end and 
 the steps to it. He must explain enough, and not 
 too much. He has, for the accomplishment of 
 this, various resources, dependent in large part 
 upon his point of view. The more restricted the 
 point of view, the more difficult will be the man- 
 agement of the exposition. Exposition must 
 not, last of all, be presented in too large and un- 
 assimilable lumps. For the reader may then be 
 bored and skip, thus missing points essential to 
 an understanding of the plot. 
 
/ 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 INTRODUCTIONS. THE ORDER OF 
 NARRATION 
 
 How should a story begin? It is a question 
 to be answered afresh with every story, and, as 
 it is important, we must discuss it with some 
 particularity. Certain it is that a story should 
 begin so attractively that the reader will be 
 tempted to go further with it, for he is under no 
 obligation to read, and must be seduced into 
 doing so. 
 
 The problem of the introduction is complicated 
 by the necessity for exposition.* This, if given 
 by the author in his own words, is often heavy, 
 and, though necessary to a clear understanding 
 of the story, is in itself uninteresting. Many 
 writers, therefore, get done with it at the outset. 
 Yet, in such a case, what shall immediately suc- 
 ceed the initial exposition remains undetermined. 
 So, too, if the exposition be thoroughly dissolved 
 in action and dialogue, the nature of the open- 
 ing scene must still be decided upon. What, 
 
 *See chapter V, "Exposition and Preparation." 
 06 
 
INTRODUCTIONS 97 
 
 aside from the general principle of attractive- 
 ness, should guide the writer to a choice of an 
 effective opening? 
 
 The practice of many writers is to begin the 
 story in a manner characteristic of the story as a 
 whole. A story should be highly unified, be all 
 of a piece. Therefore it should strike its note 
 at the outset, and with certainty. A story of 
 adventurous action may well begin with the nar- 
 ration of an incident; one of character, with 
 dialogue, analysis, or personal description; a 
 story concerned with background or setting may 
 open descriptively; one of idea may begin with a 
 generalization or a bit of philosophy. Of course 
 there is no obligation that the writer observe 
 these practices. Merely it is advisable that he 
 have them in mind as a possible means of effect- 
 ing his purpose, which is to devise an opening 
 characteristic of, and in harmony with, his story 
 as a whole. 
 
 Yet, though a story should begin both char- 
 acteristically and interestingly, caution is here 
 needed. The meretricious author begins in- 
 vitingly with a brisk show of action, or lively 
 characterization and dialogue, significant we 
 hope, of something still better to come. And 
 that something is never realized. This is a most 
 irritating thing, and the reader so tricked will 
 never forget nor forgive. I remember once, 
 
98 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 when a boy, tackling a novel by Charlotte M. 
 Yonge. In the opening pages there was a brave 
 glitter of action and knightly adventure, and I 
 thought I had unearthed a treasure. After a bit 
 I detected something ominous, and, my suspicions 
 aroused, I turned deliberately to the last pages, 
 to do which was not my usual practice. There, 
 indeed, the trickery of the book lay revealed: 
 he entered a monastery, and she a nunnery. 
 Who she was I never knew, nor have I ever since 
 read a page of Miss Yonge's edifying works. 
 
 In the literary shop the wise dealer labels his 
 goods. If you do not want them, you may 
 leave them; he will not attempt to sell you a 
 garment half cotton in the guise of wool, for you 
 will discover the deception to his cost. But if 
 he is honest you may buy, even though his stock 
 be scant, and the quahty indifferent. Honesty 
 and good intent go far to reconcile us to a lack 
 of brains. 
 
 The danger latent in the glittering introduc- 
 tion leads many writers to proceed cautiously. 
 The story may be replete with fascinating in- 
 cident and its first pages be far from diverting. 
 Those readers who persevere then congratulate 
 themselves as the going becomes easier, and the 
 writer, by contrast with his dulness at the outset, 
 seems astonishingly bright. The danger, how- 
 ever, is that the reader will never persevere. 
 
INTRODUCTIONS 99 
 
 Most of us, nowadays, have lost the habit of 
 reading a book from cover to cover as a moral 
 exercise. Our interest must be aroused and held 
 or we will have none of it. The shorter the story, 
 the truer this generalization. In a novel, as, for 
 example, one of Scott's, I can get pleasure by 
 dropping whole paragraphs, and pages here and 
 there — picking the plums out of it, so to speak. 
 But the short story, more compactly built, can- 
 not be so treated, for to omit a page is to 
 lose something vital to the intelligibility of the 
 action. 
 
 Before the citation of typical story openings 
 perhaps a word should be said of the story which 
 begins with a bit of philosophy expressive of the 
 story theme, or a comment upon hfe which the 
 story is designed to illustrate. This has the 
 virtue of frankness if the story is genuinely illus- 
 trative of the philosophy, and not irrelevant to 
 it; or of humor if the generalization is absurd 
 or is made in mock seriousness. The danger is, 
 of course, that the reader who prefers to draw 
 his own moral and make his own inferences will 
 be uncomfortable in the presence of abstract 
 truths, and withdraw from the story. Most of 
 us object on principle to moralizing, and prefer 
 the story only. The writer may, however, 
 moralize so cleverly as to justify the method. 
 Kipling is highly successful here, and in many of 
 
loo ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 his earlier stories succeeds in interesting us by 
 this method. Poe, too, whose themes are often 
 interesting chiefly by reason of the underlying 
 idea, often generalizes to advantage. 
 
 A few examples of story openings are cited: 
 
 Denis de Beaulieu was not yet two-and- twenty, 
 but he counted himself a grown man, and a very 
 accomplished cavalier into the bargain. Lads 
 were early formed in that rough, warfaring epoch; 
 and when one has been in a pitched battle and 
 a dozen raids, has killed one's man in an honor- 
 able fashion and knows a thing or two of strategy 
 and mankind, a certain swagger in the gait is 
 surely to be pardoned. He had put up his horse 
 with due care, and supped with due deliberation; 
 and then, in a very agreeable frame of mind, 
 went out to pay a visit in the gray of the even- 
 ing. It was not a very wise proceeding on the 
 young man's part. He would have done better 
 to remain beside the fire or go decently to bed. 
 For the town was full of the troops of Burgundy 
 and England under a mixed command; and 
 though Denis was there on safe-conduct, his 
 safe-conduct was like to serve him little on a 
 chance encounter. 
 
 It was September, 1429; the weather had 
 fallen sharp; a flighty piping wind, laden with 
 showers, beat about the township; and the dead 
 leaves ran riot along the streets. Here and there 
 a window was already lighted up; and the noise 
 of men-at-arms making merry over supper 
 within, came forth in fits and was swallowed up 
 
INTRODUCTIONS ; \\i } \J loi 
 
 and carried away by the wind, /£h^ n^^t j[elj 
 swiftly; the flag of England, fluttering on the' 
 spire top, grew ever fainter and fainter against 
 the flying clouds — a black speck like a swallow 
 in the tumultuous, leaden chaos of the sky. As 
 the night fell the wind rose, and began to hoot 
 under the archways and roar amid the tree-tops 
 in the valley below the town. — (Stevenson, The 
 Sire de Maletroit^s Door) 
 
 Here exposition and description of place set 
 forth briefly the conditions essential to a story 
 of adventure. It is night, the scene a city filled 
 with unseen dangers. That it is autumn en- 
 hances the mystery of the dark houses, which 
 shut out the sharp wind. The hero is a young 
 soldier, well fitted, in the warlike epoch de- 
 scribed, to be the centre of stirring adventure. 
 
 ''But if it be a girl?" 
 
 "Lord of my life, it cannot be. I have prayed 
 for so many nights, and sent gifts to Sheikh 
 Badl's shrine so often, that I know God will give 
 us a son — a man-child that shall grow into a 
 man. Think of this and be glad. My mother 
 shall be his mother till I can take him again, 
 and the mullah of the Pattan mosque shall cast 
 his nativity — God send he be born in an aus- 
 picious hour! — and then, and then thou wilt 
 never weary of me, thy slave." 
 
 "Since when hast thou been a slave, my 
 queen?" 
 
 "Since the beginning — till this mercy came 
 
; i02 vARlj QF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 rtpoDie.; iHpW'fpuM I be sure of thy love when I 
 'knew tha£ I had been bought with silver?" 
 
 "Nay, that was the dowry. I paid it to thy 
 mother." 
 
 "And she has buried it, and sits upon it all 
 day long like a hen. What talk is yours of 
 dower! I was bought as though I had been a 
 Lucknow dancing-girl instead of a child." 
 
 "Art thou sorry for the sale?" 
 
 "I have sorrowed; but to-day I am glad. 
 Thou wilt never cease to love me now? — answer, 
 my king? " 
 
 "Never — never. No." 
 
 "Not even though the mem-log — the white 
 women of thy own blood — love thee? And re- 
 member, I have watched them driving in the 
 evening; they are very fair." 
 
 "I have seen fire-balloons by the hundred. I 
 have seen the moon, and — then I saw no more 
 fire-balloons." 
 
 Ameera clapped her hands and laughed. 
 "Very good talk," she said. Then with an as- 
 sumption of great stateliness: "it is enough. 
 Thou hast my permission to depart — if thou 
 wilt." — (Kipling, Without Benefit of Clergy.) 
 
 The story here indicated is one essentially 
 domestic, though with an atmosphere of uncon- 
 ventionality and strangeness. That it is to be 
 tragic in its denouement is, as I have remarked 
 in another place, sufficiently manifest. 
 
 A military friend of mine, who died of a fever 
 in Greece a few ^ears ago, told me one day about 
 
INTRODUCTIONS 103 
 
 the first action in which he took part. His 
 story made such an impression on me that I 
 wrote it down from memory as soon as I had 
 time. Here it is: 
 
 I joined the regiment on the fourth of Septem- 
 ber, in the evening. I found the colonel in camp. 
 He received me rather roughly; but when he 
 had read General B — 's recommendation, his 
 manner changed and he said a few courteous 
 words to me. 
 
 I was presented by him to my captain, who 
 had just returned from a reconnaissance. This 
 captain, with whom I hardly had time to become 
 acquainted, was a tall, dark man, with a harsh, 
 repellent face. He had been a private and had 
 won his epaulets and cross on the battle-field. 
 His voice, which was hoarse and weak, contrasted 
 strangely with his almost gigantic stature. I 
 was told that he owed that peculiar voice to a 
 bullet which had passed through his lungs at 
 the battle of Jena. 
 
 When he had learned that I was fresh from 
 the school at Fontainebleau, he made a wry 
 face and said: 
 
 *'My lieutenant died yesterday." 
 
 I understood that he meant to imply: ''You 
 ought to take his place, and you are not capable 
 of it." — (Merimee, The Taking of the Redoubt.) 
 
 The story is thus set forth unmistakably as a 
 tale of warfare, with stirring action promised. 
 The first paragraph is purely superfluous. An 
 author of to-day would not feel it necessary to 
 
I04 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 explain how the tale came to be. The pretence 
 of plausibility is too thin, and adds nothing. 
 
 The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her 
 anchor without a flutter of the sails, and was at 
 rest. The flood had made, the river was nearly 
 calm, and being bound down the river, the only 
 thing for it was to come to and wait for the turn 
 of the tide. 
 
 The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before 
 us like the beginning of an interminable water- 
 way. In the ofiing the sea and the sky were 
 welded together without a joint, and in the 
 luminous space the tanned sails of the barges 
 drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still 
 in red clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with 
 gleams of varnished sprits. A haze rested on the 
 low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flat- 
 ness. The air was dark above Gravesend, and 
 farther back still seemed condensed into a 
 mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the 
 biggest, and the greatest, town on earth. 
 
 . . . The day was ending in a serenity of still 
 and exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacif- 
 ically; the sky, without a speck, was a benign 
 immensity of unstained light; the very mist on 
 the Essex marshes was like a gauzy and radiant 
 fabric, hung from the wooded rises inland, and 
 draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. 
 Only the gloom to the west, brooding over the 
 upper reaches, became more sombre every min- 
 ute, as if angered by the approach of the sun. 
 
 And at last, in its curved and imperceptible 
 fall, the sun sank low, and from glowing white 
 
INTRODUCTIONS 105 
 
 changed to a dull red without rays and without 
 heat, as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to 
 death by the touch of that gloom brooding over 
 a crowd of men. 
 
 Forthwith a change came over the waters, 
 and the serenity became less brilliant but more 
 profound. The old river in its broad reach 
 rested unruffled at the decline of day, after ages 
 of good service done to the race that peopled 
 its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a 
 waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the 
 earth. We looked at the venerable stream not 
 in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and 
 departs forever, but in the august light of abid- 
 ing memories. And indeed nothing is easier for 
 a man who has, as the phrase goes,*' followed the 
 sea" with reverence and affection, than to evoke 
 the great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches 
 of the Thames. The tidal current runs to and 
 fro in its unceasing service, crowded with mem- 
 ories of men and ships it had borne to the rest 
 of home or to the battles of the seas. It had 
 known and served all the men of whom the 
 nation is proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir 
 John Franklin, knights all, titled and untitled — 
 the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne 
 all the ships whose names are like jewels flash- 
 ing in the night of time, from the Golden Hind 
 returning with her round flanks full of treasure, 
 to be visited by the Queen's Highness and thus 
 pass out of the gigantic tale, to the Erebus and 
 Terror, bound on other conquests — and that 
 never returned. It had known the ships and 
 the meii. They had sailed from Deptford, from 
 
io6 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Greenwich, from Erith — the adventurers and 
 the settlers; King's ships and the ships of the 
 men on 'Change; captains, admirals, the dark 
 ''interlopers" of the Eastern trade, and the com- 
 missioned "generals" of East India fleets. 
 Hunters of gold or pursuers of fame, they had 
 all gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, 
 and often the torch, messengers of the might 
 within the land, bearers of a spark from the 
 sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on 
 the ebb of that river into the mystery of an un- 
 known earth! . . . The dreams of men, the seed 
 of commonwealths, the germs of empires. 
 
 The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and 
 lights began to appear along the shore. The 
 Chapman light-house, a three-legged thing erect 
 on a mud-fiat, shone strongly. Lights of ships 
 moved in the fairway — a great stir of lights 
 going up and down. And farther west on the 
 upper reaches the place of the monstrous town 
 was still marked ominously on the sky, a brood- 
 ing gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the 
 stars. 
 
 ''And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has 
 been one of the dark places of the earth." 
 
 "I was thinking of very old times, when the 
 Romans first came here, nineteen hundred years 
 ago — the other day. . . . Light came out of this 
 river since — you say Knights? Yes; but it is 
 like a running blaze on a plain, like a flash of 
 lightning in the clouds. We live in the flicker — 
 may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! 
 
INTRODUCTIONS 107 
 
 But darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the 
 feelings of a commander of a fine — what d'ye call 
 'em? — trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered 
 suddenly to the north; run overland across the 
 Gauls in a hurry; put in charge of one of these 
 craft the legionaries — a wonderful lot of handy 
 men they must have been too — used to build, 
 apparently by the hundred, in a month or two, 
 if we may believe what we read. Imagine him 
 here — the very end of the world, a sea the color 
 of lead, a sky the color of smoke, a kind of ship 
 about as rigid as a concertina — and going up this 
 river with stores, or orders, or what you like. 
 Sandbanks, marshes, forests, savages, — precious 
 Httle to eat fit for a civilized man, nothing but 
 Thames water to drink. No Falernian wine here, 
 no going ashore. Here and there a military camp 
 lost in a wilderness, like a needle in a bundle 
 of hay — cold, fog, tempests, disease, exile, and 
 death, — death skulking in the air, in the water, 
 in the bush. They must have been dying like 
 flies here. . . . Land in a swamp, march through 
 the woods, and in some inland post feel the sav- 
 agery, the utter savagery, had closed around 
 him, — all that mysterious life of the wilderness 
 that stirs in the forest, in the jungles, in the 
 hearts of wild men. There's no initiation either 
 into such mysteries. He has to live in the midst 
 of the incomprehensible, which is also detestable. 
 And it has a fascination, too, that goes to work 
 upon him. The fascination of the abomination — 
 you know. Imagine the growing regrets, the 
 longing to escape, the powerless disgust, the sur- 
 render, the hate." — (Conrad, Heart of Darkness.) 
 
io8 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 This story, it is true, has no connection with 
 England save as England, a civilized country, 
 contrasts with the Congo. The story has to do 
 with that contrast and is largely descriptive. 
 The introduction is, therefore, in character. 
 The story is, moreover, long, though structurally 
 like a short story, and its introduction is in pro- 
 portion. 
 
 This type of story, that concerned with back- 
 ground primarily, is rather rare in English litera- 
 ture, and appropriate illustrations are . conse- 
 quently few. Descriptive story openings of a 
 purely conventional sort are, of course, common 
 enough. 
 
 The mental features discoursed of as the ana- 
 lytical, are, in themselves, but little susceptible 
 of analysis. We appreciate them only in their 
 elBFects. We know of them, among other things, 
 that they are always to their possessor, when 
 inordinately possessed, a source of the liveliest 
 enjoyment. As the strong man exults in his 
 physical ability, delighting in such exercises 
 as call his muscles into action, so glories the 
 analyst in that moral activity which disen- 
 tangles. . He derives pleasure from even the 
 most trivial occupations bringing his talent into 
 play. He is fond of enigmas, of conundrums, 
 of hieroglyphics; exhibiting in his solutions of 
 each a degree of acumen which appears to the 
 ordinary apprehension praeternatural. His re- 
 sults, brought about by the very soul and es- 
 
INTRODUCTIONS 109 
 
 sence of method, have, in truth, the whole air 
 of intuition. — (Poe, The Murders in the Rtie 
 Morgue.) 
 
 This is but the first paragraph of Poe's story. 
 There follow several more in a Uke strain. The 
 story itself, though exciting enough, is chiefly 
 interesting to the author for its underlying idea. 
 Hence his long analytical introduction — too long 
 perhaps for many readers. 
 
 Kipling's handling of the same method is well 
 illustrated in this from Thrown Away: 
 
 To rear a boy under what parents call the 
 ''sheltered life system" is, if the boy must go 
 into the world and fend for himself, not wise. 
 Unless he be one in a thousand he has to pass 
 through many unnecessary troubles; and may, 
 possibly, come to extreme grief simply from ig- 
 norance of the proper proportions of things. 
 
 Let a puppy eat the soap in the bath-room or 
 chew a newly-blacked boot. He chews and 
 chuckles until, by and by, he finds out that 
 blacking and Old Brown Windsor make him very 
 sick; so he argues that soap and boots are not 
 wholesome. Any old dog about the house will 
 soon show him the unwisdom of biting big dogs' 
 ears. Being young, he remembers, and goes 
 abroad, at six months, a well mannered little 
 beast with a chastened appetite. If he had been 
 kept away from boots, and soap, and big dogs 
 till he came to the trinity full-grown and with 
 developed teeth, just consider how fearfully sick 
 
no ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 and thrashed he would be! Apply that notion 
 to the "sheltered life" and see how it works. 
 It does not sound pretty, but it is the better of 
 two evils. 
 
 There was a Boy once who had been brought 
 up under the "sheltered life" theory; and the 
 theory killed him dead. . . . — (KJpling, Thrown 
 Away.) 
 
 The passage is illustrative of Kipling's so- 
 called journaHstic method, which he employs 
 often in his earlier stories. It is, in brief, this: 
 to announce at the outset the story theme, its 
 essential fact, and then to elaborate it. The 
 method resembles that of the newspaper "story" 
 in so far as a newspaper seeks to give the essence 
 of the news in the first paragraph, and to expand 
 or retell this in succeeding paragraphs. Of 
 course the writer does not give his story away so 
 far that it no longer excites our interest. Rather 
 is our curiosity aroused to see the development 
 of the theme announced, as in a symphony the 
 early announcement of a motif does not detract 
 from but rather enhances the pleasure which we 
 take in its elaboration. 
 
 We may, then, summarize briefly. In the in- 
 troduction the story may do one of several 
 things: it may begin with exposition rather than 
 introduce this later at the risk of retarding the 
 story-action; or it may at once indicate its 
 
INTRODUCTIONS iii 
 
 character (this may be done to some extent 
 even in exposition) by beginning in a fashion/N 
 characteristic of the theme: if a story of action, 
 with action; if of character, with dialogue, an- 
 alysis, or personal description; if a story of 
 place, with description; or if concerned with an 
 abstract idea, with a generalization. There is 
 no rule other than this: a good writer indicates 
 as soon as he can, the kind of story which he 
 has to tell. 
 
 The Order of Narration 
 
 In our second chapter, that upon the logic of 
 narrative, it was assumed that a story follows a 
 strictly chronological order. In general this is 
 true; by far the greater part of stories pursue 
 the temporal order. In a novel which involves 
 several groups of characters not intimately re- 
 lated throughout, the writer sometimes finds it 
 necessary to double back for the purpose of 
 bringing up the rear-guard of his story. Thus 
 in the novels of Dickens, Thackeray, and Scott, 
 the several stories are carried singly over a period 
 of time. This method need not much concern 
 us here, however, for the action of a short story 
 must, of necessity, concern itself with but a few 
 characters, and for this reason there is little 
 justification for more than a single centre of 
 interest. Nevertheless, an occasional deviation 
 
112 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 from the time order is to be found in stories 
 which, by common consent, are regarded as ex- 
 cellent. The reasons for such exceptions we 
 should note. 
 
 In Kipling's The Man Who Would Be King 
 the initial incidents explain the author's meeting 
 with the chief characters of the story, who lay 
 their plans to enter Kafirstan and depart upon 
 their enterprise. Several years elapse before the 
 survivor of the expedition returns to tell the 
 story of the intervening period. This deviation 
 from the strict order of chronology is but slight; 
 indeed, all the story's action to the point of the 
 survivor's narrative may be regarded as intro- 
 ductory merely, an introduction designed to 
 give verisimihtude to an otherwise incredible 
 yam. Exposition of events precedent to the 
 story's action, and introduced after the action 
 has been begun, is analogous to this instance.* 
 Interest once aroused, the exposition may turn 
 to antecedent circumstances. 
 
 Interest, effectiveness — these are the sole jus- 
 tification for a deviation from the strict order 
 ot time. Notable stories there are which violate 
 this precept, and which are yet both clear and 
 effective. Such a one is Balzac's La Grande 
 Breteche. In this, the story proper begins with 
 the death of the principal character, after which 
 * See chapter V, " Exposition and Preparation." 
 
INTRODUCTIONS 113 
 
 we have the beginning and the succeeding action. 
 Balzac's purpose in departing from the time 
 order was doubtless threefold. He wished to 
 include the effective death-bed scene with which 
 the story opens. Yet this in the order of occur- 
 rence comes at a considerable interval from the 
 events which determine it. To bridge this time- 
 gap would be difficult. Also, in the inverted 
 order, the most striking scene is reserved for the 
 end of the story. A third reason is the point of 
 view adopted. Balzac endeavors to give his 
 story plausibility by presenting a mass of cir- 
 cumstantial evidence concerning the methods by 
 which he arrived at the story. He gets it piece- 
 meal, and only after considerable effort. Not 
 only is the reader's curiosity whetted thereby, 
 but he is prepared to accept the story as true, 
 for the order of incident is in. accord with the 
 method by which the author learned the story. 
 On the other hand, the point of view and the 
 circumstantial evidence make the story consider- 
 ably longer than it need otherwise be, and, 
 granted the ability of a Balzac, no more effect- 
 ive, we must believe, than if the time order had 
 been followed, and the death-bed scene either 
 brought close to the events preceding or omitted 
 altogether. It is not because of the violation 
 of the time order, but despite it, that La Grande 
 Breteche is a powerful story. 
 
114 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Conrad's story, The End of the Tether, like- 
 wise departs from the time order so that the in- 
 itial incident may be brought closer to the climax, 
 and the time covered thus be reduced. But 
 here the gain is doubtful. If the reader desires 
 an instance in which confusion clearly follows 
 upon such a deviation, he may find it in a story 
 entitled The Denver Express* by A. A. Hayes. 
 Other instances less well known may be readily 
 found. 
 
 We may then generalize to this extent: The 
 writer, when tempted to depart from the time 
 order, should make certain that he has cogent 
 reasons therefor; he should exhaust his technical 
 resources before he permits himself the liberty, 
 assuring himself that by no device can he tell 
 his story in chronological order with equal effect. 
 If he does depart from it he must be doubly 
 careful that the time relation of events is per- 
 fectly clear to the reader. 
 
 * Published in a series entitled, "Short Story Classics" 
 (American), by P. F. Collier and Son. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 CHARACTER-DRAWING 
 
 In a prefatory essay to an English edition of 
 Turgenieff, Henry James relates the Russian 
 novelist's practice of composing an elaborate 
 biography for each of his story characters. Very 
 little of these biographies need appear in the 
 story itself; their purpose was to acquaint the 
 author with his own creations, so that, knowing 
 them intimately, he was enabled to set them fortli 
 in natural and individual action when the story 
 demanded. Of Ibsen much the same is told. 
 He knew, it appears, more concerning his char- 
 acters than his plays revealed; they were to him 
 real people. The advantages of so thorough- 
 going a method are apparent. Characters fully 
 and clearly reahzed by the author are sure to be 
 convincing to the reader if the author is a com- 
 petent craftsman, one able to make his people 
 reveal themselves. Yet these are, doubtless, ex- 
 treme instances of literary thoroughness; the 
 majority of writers are not so painstaking. At 
 the most they may have imagined their creations 
 
ii6 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 so vividly that they could invent sound biog- 
 raphies at need. More often, I fancy, the peo- 
 ple of the story, nebulously conceived, grow into 
 definiteness as the author writes. 
 
 Characters should be convincing; that is, they 
 should breathe the air of hfe, and be recogniza- 
 ble as individuals, however small their part in 
 the action; but it does not follow that they need 
 be elaborately conceived. In many stories char- 
 acter is of quite minor importance; action, or 
 even the background before which the characters 
 move, may be chief. To Turgenieff character rev- 
 elation was usually the object of the story, and 
 he devised the action to express the characters. 
 For many authors this is not the method nor 
 aim. The writer may wish to subordinate char- 
 acter lest it intrude unduly upon the reader's 
 interest. Thus in the story of adventure the 
 reader cares only that the hero be brave and re- 
 sourceful, and the heroine pretty and alluring. 
 These are the conventional pieces of the game. 
 Certain variations are, of course, possible, and 
 the clever writer contrives to trick out his stock 
 characters with a semblance of freshness. But 
 in reality they are scarcely more than conven- 
 tions, and the reader asks nothing more pro- 
 vided the action be sufficiently absorbing. 
 
 Stevenson writes of Treasure Island that he 
 deliberately made his pirates not realistic and 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 1 1 7 
 
 true persons, but pirates as a boy conceives the 
 breed, fierce mustachioed fellows, with wide 
 trousers and belts full of pistols. In Treasure 
 Island character is not the objective. Provided 
 the buccaneers walk and fight with sufficient 
 swagger, it is enough; the rest is soul-stirring 
 adventure. Less skilful writers think nothing 
 of checking the flow of action to bore and dis- 
 concert the reader with analysis of motive or 
 with irrelevant comment. Every reader will 
 recall stories in which the author has endeavored 
 to do too many things, to tell exciting incident, 
 and to analyze character as well. And because^ 
 the story purpose is uncertain the reader's in- 
 terest is divided, and his reaction not pleasure 
 but a confused sense of irritation, the feeling 
 that something is wrong somewhere. Character 
 should then be subordinated if the story deals 
 mainly with action. If the story is one of ab- 
 stract idea or is concerned mostly with setting, 
 an equal subordination of character is essential. 
 Thus in Hawthorne's short stories the reader 
 perceives often that the characters are but per- 
 sonified ideas, and their purpose nothing more 
 than the revelation of the author's philosophy. 
 The reference to Hawthorne serves to open 
 up another aspect of a complex problem. His 
 characters, we say, are often but personified 
 ideas, possessed of little vitality and uncolored 
 
ii8 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 with the hues of life. By this we mean merely 
 that the characters are not untrue, but that they 
 have been stripped of all but the one or few 
 qualities essential to the author's purpose. The 
 . one principle, selection, here, as in every division 
 i^of our subject, has again been invoked. For 
 consider the complexity of human character, and 
 realize how little of it an author can set forth in 
 a few pages. We applaud a novel which de- 
 lineates one, or at the most several, characters 
 with something of the complexity we behold in 
 life. And here, even, the resemblance is but 
 seeming. In a short narrative the problem is 
 yet more formidable, the selection more exacting. 
 How, then, must the writer select; what is 
 there to guide him in his difficulty? He must 
 first free his characters of contradictory quaHties; 
 I they must not be inconsistent. Now, it is notori- 
 ' ous that in real fife people do act with apparent 
 inconsistency. I say apparent, for, could we 
 know them sufficiently well, the inconsistencies 
 might be perfectly explicable. But this knowl- 
 edge is impossible. A man may in the morning 
 do one thing, and in the afternoon, because of 
 some subtle influence of the weather or his 
 digestion, do the exact opposite. In a story he 
 must not so act unless the contradictory action 
 is satisfactorily explained, and this explanation 
 is seldom possible by reason of space limitations. 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 1 19 
 
 The writer is forced to make his creations reason- 
 able, logical, and in the main dependable. He 
 may, of course, draw an inconsistent character, 
 but the inconsistencies must then be expected, 
 be in themselves reliable. It is not permissible 
 to draw a character consistent in all things, and 
 then at a crucial moment force that character to 
 do the unexpected. A story in this respect 
 differs widely from life. In life we expect in- 
 consistency; in a story we depend upon its 
 elimination. It is a hard lesson for the young 
 writer to learn, for he has his eye upon some one 
 he knows who has revealed the very contra- 
 dictory qualities which he selects. He knows 
 many an instance of the inexplicable. "This is 
 life," says he; ''and should I not write of life 
 as I know it?" To this there is but the one 
 answer: a story is art, and art is not life but a 
 rationalized semblance of life. As the story as 
 a whole must be rational, logical, so must the 
 characters be who constitute that story. 
 
 Let us assume that the young writer has 
 grasped this distinction and has given it a ten- 
 tative acceptance. What further guide is there 
 to his selection among the many characteristics 
 which human nature reveals to him? Here his 
 purpose in the story is the determining factor 
 in the selection. If, as we have seen, his pur- 
 pose is to tell a story of action, his choice will lie 
 
I20 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 among the universal qualities of heroism, coward- 
 ice, deceit, perseverance, and the like. If his 
 '^purpose is to bring out an idea, his characters 
 may be stripped of all other than the few neces- 
 sary traits. Thus, in Hawthorne we have a man 
 dominated by the single purpose to remove from 
 his wife's beauty its one blot. The man is not 
 human; in life he would be deterred from the 
 accomplishment of his desire by love and pity 
 and kindred affections. In the story he must not 
 be so complex, but must proceed unswervingly 
 as though possessed of the one idea. Again, in 
 Poe's The Cask of Amontillado the chief charac- 
 ter is but a personified quahty, the desire for 
 revenge. Were he too complex, the story could 
 not move with its swift certainty to the goal 
 sought. 
 
 We may well ask how far this simplification 
 through selection may be carried. In certain 
 old-fashioned moral tales the characters are but 
 personified virtues and vices, abstractions merely. 
 These, it will be objected, are uninteresting and 
 untrue to life. In Pilgrim's Progress we feel 
 that Christian and Greatheart and Mr. Worldly 
 Wiseman bear but a faint semblance to real 
 people. And they are uninteresting by reason 
 of this remoteness. In Hawthorne, too, we ask 
 for more truth to reality than the author grants 
 us. The objection is reasonable. The check 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 121 
 
 is always life. If the simplified character is too 
 far removed from reaUty it fails of its intended 
 illusory effect, for, though the story is not life, it 
 must resemble life. The more universal the 
 quality or qualities selected, the greater the 
 chance of the reader's acceptance of them. He 
 will from his own imagination supply the minor 
 characteristics necessary. If the quality is un- 
 usual for one so dominant, the greater the need 
 of humanizing it by the addition of one or more 
 simple characteristics less exceptional. The aim 
 of the story and the writer's grasp of life must 
 both aid in determining the character selection. 
 
 If character be the aim of the story, the writer 
 may be as complex as space will permit. In a 
 novel the complexity may, therefore, be much 
 greater than in a short narrative. But the prin- 
 ciple of selection, though less exacting, is none 
 the less active, and the writer is well prompted 
 if he limits his characters rather more than at 
 first thought he deems necessary. By so doing 
 he will gain both in intensity and contrast. If 
 the analysis is too minute, the qualities too va- 
 ried, the reader may easily become lost in a maze 
 and fail to appreciate at its proper value the 
 particular psychological knot it is the writer's 
 purpose to untangle. 
 
 It is for this reason — the necessity of character 
 appearing logical and representative, and yet 
 
122 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 not overcomplex — that the writer is well in- 
 spired if he conceives his characters imagina- 
 tively rather than attempts to draw them directly 
 from human originals. Much of the weakness 
 of realistic fiction is, I am convinced, due to the 
 failure of writers to create characters imagina- 
 tively. Rather do they attempt to set down, 
 unmodified, persons they have seen and known. 
 The complexities and inconsistencies of these 
 real people stand in the way of a compelling 
 picture, and the result is a lack of convincing- 
 ness. 
 
 To what, then, may the writer turn? To his 
 knowledge of life first of all, which is derived 
 from two sources, observation of others and of 
 himself. He should be introspective, knowing 
 the springs of his own conduct. Proceeding, 
 then, on the assumption that all people are, po- 
 tentially, much alike, he interprets the actions 
 of others, supplying motives from his own self- 
 knowledge. Though he bases his ge^eraHza- 
 tion upon Kfe and observes as widely and as 
 sympathetically as he can, this is his method 
 of work throughout. 
 
 A knowledge of Hfe based upon observation 
 and interpreted in the Hght of self-analysis is, 
 then, the stuff from which the writer moulds 
 his imaginary characters. Thus conceived they 
 are plastic, subservient to his purpose, and con- 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 1 23 
 
 sistent with the story he has to tell. Nor is 
 there any lack of range in this method. A man 
 in the sum of his attributes represents all pos- 
 sible types. It is true that in his neighbor the 
 qualities in their proportions and emphasis 
 differ from his own; yet he imderstands his 
 ineighbor as he sees imaginatively the difference 
 in himself, were certain of his dominant char- 
 acteristics suppressed and others emphasized. 
 Though the elements are the same in all, the 
 various combinations are almost infinite, as 
 from oxygen, nitrogen, and carbon, in varying 
 proportions, is formed a vast series of com- 
 pounds individual and distinct. 
 
 A writer cannot get away from himself and 
 his view of the world. Doubtless the world 
 isn't really what he imagines it to be. It is 
 something more, the sum of all differences, all 
 personalities, all points of view — these appre- 
 hended by no single man. The writer must, 
 perforce, work with what he knows, striving 
 always to increase the range of his understand- 
 ing by a cultivation of insight through the im- 
 agination. What he discovers he may set forth 
 in his imagined creations, which, if he is sane and 
 wholesome and broad-minded, will be sufficiently 
 true to what others regard as typical of life to 
 arouse interest and pleasure. It will be profit- 
 less to discuss the matter at greater length. An 
 
124 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 appreciation of the justness of this point of view 
 will come readily to some; others will arrive at 
 it, if ever, only by practice in story writing, by 
 experiencing the difficulty of character creation 
 by any other method. 
 
 Let us turn to the more technical aspects of 
 our problem, the means by which characters 
 imaginatively and artistically conceived for the 
 purposes of the story may most effectively be 
 portrayed. The means are: analysis, a record 
 of the effects of character upon the other per- 
 sons of the story, action, speech, and personal 
 description. We must consider these separately 
 and in order. 
 
 Analysis may be of two sorts, that in the per- 
 son of the author, and that of the characters by 
 themselves; this last, for the most part, in stories 
 written from the point of view of the actor- 
 narrator. Of the first the illustrations are end- 
 less. Any good short story written from the 
 point of view of the author-omniscient will con- 
 tain passages of analysis. The following is 
 from Turgenieff's story A Lear of the Steppes, 
 a longish tale, to be sure, and of a leisurely 
 method: 
 
 And yet even this self-confident unflinching 
 giant had his moments of melancholy and de- 
 pression. Without any visible cause he would 
 suddenly begin to be sad; he would lock him- 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 125 
 
 self up alone in his room, and hum — positively 
 hum — like a whole hive of bees; or he would 
 call his page Maximka, and tell him to read aloud 
 to him out of the solitary book which had some- 
 how found its way into his house, an odd copy 
 of Novikovsky's, The Worker at Leisure, or else 
 to sing to him. And Maximka, who by some 
 strange freak of chance could spell out print, 
 syllable by syllable, would set to work with the 
 usual chopping up of the words and transference 
 of the accent, bawling out phrases of the follow- 
 ing description: ''But man in his wilfulness 
 draws from this empty h3^othesis, which he 
 applies to the animal kingdom, utterly opposite 
 conclusions. Every animal separately," he says, 
 "is not capable of making me happy!" and so 
 on. Or he would chant in a shrill little voice a 
 mournful song, of which nothing could be dis- 
 tinguished but: ''Ee eee . . . ee . . . a . . . 
 
 ee . . . a . . . ee . . . Aaa . . . ska ! O ... 00 ... 00 
 . . . bee . . . ee . . . ee . . . ee . . . la!" While Mar- 
 tin Petrovitch would shake his head, make allu- 
 sions to the mutabiHty of hfe, how all things 
 turn to ashes, fade away like grass, pass — and 
 will return no more! A picture had somehow 
 come into his hands, representing a burning can- 
 dle, which the winds, with puffed-out cheeks, 
 were blowing upon from all sides; below was 
 the inscription: "Such is the life of man." He 
 was very fond of this picture; he had hung it 
 up in his own room, but at ordinary, not melan- 
 choly, times he used to keep it turned face to the 
 wall, so that it might not depress him. Harlov, 
 that colossus, was afraid of death! To the con- 
 
126 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 solations of religion, to prayer, however, he 
 rarely had recourse in his fits of melancholy. 
 Even then he chiefly reHed on his own intelli- 
 gence. He had no particular reUgious feeling; 
 he was not often seen in church; he used to say, 
 it is true, that he did not go on the ground that, 
 owing to his corporeal dimensions, he was afraid 
 of squeezing other people out. The fit of de- 
 pression commonly ended in Martin Petro- 
 vitch's beginning to whistle, and suddenly, in a 
 voice of thunder, ordering out his droshky, and 
 dashing off about the neighborhood, vigorously 
 brandishing his disengaged hand over the peak 
 of his cap, as though he would say, '^For all 
 that I don't care a straw!" He was a regular 
 Russian. 
 
 The method is simple — a generalization or 
 two based upon the author's knowledge of the 
 character, and typical illustrations of the traits 
 so given. 
 
 The introductory paragraph of Stevenson's 
 Story of the Physician and the Saratoga Trunk 
 will serve as an example of a generahzed char- 
 acterization more tersely done. The character 
 is, of course, revealed somewhat further as the 
 story progresses, but as it is a story of action, 
 character at no time plays a very important part: 
 
 Mr. Silas Q. Scuddamore was a yoimg Ameri- 
 can of a simple and harmless disposition, which 
 was the more to his credit as he came from New 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 127 
 
 England— a quarter of the New World not pre- 
 cisely famous for those qualities. Although he 
 was exceedingly rich, he kept a note of all his 
 expenses in a little paper pocket-book; and he 
 had chosen to study the attractions of Paris 
 from the seventh story of what is called a fur- 
 nished hotel, in the Latin Quarter. There was 
 a great deal of habit in his penuriousness; and 
 his virtue, which was very remarkable among 
 his associates, was principally founded upon 
 diffidence and youth. 
 
 Characterization by a running analysis of 
 thought and motive can be illustrated from 
 almost any story in the analytical manner. The 
 method is a variant upon the summarized or 
 generalized analysis, and the examples of it 
 are necessarily briefer, coming, as they do, in 
 the thick of action. Maupassant's Coward will 
 afford a suitable selection: 
 
 He commenced to argue with himself concern- 
 ing the possibility of this thing. 
 
 ''Am I afraid?" 
 
 No, of course he was not afraid, as he had de- 
 termined to carry the thing through, as his 
 mind was fully made up to fight, and not to 
 tremble. But he felt so profoundly troubled 
 that he asked himself the question: 
 
 *'Is it possible to be afraid in spite of one's 
 self?" 
 
 And that doubt, that disquietude, that dread 
 took possession of him; if some force stronger 
 
128 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 than his will, a dominating, irresistible power 
 should conquer him, what would happen? Yes, 
 what would happen? He certainly would go 
 to the ground, inasmuch as he had made up his 
 mind to go there. But suppose his hand should 
 tremble? Suppose he should faint? And he 
 thought of his position, of his reputation, of 
 his name. 
 
 And suddenly a strange fancy seized him to 
 get up, in order to look in the mirror. He reHt 
 his candle. When he saw the reflection of his 
 face in the poHshed glass, he could hardly recog- 
 nize himself, and it seemed to him he had never 
 seen this man before. His eyes appeared enor- 
 mous; and he certainly was pale — yes, very pale. 
 
 He remained standing in front of the mirror. 
 He put out his tongue as if to test the state of 
 his health, and of a sudden this thought burst 
 into his mind like a bullet: 
 
 ''The day after to-morrow, at this time, I 
 may be dead." 
 
 And his heart began to beat furiously again. 
 
 Of yet briefer bits of such characterization, a 
 chance passage will suffice: 
 
 ... He opened the door and went down- 
 stairs very slowly, thinking to himself. His 
 past went soberly before him; he beheld it as 
 it was, ugly and strenuous like a dream, random 
 as chance-medley — a scene of defeat. Life as 
 he thus reviewed it, tempted him no longer; 
 but on the further side he perceived a quiet 
 haven for his bark. . . . — {Markheim.) 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 129 
 
 For the actor-narrator's analysis both of him- 
 self and a second character of the story; 
 
 I first caught sight of my uncle when we were 
 still some yards away in one of the flying glimpses 
 of twilight that chequered the pitch darkness of 
 the night. He was standing up behind the para- 
 pet, his head thrown back and the bottle to his 
 mouth. As he put it down, he saw and recog- 
 nized us with a toss of one hand fleeringly above 
 his head. 
 
 "Has he been drinking?" shouted I to Rorie. 
 
 "He will aye be drunk when the wind blaws," 
 returned Rorie in the same high key, and it was 
 all I could do to hear him. 
 
 "Then — was he so — in February? " I enquired. 
 
 Rorie's "Ay" was a cause of joy to me. The 
 murder, then, had not sprung in cold blood from 
 calculation; it was an act of madness no more 
 to be condemned than to be pardoned. My 
 uncle was a dangerous madman, if you will, 
 but he was not cruel and base as I had feared. 
 Yet what a scene for a carouse, what an incredi- 
 ble vice, was this that the poor man had chosen ! 
 I have always thought drunkenness a wild and 
 almost fearful pleasure, rather demoniacal than 
 human; but drunkenness, out here in the roar- 
 ing blackness, on the edge of a cliff above that 
 hell of waters, the man's head spinning Hke the 
 Roost, his foot tottering on the edge of death, 
 his ear watching for the signs of shipwreck, 
 surely that, if it were credible in any one, was 
 morally impossible in a man like my uncle, 
 whose mind was set upon a damnatory creed and 
 
I30 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 haunted by the darkest superstitions. Yet so 
 it was; and as we reached the bight of shelter 
 and could breathe again, I saw the man's eyes 
 shining in the night with an unholy glimmer. 
 — {The Merry Men) 
 
 Perhaps no further illustrations of the method 
 are necessary, for it is sufficiently obvious in 
 principle. Self-revelation at its profoundest is 
 to be foimd in the soliloquies of Hamlet, Other 
 of Shakespeare's plays will afford as well in- 
 numerable illustrations of character as revealed 
 in its ejBFect upon others. Thus lago declares 
 his plan of ruining Othello by playing upon the 
 noble qualities which he perceives in the Moor. 
 In a story similar methods are employed. 
 
 But the devices of analysis, important as 
 these may be, are less useful than action as a 
 means of character revelation. Whatever the 
 author may say of his creatures or they of them- 
 selves, it is by their deeds that we judge them. 
 Action we beheve to be the most genuine expres- 
 sion of character, particularly action in response 
 to feeling and passion; action, that is, truly 
 characteristic of the man's inner self, and not 
 calculated for effect. Thus, a man is revealed at 
 crucial moments, when superficial mannerisms 
 are in abeyance, the conventional and acquired 
 qualities laid aside. It is in the selection of 
 appropriate action by which to reveal his crea- 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 131 
 
 tions truly in moments of stress that the writer 
 must exercise his greatest care. In trivial acts 
 one man may differ Httle from another. On the 
 scaffold, or in the moment of temptation or 
 passion, they reveal their basic differences. 
 
 If the author has permitted himself analysis, 
 he must, in his choice of action, see to it that his 
 characters live up to the roles assigned them. 
 If he has described the hero as an admirable 
 character, the hero's actions must be admirable 
 in our eyes; if not, the story is at cross purposes, 
 and serves merely to illustrate the moral un- 
 certainty of the author. We are not unac- 
 quainted with the type of story in which the 
 author, to make a point he deems necessary to 
 the development of his plot, forces a character 
 to an inconsistency to achieve that end. 
 
 Yet it is not always the emotional crises which 
 serve alone to reveal true character, important 
 as these are, and vital as is the obligation that 
 in them the characters act fully to the parts as- 
 signed them. Character-building skilfully con- 
 trived is no sudden revelation of unsuspected 
 traits, but a slow process of consistent growth. 
 The method is strictly analogous to that of ex- 
 position and preparation. Just as every ind- \ 
 dent is significant doubly for what it is, and for 
 what it prepares, so every action of the skilfully 
 drawn character should serve to build for a crisis 
 
 \ 
 
132 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 in which deeper revelations, but these consistent 
 with and anticipated from the previous acts, 
 may be effectively and convincingly set forth. 
 The careful writer secures his effects subtly, 
 prejudicing the reader for or against this person 
 or that, predicting unmistakably, though not too 
 obviously, the roles each must assume. It is 
 difficult to cite brief instances, for the process 
 is coterminous with the story, and the effect is 
 of a whole sufficiently robust though built of 
 parts individually slight. I shall quote a passage, 
 italicizing a few instances by which the character 
 of Markheim, in Stevenson's story of the name, 
 is revealed to us. The analysis could be carried 
 further, but we must content ourselves here 
 with the first touches by which we are prepared 
 for the murder: 
 
 "Yes," said the dealer, "our windfalls are of 
 various kinds. Some customers are ignorant, 
 and then I touch a dividend on my superior 
 knowledge. Some are dishonest,''^ and here he 
 held up his candle, so that the light Jell strongly on 
 his visitor, "and in that case," he continued, "I 
 profit by my virtue." 
 
 Markheim had but just entered from the day- 
 light streets, and his eyes had not yet grown 
 familiar with the mingled shine and darkness of 
 the shop. At these pointed words, and before 
 the near presence of the flame, he blinked pain- 
 fully and looked aside. 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 133 
 
 The dealer chuckled. "You come to me on 
 Christmas day," he resumed, "when you know 
 that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, 
 and make a point of refusing business. Well, 
 you will have to pay for that; you will have to 
 pay for my loss of time, when I should be balanc- 
 ing my books; you will have to pay, besides, for 
 a kind of manner that I remark in you today 
 very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, 
 and I ask no awkward questions; but when a 
 customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay 
 for it.'* The dealer once more chuckled; and 
 then changing to his usual business voice, 
 though still with a note of irony, " You can give, 
 as usual, a clear account of how you cam^ into the 
 possession of the object?^' he continued. "Still 
 your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable collector, 
 sir!" 
 
 And the little pale, roimd-shouldered dealer 
 stood almost on tiptoe, looking over the top of 
 his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with 
 every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his 
 gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of 
 horror. 
 
 "This time," said he, "you are in error. I 
 have not come to sell, but to buy. I have no 
 curios to dispose of; my uncle's cabinet is bare 
 to the wainscot; even were it still intact, I have 
 done well on the Stock Exchange, and should 
 more likely add to it than otherwise, and my 
 errand today is simplicity itself. I seek a 
 Christmas present for a lady," he continued, 
 waxing more fluent as he struck into the speech he 
 had prep Sired; ''and certainly I owe you every 
 
134 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 excuse for thus disturbing you upon so small a 
 matter. But the thing was neglected yesterday; 
 I must produce my little compliment at dinner; 
 and, as you very well know, a rich marriage is 
 not a thing to be neglected." 
 
 There followed a pause, during which the 
 dealer seemed to weigh this statement incredulously. 
 The ticking of many clocks among the curious 
 lumber of the shop, and the faint rushing of the 
 cabs in a near thoroughfare, filled up the inter- 
 val of silence. 
 
 "Well, sir," said the dealer, "be it so. You 
 are an old customer after all; and if, as you say, 
 you have the chance of a good marriage, far be 
 it from me to be an obstacle. Here is a nice 
 thing for a lady now," he went on, "this hand- 
 glass — fifteenth century, warranted ; comes from 
 a good collection, too; but I reserve the name, 
 in the interests of my customer, who was, just 
 like yourself, my dear sir, the nephew and sole 
 heir of a remarkable collector." 
 
 The dealer, while he thus ran on in his dry 
 and biting voice, had stooped to take the object 
 from its place; and as he had done so, a shock 
 had passed through Markheim, a start both of 
 hand and foot, a sudden leap of many tumultuous 
 passiofis to the face. It passed as swiftly as it 
 came, and left no trace beyond a certain trem- 
 bling of the hand that now received the glass. 
 
 "A glass," he said hoarsely, and then paused 
 and repeated it more clearly. "A glass? For 
 Christmas? Surely not?" 
 
 "And why not? " cried the dealer. " Why not 
 a glass?" 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 135 
 
 Markheim was looking upon him with an in- 
 definable expression. ''You ask me why not?" 
 he said. "Why, look here — look in it — look at 
 yourself! Do you like to see it? No! nor I — 
 nor any man." 
 
 The little man had jumped back when Mark- 
 heim had so suddenly confronted him with the 
 mirror; but now, perceiving there was nothing 
 worse on hand, he chuckled. "Your future 
 lady, sir, must be pretty hard favored," said he. 
 
 "I ask you," said Markheim, "for a Christmas 
 present, and you give me this damned reminder 
 of years, and sins and follies — this hand-conscience! 
 Did you mean it? Had you a thought in your 
 mind? Tell me. // will he better for you if you 
 do. Come, tell me about yourself. / hazard a 
 guess now, that in secret you are a very charitable 
 man?" 
 
 The dealer looked closely at his companion. 
 It was very odd, Markheim did not appear to 
 be laughing; there was something in his face like 
 an eager sparkle of hope, but nothing of mirth. 
 
 "What are you driving at?" the dealer asked. 
 
 ^^Not charitable?" returned the other gloomily. 
 *^Not charitable; not pious; not scrupulous; un- 
 loving, unbeloved; a hand to get money, a safe 
 to keep it. Is that all? Dear God, man, is 
 that all?" 
 
 "I will tell you what it is," began the dealer, 
 with some sharpness and then broke off again 
 into a chuckle. "But I see this is a love-match 
 of yours, and you have been drinking the lady's 
 health." 
 
 "Ah!" cried Markheim, with a strange curi- 
 
136 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 osity. "Ah, have you been in love? Tell me 
 about that." 
 
 ''I!" cried the dealer. "I in love! I never 
 had the time, nor have I the time today for all 
 this nonsense. Will you take the glass?" 
 
 "Where is the hurry?" returned Markheim. 
 "It is very pleasant to stand here talking; and 
 life is so short and insecure that I would not 
 hurry away from any pleasure — no not even from 
 so mild a one as this. We should rather ding, 
 cling to what httle we can get, like a man at a 
 cliff's edge. Every second is a cliff, if you think 
 upon it — a cliff a mile high — high enough if we 
 fall, to dash us out of every feature of humanity. 
 Hence it is best to talk pleasantly. Let us talk of 
 each other; why should we wear this mask? Let 
 us be confidential. Who knows, we might become 
 friends?'' 
 
 "I have just one word to say to you," said 
 the dealer. "Either make your purchase or 
 walk out of my shop." 
 
 "True, true," said Markheim. "Enough 
 fooling. To business. Show me something 
 else." 
 
 The dealer stooped once more, this time to 
 replace the glass upon the shelf, his thin blond 
 hair falKng over his eyes as he did so. Markheim 
 moved a httle nearer, with one hand in the pocket 
 of his great coat; he drew himself up and filled 
 his lungs; at the same time ma^iy different emo- 
 tions were depicted together upon his face — terror, 
 horror, and resolve, fascination and a physical 
 repulsion; and through a haggard lift of his upper 
 Up J his teeth looked out. 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 137 
 
 "This, perhaps, may suit," observed the 
 dealer; and then, as he began to rearise, Mark- 
 heim bounded from behind upon his victim. 
 The long, skewer-like dagger flashed and fell. 
 The dealer struggled like a hen, striking his 
 temple on the shelf, and then tumbled on the 
 floor in a heap. 
 
 That Markheim is a rogue who has disposed 
 of stolen articles to the dealer is sufficiently ob- 
 vious. The dealer's remark that his visitor's 
 manner is odd arouses our attention. When 
 Markheim gazes upon the dealer with pity and 
 horror, our interest becomes keen. This display 
 of emotion is an odd revelation in a rascal. 
 Then, in the next speech, we are aware that 
 Markheim is lying; the dealer, too, is aware of 
 this. Again, when the dealer stoops to find the 
 glass, the mention of tumultuous passions in the 
 face of the purchaser puzzles us. We know, at 
 least, that the man is wrought to a high pitch 
 of excitement; an excitement which he dare not 
 reveal, and which, therefore, is evil. The eager- 
 ness with which he seeks to discover good traits 
 in the dealer is again significant. He seems de- 
 sirous of being friends with him, and soon we 
 know why. He is driven to a deed which he 
 loathes, and at the last moment, were there a 
 loophole, he would withdraw. The mirror is 
 an excellent device; Markheim's terror of it and 
 
 i 
 
138 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 his words show again the man who fears what 
 he is and soon will become. The character of 
 Markheim grows clear before our eyes, and we 
 anticipate his crime, for character and action 
 are here inseparable, the revelations of emotion 
 serving to predict incident. 
 
 But have we not departed somewhat from our 
 theme: significant action as a means of slow 
 character creation? Markheim's words are more 
 significant than his acts. Again he moves the 
 dealer, in whose suspicions we see reflected the 
 image of Markheim himself. And, last, we have 
 brief descriptive touches of the man's appear- 
 ance, which suggest the passions within. Of 
 analysis there is scarcely a trace; the method 
 is almost purely objective to the point of the 
 murder. That all these means should serve the 
 writer in the creation of his character is signifi- 
 cant. The resort to many devices gives variety, 
 and the skilful story-teller uses, therefore, as 
 many as he can: analysis, action, speech, effect 
 upon others, and description — all may be illus- 
 trated in a single good passage, and so inter- 
 related that they cannot be separated one from 
 another. Doubtless we could find passages in 
 which one or another sufficed of itself for a time, 
 but in the best character drawing we shall find 
 not one but several means employed. A further 
 selection will admirably reinforce the point. 
 
CHARACTERyDRAWING 139 
 
 This is from Turgenieff's Tatydna Borisovna 
 and Her Nephew: 
 
 At first, Tatyana Borisovna did not recognise 
 him. From his letters she had expected a thin 
 and sickly man, but she beheld a broad-shoul- 
 dered, stout young fellow, with a broad red face, 
 and curly, greasy hair. The pale, slender An- 
 driusha had been converted into sturdy Andrei 
 Ivanoff Byelovzoroff. His external appearance 
 was not the only thing in him which had under- 
 gone a change. The sensitive shyness, the 
 caution and neatness of former years, had been 
 replaced by a careless swagger, by intolerable 
 slovenliness; he swayed to right and left as he 
 walked, flung himself into armchairs, sprawled 
 over the table, lolled, yawned to the full extent 
 of his jaws, and behaved impudently to his aunt 
 and the servants, — as much as to say, *'I'm an 
 artist, a free kazak! I'll show you what stuff 
 I'm made of!" For whole days together, he 
 would not take brush in his hand; when the so- 
 called inspiration came upon him, he would be- 
 have as wildly as though he were intoxicated, 
 painfully, awkwardly, noisily; his cheeks would 
 burn with a coarse flush, his eyes would grow 
 inebriated; he would set to prating about his 
 talent, his successes, of how he was developing 
 and advancing. ... But, as a matter of fact, 
 it turned out that his gift barely sufficed for 
 tolerably fair petty portraits. He was an utter 
 ignoramus, he had read nothing; and why should 
 an artist read? Nature, freedom, poetry, — 
 those are his elements. So, shake thy curls, 
 
I40 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 and chatter away volubly, and inhale Zhuk6ff 
 with frenzy! Russian swagger is a good thing, 
 but it is not becoming to many; and talentless 
 second-rate Polezhaeffs are intolerable. Our 
 Andrei Ivanitch continued to live at his aunt's: 
 evidently gratuitous food was to his taste. He 
 inspired visitors with deadly ennui. He would 
 seat himself at the piano (Tatyana Borisovna 
 had set up a piano also) and begin to pick out 
 with one finger ''The Dashing Troika"; he 
 would strike chords and thump the keys; for 
 hours at a stretch he would howl Varlamoff's 
 romances "The Solitary Pine," or "No, Doctor, 
 no, do not come," and the fat would close over 
 his eyes, and his cheeks would shine like a drum. 
 . . . And then, suddenly, he would thunder: 
 "Begone, ye tumults of passion!" . . . And Ta- 
 tyana Borisovna would fairly jump in dismay. 
 
 "'Tis extraordinary," — she remarked to me 
 one day, — "what songs are composed nowadays, 
 — they are all so despairing, somehow; in my day, 
 they used to compose a different sort: there were 
 sad ones then too, but it was always agreeable 
 to listen to them. . . . For example: 
 
 "Come, come to me in the meadow. 
 Where I wait for thee in vain; 
 Come, come to me in the meadow. 
 Where my tears flow hour after hour. . . . 
 Alas, thou wilt come to me in the meadow, 
 But then 't will be too late, dear friend!" 
 
 Tatyana Borisovna smiled guilefully. 
 "I shall suf-fer, I shall suf-fer," howled her 
 nephew in the adjoining room. 
 
CHARACTER-DRAWING 141 
 
 "Stop that, Andriusha!" 
 
 "My soul is lan-guishing in part-ing," con- 
 tinued the irrepressible singer. 
 
 Tatyana Borisovna shook her head. 
 
 "Okh, those artists!" . . . 
 
 A year has passed since then. Byelovzoroff is 
 still living with his aunt, and still preparing to 
 go to Petersburg. He has become broader than 
 he is long in the country. His aunt — who 
 would have thought it? — is perfectly devoted to 
 him, and the young girls of the neighborhood 
 fall in love with him. . . . 
 
 Many of Tatyana Borisovna's former acquaint- 
 ances have ceased to visit her. 
 
 In this admirable selection description is re- 
 inforced with characteristic action and speech, 
 and the result is a speaking likeness. 
 
 The methods of characterization are suffi- 
 ciently obvious to require no further illustra- 
 tion. They are not to be divorced from exposi- 
 tion and preparation, for they serve with these 
 the story's purposes, which involve not character 
 portrayal only but action as well. They de- 
 mand, also, description. But as description is 
 a matter which requires separate consideration, 
 this will be taken up in another chapter. Dia- 
 logue, too, is involved; but this, again, requires 
 separate analysis. Let us note, however, that 
 though for purposes of inteUigibility these ele- 
 ments are considered as separate problems of 
 
14? ART OF THE SHOk f STORY 
 
 story-construction, they are found usually not as 
 free elements but as compounds or mixtures. 
 The story-teller must do many things all at 
 once, and yet his product must be simple and 
 unified. Thus, in his symphony, the composer 
 produces an harmonious whole from the blended 
 tones of many instruments. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF PERSON AND 
 PLACE 
 
 To personal description reference has already 
 been made in the chapter upon characterization, 
 for appearance is intimately associated with per- 
 sonality, and play of feature is one of the keys to 
 the interpretation of emotion. If only for these 
 reasons, then, the writer must be able to set 
 forth, more or less fully as may suit his purpose, 
 the form, features, dress, and surroundings of his 
 creations, and the emotions which these arouse 
 in the beholder. All this is not easy. Let us 
 first consider some of the limitations of descrip- 
 tive method, and then some of its possibiltiies. 
 
 The chief difficulty in descriptive writing lies 
 in the lack of correspondence between writing 
 and seeing. We see a man as a whole, a group 
 of related parts to be sure, but a unit which pro- 
 duces a single and instantaneous effect upon the 
 observer. Yet, when we endeavor to enumerate 
 the facts of his appearance, our list is scarcely 
 more than a fist. The reader by the time he 
 143 
 
144 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 has grasped the last item has forgotten the first, 
 and if the parts be many, by no exercise of the 
 imagination can he so piece them together that 
 they will form the original. The whole is indeed 
 greater than the sum of its parts, and should, if 
 possible, be presented in a word. Yet, if we 
 employ so many as two, and say the man is a 
 "handsome man" or an "ugly man" we have 
 given but a faint conception of the person de- 
 scribed. We have, indeed, drawn only upon the 
 reader's experience of good looks in men, and 
 this may be at variance with our own experience. 
 
 We may note at the outset of our discussion 
 that the clever writer nowadays makes no at- 
 tempt to picture his character in full detail 
 within the limits of a paragraph. The futility 
 of such an endeavor should be obvious, though 
 unskilled writers not infrequently essay it. The 
 crafty artist, to delineate his characters swiftly 
 and clearly, resorts, instead, to various devices, 
 some of which we shall consider. 
 
 The first is to renounce altogether any attempt 
 at personal description. This is to avoid the 
 difficulty with a vengeance, and the writer is 
 justified in so doing only as he is certain that the 
 reader's visualization of characters is unimpor- 
 tant in the story. Sometimes this is the case. 
 If the story concerns people of no marked phys- 
 ical peculiarities, if they are typical, common- 
 
DESCRIPTION 145 
 
 place persons such as we all know, we may feel^ 
 no need of visualizing them sharply. The story/ 
 may be vivid without such description ; our con- 
 cern may be with the action, or with the psy- 
 chology of the actors. Externally, any one 
 person — whom we may visualize of our own 
 effort without hint from the author — may serve 
 as well as another for the role assigned. Or we 
 may make no attempt to visualize the character 
 at all, whether individual or typical, though we 
 usually supply involuntarily some dim concep- 
 tion of appearance. 
 
 Between the total avoidance of personal de- 
 scription and complete portraiture lie all de- 
 grees of descriptive fulness. I said a moment 
 ago that to characterize a man by a single 
 epithet left much to be desired in the way of 
 accuracy and clearness. Yet this is more specific 
 and individual than to call him merely a man. 
 And for the story's purpose the single epithet 
 may often suffice. Kipling sometimes employs 
 this succinct method. Thus he says of one of 
 his characters: "He was the ugliest man in ^-^^^ 
 Asia with two exceptions." This compelling 
 exaggeration assures us that the man was ugly 
 indeed. We may fill in the details as we 
 please. 
 
 It is possible in a phrase to be far more definite 
 than this, and to draw a truly individual picture. 
 
146 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Thus Conrad: "a little man, dry like a chip and 
 agile like a monkey." Again, the following from 
 Balzac, which though wrenched from its conte:(ft, 
 shows how vivid a picture may be drawn in short 
 space: "... a retreating forehead, a small 
 ■-sL/ pointed head, and a pale face not unlike a glass 
 of dirty water.'' Here we have a vivid and con- 
 cise picture, the details so few that we may 
 readily assemble them and form a distinct and 
 individual portrait. The method is highly selec- 
 tive; Balzac has merely touched upon the indi- 
 vidualizing details. The rest we may fill in for 
 ourselves. We collaborate with the author, and 
 draw the picture from his suggestions. 
 
 To enlist the reader's assistance is the aim of 
 the good descriptive writer, who proceeds on the 
 assumption that we have, each of us, a great 
 fund of observation memories upon which he 
 may discreetly draw. His effort, therefore, is to 
 enumerate only the striking features of his char- 
 acters, relying upon us to supply what he does 
 not give. It is surprising how rapid and vivid 
 may be the pictures born of this method in the 
 hands of a skilled writer. Conrad possesses this 
 power to a marked degree. I quote a few of his 
 rapid sketches: 
 
 ''He had a Roman nose, a snow-white, long 
 beard, and his name was Mahon." 
 
 **Mrs. Beard was an old woman, with a face 
 
DESCRIPTION 147 
 
 all wrinkled and ruddy like a winter apple, and 
 the figure of a young girl." 
 
 One a bit longer: 
 
 "He had a nutcracker face — chin and nose 
 coming together over a sunken mouth — and it 
 was framed in iron-gray fluffy hair that looked y 
 like a chin-strap of cotton wool sprinkled with 
 coal-dust. And he had blue eyes in that old face 
 of his, which were amazingly like a boy's. . . ." 
 
 In Carlyle's letters are similar bits of vivid 
 portraiture. The method is an admirable one, 
 but calls for a seeing eye, a trained sense of se- 
 lection, and a power of telling diction. 
 
 Not always, however, is a writer content with 
 portraits so brief. He may wish to give his 
 creations at full length and in considerable de- 
 tail. Inasmuch as he can scarcely hope to do 
 this in one elaborate study, for, as we have seen, 
 the reader cannot be counted on to fit all the 
 details together, he must then introduce his 
 description piecemeal, giving here a touch and 
 there a touch. From the first, the reader con- 
 trives some sort of likeness true to the original 
 in a single detail — the eyes, or manner of walking 
 perhaps. This dim likeness becomes, with a 
 second detail, more distinct, and at the end we 
 have a full and vivid picture. If the process is 
 sufficiently slow, the reader can contrive a pic- 
 
148 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 ture ultimately complete and exact, whereas if 
 he were overwhelmed with details at the outset 
 only confusion would result. 
 
 Other methods to this end may, however, 
 sometimes be employed. Thus Stevenson meets 
 the difficulty when The Master, in The Master 
 of Ballantrae, first appears upon the scene: 
 
 Captain Crail himself was steering, a thing 
 not usual; by his side there sat a passenger; 
 and the men gave way with difficulty, being 
 hampered with near upon half a dozen portman- 
 teaus, great and small. But the business of 
 landing was briskly carried through; and pres- 
 ently the baggage was all tumbled on shore, the 
 boat on its return voyage to the lugger, and the 
 passenger standing alone upon the point of rock, 
 a tall, slender figure of a gentleman, habited in 
 black, with a sword by his side and a walking- 
 cane upon his wrist. . . . 
 
 The stranger turned, spied me through the 
 mists, which were beginning to fall, and waved 
 and cried on me to draw near. I did so with a 
 heart like lead. 
 
 "Here, my good man," said he, in the English 
 accent, "here are some things for Durrisdeer." 
 
 I was now near enough to see him, a very 
 handsome figure and countenance, swarthy, lean, 
 long, with a quick, alert, black look, as of one 
 who was a fighter and accustomed to command; 
 upon one cheek he had a mole, not unbecoming; 
 a large diamond sparkled on his hand; his 
 clothes, although of the one hue, were of a French 
 
DESCRIPTION 149 
 
 and foppish design; his ruffles, which he wore 
 longer than common, of exquisite lace; and I 
 wondered the more to see him in such a guise, 
 when he was but newly landed from a dirty 
 smuggling lugger. 
 
 This is true to observation. In the distance 
 we get but a general impression — form, height, 
 and the like. As we near the figure we are able 
 to observe with more minuteness. Variants on 
 this device are easily possible. If the person 
 move toward us or we toward him, or if we see 
 him once in passing, again near at hand, and a 
 third time face to face, we may employ a like 
 method, and without confusion draw a com- 
 plete picture; a complete picture, however, only 
 in a manner of speaking, for the method must 
 always be selective, and unessential details be 
 ignored. In description it is the details by 
 which the thing differs from others of its class 
 that are sought. Men are more like one another 
 than unlike. It is the individual unlikeness we 
 strive to catch; or again, if they are hopelessly 
 commonplace, the essentials of their very hke- 
 ness to others. 
 
 The shorter the narrative the less space, of 
 course, may the writer devote to personal de- 
 scription. The more leisurely methods of the 
 novehst permit longer descriptions than the 
 short-story writer may imitate. Dickens had a 
 
I50 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 great power of elaborate and vivid description. 
 Turgenieff, who, even in his shorter work pursues 
 a leisurely method, was likewise highly skilled. 
 He was, indeed, a master of description. The 
 following is a quotation from his The Singers: 
 
 Behind the counter, as was proper, almost to 
 the full extent of the aperture, Nikolai Ivanitch 
 was standing in a gay-colored cotton shirt and 
 with a languid smile on his plump cheeks, and 
 pouring out with his fat, white hands two glasses 
 of liquor for the friends who had just entered, 
 Blinker and the Ninny; and behind him, in the 
 corner, near the window, his brisk-eyed wife was 
 to be seen. In the middle of the room stood 
 Yashka-the-Turk, a spare and well-built man of 
 three-and-twenty years, clad in a long-tailed 
 nankeen kaftan, blue in color. He looked like 
 a dashing factory hand, and, apparently, could 
 not boast of very robust health. His sunken 
 cheeks, his large, uneasy grey eyes, his straight 
 nose with thin, mobile nostrils, his white reced- 
 ing brow, with Hght chestnut curls tossed back, 
 his large but handsome and expressive Hps — his 
 whole countenance denoted an impressionable 
 and passionate man. He was in a state of great 
 excitement: his eyes were winking hard, he was 
 breathing irregularly, his hands were trembling 
 as though with fever, — and he really had a fever, 
 that palpitating, sudden fever which is so familiar 
 to all people who speak or sing before an audience. 
 Before him stood a man about forty years of age, 
 broad-shouldered, with broad cheek-bones, and 
 a low brow, narrow Tatar eyes, a short, thick 
 
DESCRIPTION 151 
 
 nose, a square chin, and shining black hajr as 
 stiff as bristles. The expression of his swarthy 
 and leaden-hued face, especially of his pallid lips, 
 might have been designated as almost fierce, 
 had it not been so composedly-meditative. He 
 hardly stirred, and only slowly glanced around 
 him, like an ox from beneath his yoke. He was 
 dressed in some sort of a threadbare coat with 
 smooth, brass buttons; an old, black silk ker- 
 chief encircled his huge neck. He was called the 
 Wild Gentleman. . . . 
 
 But Turgenieff is scarcely to be imitated by 
 the beginner. He had, apparently, most re- 
 markable powers of observation, a visual memory 
 of the best, and was, as well, master of a style 
 which could give adequate expression to these 
 gifts. That this vivid description is one of the 
 secrets of Turgenieff 's power goes without saying. 
 
 Description of persons and things need not, 
 however, be purely visual. Stevenson was of the 
 opinion that undue reliance is placed upon the 
 eye. We have, as well, the senses of hearing, 
 touch, smell, and taste. Two of these, at least, 
 may be employed in personal description. The 
 quality of the speaking voice and of laughter are 
 often details worth noting. And we may judge 
 of a man by his hand clasp, if it be strong and 
 warm, or cold, feeble, and clammy. 
 
 The passage from The Master of Ballantrae, 
 previously quoted, reveals, also, another re- 
 
152 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 source of personal description. Dress is sig- 
 nificant of much. Not only is it important to the 
 objective picture, but it tells much of character 
 £Lnd social position. In personal description, 
 therefore, the writer should take care to visualize 
 tJhe garb of his characters, and if this is of value 
 to the story, to touch it off with whatever fulness 
 of detail he sees fit. Neatness, foppishness, love 
 of adornment — all these may be noted as occa- 
 sion demands. So, too, may attitude and bearing, 
 grace or awkwardness, anything, in short, which 
 serves to individualize the character and suggest 
 social distinctions or degrees of culture. 
 
 We should observe, too, that a room, or an 
 entire house and its surroundings takes on to 
 some degree the characteristics of its inmates. 
 The heroine's bedroom and the family library 
 may, if well described, serve not only to make 
 scenes therein enacted distinct, but may also 
 contribute side-lights on character. Books, pic- 
 tures, furniture, and wall-paper, indicative of 
 individual taste, are all important. The good 
 writer may bring before us a whole class of so- 
 ciety by a well-chosen picture of the appurte- 
 nances with which his creations surround them- 
 selves. If their surroundings are conventional, 
 whether in good or bad taste, we may suppose 
 them conventionally minded people; if indi- 
 vidual, persons of some force of character. In 
 
DESCRIPTION 153 
 
 careful hands the possibilities here of suggestive 
 description are endless. 
 
 Description of Place 
 
 Much that has already been brought out in 
 personal description is appHcable as well to de- 
 scription of place, though the latter is somewhat 
 more complicated and difficult. Whereas the 
 writer may, at times, avoid personal description 
 or employ it but slightly, he may seldom evade 
 the necessity of depicting the background for 
 some scenes of his narrative, for if the story is 
 to be vivid to us, we need to visualize the action 
 with some distinctness and must, therefore, have 
 the elements of the picture given us by the 
 writer. 
 
 Nevertheless, it is safe to say that young 
 writers lean too heavily upon description. 
 Background assumes too large a place in their 
 eyes. Particularly are some given to descrip- 
 tions of nature. But a moment's thought will 
 reveal this practice to be a mistaken one. The 
 intelligent reader usually skips, or at best skims, 
 the nature description. Experience has taught 
 him that it is more often than not superfluous. 
 Therefore it is well to make this hard-and-fast 
 rule: never describe anything that is not strictly 
 pertinent to the story; and when description is 
 necessary, make it as brief as possible. 
 
154 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Yet though this precept be strictly observed 
 there are difficulties enough in the path of the 
 writer. The conciseness imposed upon him is a 
 difficult thing. It is far easier to write a toler- 
 ably clear long description than one equally 
 clear in half the space. The selective process 
 becomes increasingly exacting the fewer the 
 words. It is more difficult to catch the quality 
 of a place, unless it be unusually striking, in few 
 words than in many. There are numerous de- 
 tails which may be told, and it is hard to deter- 
 mine which are the most truly significant. 
 
 We should bear in mind, also, that senses other 
 than that of sight play a much more important 
 part here than in personal description. Sounds 
 are often more significant than things seen, and 
 touch the reader more intimately — the sound of 
 wind in the trees, or of running water, the wooden 
 cloop-cloop of horses' feet upon the pavement, 
 the purring of a motor-car, or a singing trolley 
 wire — these have individual qualities which re- 
 quire nice definition and epithet. Then there 
 are the odors of clover fields and city streets, and 
 odors rightly characterized often afford the writer 
 his most vivid descriptive touches. There is the 
 feel of the wind on the face, or the clinging wetness 
 of snow and the sting of sleet; and on the sea 
 one may even taste the salt breeze and the spray. 
 The complexity of these sense appeals, to which 
 
DESCRIPTION 155 
 
 the writer must be ever alert, magnifies the 
 difficulty of his problem at the outset, though 
 affording him also a variety of materials from 
 which to select. 
 
 The order of the presentment of these impres- 
 sions may not be laid down absolutely. If the 
 scene described is an elaborate one it is some- 
 times well to sketch its outlines broadly and 
 then to M in with subordinate details. Some- 
 times it is best to begin with the more immediate 
 impressions and lead the eye outward. Again 
 it is more effective to begin with remoter details 
 and then lead the eye to things near at hand. 
 It is safest usually to trust the order in which 
 the details come upon a good observer of the 
 scene described. Those which he grasps first are 
 usually the most important; then, slowly, he 
 perceives those of less significance. As he enters 
 a room from without he first notes, perhaps, the 
 change in temperature. Then he conceives a 
 general impression of the room. It is large and 
 bare, or comfortable and homely, light or dark. 
 He perceives at once if there be a fire on the 
 hearth. Then he notices the character of the 
 furnishings, the neatness or lack of neatness of 
 the room, the pictures on the walls, the carpets 
 and rugs on the floor. This descriptive order, 
 that of impression, demands that the writer 
 visualize clearly as he writes. 
 
156 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 \ Often, however, the writer may not describe 
 Ithe scene as he sees it, but as it appears to his 
 /characters. Herein Kes a great difference, for 
 the identical scene is not the same to different 
 persons. Some are more observant than others; 
 some are trained to observe certain things; again, 
 all are struck by those characteristics which are 
 most foreign to their experience, but which to 
 those familiar with the scene pass imnoted by 
 dint of constant repetition. And, most of all, 
 the scene varies with the mood of the observer. 
 If I am happy, joyous, my mood selects those 
 impressions of the scene about me which chime 
 with my mood. If I am sad I shall find food 
 for sadness. The things themselves are the 
 same in either case, but they will not seem alike 
 to me. This is a difficulty the story writer 
 
 (must clearly recognize. He must see truly 
 through another's eyes, and to do this he must 
 identify his mood with that of the other, if the 
 description is to be true. 
 
 Inasmuch as the chief danger in the descrip- 
 tion of place is that it may not be truly vital and 
 significant, it is well at this point to determine 
 a test for relevancy. Our consideration has been 
 hitherto the reader's opportunity to visualize 
 and enter into the scene. But often the action 
 is not vitally related to its background. It 
 might occur in any one of a dozen places with 
 
DESCRIPTION 157 
 
 equal effect. Action and character suffice of 
 themselves. In such a case, too vivid and elab- 
 orate a description of scene is not helpful, but 
 rather distracting.* If, on the other hand, the 
 characters are truly influenced by their sur- 
 roundings, then the descriptive setting is essen- 
 tial to the reader's appreciation of the emotions 
 aroused in the persons of the story. This is the 
 surest test of pertinence. If the hero is a starv- 
 ing castaway on a desert island, a vivid picture 
 of his surroundings may be essential to our appre- 
 ciation of his emotions. The description then 
 is an integral part of the story. But if the hero, 
 dominated by an emotion which blinds him to* 
 his surroundings, hastens to his friend's aid, 
 description of the journey as it would appeal t( 
 an observant traveller would be distinctly ou 
 of place. We must see through the hero's eyes,j 
 and in this instance he sees little or nothing, 
 Security lies in a clear grasp of the character 
 whose experiences are told. If he is a prosaic 
 person, little moved by the world about him, the 
 description should seek only those sensations of 
 which he is conscious — food and physical com- 
 fort it may be. The world as it seems to him 
 is the thing sought. It must be admitted as a 
 qualification, however, that at times, we, the 
 readers, with our larger point of view may wish 
 * See analysis of scene in The Piece of Stringy chapter IV. 
 
158 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 to contrast him with his surroundings, to appre- 
 ciate what is lost upon him. If contrast is the 
 aim, descriptive setting, otherwise superfluous 
 and irrelevant, may be desirable. 
 
 Emotion we found to be a legitimate part of 
 description, selecting, coloring, and changing the 
 sense-impressions. Psychologically, sensation 
 and emotion are, it is said, but two aspects of the 
 same thing. The sense impression produces in 
 me an emotion; my emotion in turn colors the 
 next sense impression which comes to me. If I de- 
 scribe my sense-impressions in words sufficiently 
 apt you will perceive the emotion which I feel, 
 and experience an echo of it. If I reinforce my 
 record of impressions by emphasizing in abstract 
 terms their effect upon me and say that I am 
 sad or happy, or if I transfer these terms to the 
 scene perceived, declaring it to be sad or gloomy, 
 cheerful or domestic, then I have strengthened 
 the emotional effect and still have been true to 
 the facts, i. e., the record of my sense-impressions 
 and their effect upon my emotions. The writer 
 in his description should seek to discover the 
 dominant emotion which the scene produces, 
 either upon him or upon the character through 
 whose eyes we look. If he does this he will be 
 guided in his selection of details, for he will seek 
 such as harmonize with the effect which he wishes 
 to achieve. Other details, not in harmony, he 
 
DESCRIPTION 159 
 
 will ignore, and in so doing he will gain both in 
 conciseness and in unity of impression. Here as 
 everywhere in story writing, the writer must 
 select, and his selection has always, as its ob- 
 jective, simplicity and harmony — qualities which 
 lie embedded in experience, but which exist 
 always amid distracting and incongruous things. 
 
 It is necessary here to reconsider in part the 
 question of the point of view which was discussed 
 in a previous chapter. In telHng a story it is 
 essential that in every case the point of view 
 from which a scene is described be clearly in- 
 dicated and, once determined, be carefully main- 
 tained. The reason for this will be apparent 
 upon a little consideration. 
 
 The reader of a story endeavors to put himself 
 either in the place of the observant author or 
 of one of the characters, and so to visualize the 
 scene described. For initial clearness, there- 
 fore, the descriptive point of view must be early 
 declared. Preferably, the descriptive point of 
 view should coincide with that of the character 
 who is the centre of the reader's interest, for in 
 this way the reader may follow the changes in 
 the action most intimately. It is then impera- 
 tive that the writer describe only those impres- 
 sions which could plausibly affect the character 
 who is the centre of interest. He cannot see 
 around a corner, nor over a high wall, and to 
 
i6o ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 describe what is going on thus hidden is to dis- 
 tract the reader, who in imagination has placed 
 himself in the centre of the scene, and who, 
 though he may follow the author beyond the 
 range of human vision, can do so only at the 
 risk of confusion and imaginative loss. The 
 imagination is ductile truly, but it cannot regain 
 the original point of view without effort and loss 
 of conviction. 
 
 If we employ the term description in its full 
 meaning of sensation and resultant emotion, we 
 shall find that it plays a large part in modern 
 fiction. Many a writer nowadays is more con- 
 cerned with the portrayal of emotion than of 
 action. Robinson Crusoe is a bald novel of in- 
 cident. We get little idea of Robinson's emo-j 
 tions at any time, and then but crudely. But in/ 
 the modem sea stories of Conrad our interest is 
 largely in the description. The incidents serve 
 chiefly to afford opportunity for analysis of the 
 hero's sensations and emotions. We experience, 
 in his person, storms and the calm of tropic seas, 
 the gloom of African forests and the languorous 
 charm of the East. But there is here no "set 
 description" — description, that is, aside from 
 the experience of the characters. It is all a part 
 of the story, indeed constitutes the story. This 
 is a very different thing from the nature-writing 
 of the older school, in which the heroine paused 
 
DESCRIPTION i6i 
 
 to admire the sunset for two pages from a sense 
 of duty. 
 
 That writing should be specific and concrete 
 rather than abstract and general is a common- 
 place of criticism. The reason is not far to seek. 
 Appeals to the senses and to the emotions are 
 more powerful than those to the intelligence; 
 Shakespeare's plays are more vital contributions 
 to the philosophy of the average reader than are 
 the metaphysical speculations of Kant. We 
 move in a world of sense appeals; our emotions 
 are aroused ten times where our intellects are 
 stirred but once. Therefore literature is devoted 
 to the portrayal of individual actions, to specific 
 scenes, and its content is concrete for the most 
 part, designed to arouse the emotions through 
 definite appeals to the senses of sight, hearing, 
 touch, taste, and smell. We ask that descrip- 
 tion vitalize the details of a scene to the point 
 that we may definitely apprehend them in imagi- 
 nation. This is the general law, but it is sub- 
 ject to exceptions. 
 
 A number of years ago, about fifteen at this 
 writing, Stephen Crane developed the impres- 
 sionistic manner of writing in the short story. 
 In The Red Badge of Courage and other stories 
 he practised a method of descriptive vividness 
 which may best be likened to the old style post- 
 ers of startling and contrasting colors. Details 
 
i62 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 of background or of personal appearance are 
 given an exaggerated emphasis. Intrinsically 
 important or no, they are, by selection, made to 
 stand out by vivid epithet and particularizing 
 word and phrase. An abrupt sentence structure 
 serves to emphasize this effect. The following 
 passages from The Bride Comes to Yellow Sky 
 are characteristic: 
 
 Across the sandy street were some vivid green 
 grass plots, so wonderful in appearance amid the 
 sands that burned near them in a blazing sun 
 that they caused a doubt in the mind. They 
 exactly resembled the grass mats used to repre- 
 sent lawns on the stage. At the cooler end of 
 the railway station a man without a coat sat in 
 a tilted chair and smoked his pipe. The fresh 
 cut banks of the Rio Grande circled near the 
 town, and there could be seen beyond it a great 
 plum-colored plain of mesquite. 
 
 A man in a maroon colored flannel shirt, which 
 had been purchased for purposes of decoration, 
 and made, principally, by some Jewish women 
 on the east side of New York, rounded a corner 
 and walked into the main street of Yellow Sky. 
 In either hand the man held a long, heavy, blue- 
 black revolver. Often he yelled, and these cries 
 rang through the semblance of a deserted village, 
 shrilly flying over the roofs in a volume that 
 seemed to have no relation to the ordinary vocal 
 strength of a man. It was as if the surrounding 
 
DESCRIPTION 163 
 
 stillness formed the arch of a tomb over him. 
 These cries of ferocious challenge rang against 
 walls of silence. And his boots had red tops 
 with gilded imprints, of the kind beloved in 
 winter by little sledding boys on the hillsides 
 of New England. 
 
 I should not speak of this mannerism were not 
 the influence of Crane and his followers still 
 strong in magazine fiction, and did it not bear 
 intimately upon the problem of description. 
 There is in the method a fatal weakness which we 
 should note. It is this: the untiring effort to 
 gain descriptive vividness, if unrelieved, fails of 
 its purpose. When every detail is as sharp and 
 individual as the next, there is no contrast pos- 
 sible. It is as though a pianist should play 
 fortissimo throughout his sonata. Effects are 
 got by contrast. A vivid detail is outstanding 
 in a neutral context, like a red golfing coat on a 
 snow-covered links. But if all epithets are 
 violent, challenging the attention, in time the 
 reader grows weary, and the writer fails of his 
 effect. The skilful writer, therefore, seeks de- 
 scriptive vividness only when his story demands 
 it — that is, in vital scenes. He does not burden 
 his narrative with details not strictly relevant, 
 however much opportunity they afford for 
 graphic description, for to emphasize them would 
 be to distract us from other and more important 
 
i64 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 matters. Proportion, restraint, contrast, em- 
 phasis — all are terms relevant in this connection, 
 and more than description is involved, though I 
 have attached my homily to it. 
 
 A passage in Henry James's essay, **The Art 
 of Fiction," makes clear in better words than 
 mine, the interdependence of action, dialogue, 
 and description. No one is to be thought of as 
 a thing apart. All are fused for the story's pur- 
 pose. Description so conceived loses all merely 
 decorative significance, and becomes a vital ele- 
 ment of the story structure: 
 
 . . . That his characters "must be clear in 
 outline," as Mr. Besant says — he feels that down 
 to his boots; but how he shall make them so is 
 a secret between his good angel and himself. It 
 would be absurdly simple if he could be taught 
 that a great deal of "description" would make 
 them so, or that on the contrary, the absence of 
 description and the cultivation of dialogue, or 
 the absence of dialogue and the multiphcation 
 of "incident," would rescue him from his diffi- 
 culties. Nothing, for instance, is more possible 
 than that he be of a turn of mind for which this 
 odd, literal opposition of description and aiaiogue, 
 incident and description, has little meaning and 
 light. People often talk of these things as if 
 they had a kind of internecine distinctness, in- 
 stead of melting into each other at every breath, 
 and being intimately associated parts of one 
 general effort of expression. I cannot imagine 
 
DESCRIPTION 165 
 
 composition existing in a series of blocks, nor 
 conceive, in any novel worth discussing at all, 
 of a passage of description that is not in its in- 
 tention narrative, a passage of dialogue that is 
 not in its intention descriptive, a touch of truth 
 of any sort that does not partake of the nature 
 of incident, or an incident that derives its inter- 
 est from any other source than the general and 
 only source of the success of a work of art — that 
 of being illustrative. A novel is a Hving thing, 
 all one and continuous, like any other organism, 
 and in proportion as it lives will it be found, I 
 think, that in each of the parts there is some- 
 thing of each of the other parts. The critic who 
 over the close texture of a finished work shall 
 pretend to trace a geography of items will mark 
 some frontiers as artificial, I fear, as any that 
 have been known to history. 
 
 A good illustration of description made vital 
 to the story, given an important place, and yet 
 subordinated to the story-action, is not to be 
 found in every novelist. The passage which I 
 quote from Rene Bazin's Redemption is, however, 
 fairly illustrative of the point. The scene as 
 described affects the characters somewhat, caus- 
 ing them to speak and act as they do. That it 
 arouses different emotions in the two girls serves 
 also to reveal personality; 
 
 . . . Henriette had already greeted several 
 fricDds, escaped for the day from their work- 
 
i66 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 rooms, like herself. One of them walked arm-in- 
 arm with a young man. They laughed because 
 they loved each other, and their love was quite 
 new. They crossed the bridge, and Marie fol- 
 lowed them for a long time with her sombre, 
 ardent eye. 
 
 As they reached the end of Bouffay quay, a 
 gust of wind almost blew away their hats. 
 
 **How lovely to feel the wind," said Henriette. 
 "I have to do without it all the week, in the 
 workroom at least, for at home we are so high 
 up that no feather could keep in curl." 
 
 "I think it is a nuisance, it makes one untidy," 
 said Marie, pinning up her heavy locks, which 
 were always coming down. 
 
 By this time the breath of the Loire, with its 
 fragrance of poplar, had begun to blow around 
 the two girls. It passed in fresh gusts, seeking 
 the sails and mills, and wandering over the 
 country like bees in search of clover. Between 
 each gust the atmosphere seemed dead; it 
 promised to be a very hot day. Henriette and 
 Marie followed the Saint-Felix canal, and so 
 gained the banks of the real Loire, no longer 
 pressed upon by houses, or broken by islands, 
 but flowing wide and slow in an unbroken stream, 
 between meadows Hghtly set with trees. Toward 
 the east, on the far horizon, the trees were 
 grouped and drawn together, by the effect of 
 distance, so that the river seemed to flow from a 
 blue forest, then they showed more widely scat- 
 tered, waving above the grass in Unes of pale 
 foUage through which the hght filtered. The 
 stream flowed in the middle, gradually widening 
 
DESCRIPTION 167 
 
 the yellow ripples of its waters. The rising 
 water covered the sandbanks. The ripe grass 
 bent over the banks and plunged into the current. 
 A single pleasure boat, hidden beneath its sails, 
 glided along the opposite bank. 
 
 Henriette had waited to reach this point, 
 meaning to say: 
 
 "See how pretty it is! The Loutrel's cottage 
 is still a long way off — over there." But when 
 she glanced at Marie, she saw her looking so 
 pale, that it changed the current of her thoughts, 
 and she felt only an invincible desire to console 
 this human suffering. 
 
 This quiet descriptive passage is in its place 
 surely not ineffective. Yet many an author 
 would subordinate the background yet more. 
 George Meredith, in The Egoist, affords an ex- 
 treme example. The story is confined to Sir Wil- 
 loughby Patterne's estate. Throughout the book 
 there is a fine outdoor atmosphere. Yet the de- 
 scriptive hints from which we are enabled to 
 contrive a picture are of the briefest, and these 
 are always made an integral part of action or 
 dialogue. I cite a number of the widely sepa- 
 rated passages. Observe their extreme brevity, 
 and their reliance upon suggestion rather than 
 upon elaborate detail: 
 
 He led her about the flower-beds; too much 
 as if he were giving a convalescent an airing. 
 She chafed at it and pricked herself with re- 
 
i68 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 morse. In contrition she expatiated on the 
 beauty of the garden. 
 
 ''All is yours, my Clara." 
 
 An oppressive load it seemed to her! She 
 passively yielded to the man in his form of at- 
 tentive courtier; his mansion, estate, and wealth 
 overwhelmed her. They suggested the price to 
 be paid. Yet she recollected that on her last 
 departure through the park she had been proud 
 of the rolHng green and spreading trees. Poison 
 of some sort must be operating in her. She had 
 not come to him to-day with this feeling of 
 sullen antagonism; she had caught it here. 
 
 "Because, my dear boy," she said, leaning on 
 her elbow, "you are a very nice boy, but an un- 
 grateful boy, and there is no telling whether you 
 will not punish any one who cares for you. 
 Come along with me; pluck me some of these 
 cowslips and the speedwells near them; I think 
 we both love wild flowers." She rose and took 
 his arm. "You shall row me on the lake while 
 I talk to you seriously." 
 
 It was she, however, who took the sculls at 
 the boat-house, for she had been a playfellow 
 with boys, and knew that one of them engaged 
 in a manly exercise is not likely to listen to a 
 woman. 
 
 The opportunity was offered by Sir Willoughby. 
 Every morning after breakfast Miss Dale walked 
 across the park to see her father, and on this 
 occasion Sir Willoughby and Miss Middleton 
 went with her as far as the lake, all three dis- 
 
DESCRIPTION 169 
 
 coursing of the beauty of various trees, birches, 
 aspens, poplars, beeches, then in their new green. 
 Miss Dale loved the aspen. Miss Middleton the 
 beech, Sir Willoughby the birch, and pretty 
 things were said by each in praise of the favored 
 object, particularly by Miss Dale. So much so 
 that when she had gone on he recalled one of her 
 remarks, and said: ''I beHeve, if the whole place 
 were swept away to-morrow, Laetitia Dale could 
 reconstruct it and put those aspens on the north 
 of the lake in number and situation correctly 
 where you have them now. I would guarantee 
 her description of it in absence correct." 
 
 Laetitia tried another neutral theme. 
 
 *'The weather to-day suits our country," she 
 said. 
 
 ''England, or Patterne Park? I am so de- 
 voted to mountains that I have no enthusiasm 
 for flat land." 
 
 "Do you call our country flat, Miss Middle- 
 ton? We have undulations, hills, and we have 
 sufficient diversity, meadows, rivers, copses, 
 brooks, and good roads, and pretty by-paths." 
 
 "The prettiness is overwhelming. It is very 
 pretty to see; but to live with, I think I prefer 
 ugHness. I can imagine learning to love ugliness. 
 It's honest. However young you are, you can 
 not be deceived by it. These parks of rich peo- 
 ple are a part of the prettiness. I would rather 
 have fields, commons." 
 
 "The parks give us delightful green walks, 
 paths through beautiful woods." 
 
 "If there is a right-of-way for the public." 
 
I70 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 *' There should be," said Miss Dale, wondering; 
 and Clara cried: 
 
 " I chafe at restraint; hedges and palings every- 
 where! I should have to travel ten years to sit 
 down contented among these fortifications. Of 
 course I can read of this rich kind of English 
 country with pleasure in poetry. But it seems 
 to me to require poetry. What would you say 
 of human beings requiring it? " 
 
 Clara gazed over rolling richness of foliage, 
 wood and water, and a church-spire, a town, and 
 horizon hills. There sung a sky-lark. 
 
 "Not even the bird that does not fly away!'' 
 she said ; meaning, she had no heart for the bird 
 satisfied to rise and descend in this place. 
 
 He crossed a stile into the wood above the 
 lake, where, as he was in tlie humor to think 
 himself signally lucky, espying her, he took it 
 as a matter of course that the lady who taught 
 his heart to leap should be posted by the Fates. 
 And he wondered Httle at her power, for rarely 
 had the world seen such union of princess and 
 sylph as in that lady's figure. She stood holding 
 by a beech branch, gazing down on the water. 
 
 An instance analogous to this of Meredith is 
 that oi As You Like It, in which the woodland 
 setting is made vivid by means of but a few 
 touches. For more conventional passages of 
 swift and effective description, the student is 
 referred to Stevenson and Kipling. For elaborate 
 
DESCRIPTION 171 
 
 descriptive stories in which description dominates 
 action, he may consult Conrad, Turgenieff, and 
 Thomas Hardy. I shall quote, in conclusion, a 
 number of short passages to illustrate some of 
 the points brought out in our discussion: 
 
 . . . The two sleek, white well-bullocks in 
 the courtyard were steadily chewing the cud of 
 their evening meal; old Pir Khan squatted at 
 the head of Holden^s horse, his pohce sabre 
 across his knees, pulHng drowsily at a big water- 
 pipe that croaked like a bullfrog in a pond. 
 Ameera's mother sat spinning in the lower ve- 
 randa, and the wooden gate was shut and barred. 
 The music of a marriage-procession came to the 
 roof above the gentle hum of the city, and a 
 string of flying-foxes crossed the face of the low 
 moon. — (KipHng, Without Benefit of Clergy.) 
 
 Here the quality to be observed is the swift- 
 ness with which the scene is sketched. Kipling 
 has selected only a few details, but these suffi- 
 cient to give character to the scene. The effect 
 is one of heat, and beauty, and strangeness; 6f 
 domestic content shut in from the world without: 
 
 And this is how I see the East. I have seen 
 its secret places and have looked into its very 
 soul; but now I see it always from a small boat, 
 a high outline of mountains, blue and afar in the 
 morning; like faint mist at noon; a jagged wall 
 of purple at sunset. I have the feel of the oar in 
 my hand, the vision of a scorching blue sea in 
 
172 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 my eyes. And I see a bay, a wide bay, smooth 
 as glass and polished like ice, shimmering in the 
 dark. A red Kght burns far off upon the gloom 
 of the land, and the night is soft and warm. We 
 drag at the oars with aching arms, and suddenly 
 a puff of wind, a puff faint and tepid and laden 
 with strange odors of blossoms, of aromatic 
 wood, comes out of the still night — the first 
 sigh of the East on my face. That I can never 
 forget. It was impalpable and enslaving, like 
 a charm, like a whispered promise of mysterious 
 delight. — (Joseph Conrad, Youth.) 
 
 In this there is variety of sense appeal; the 
 whole weight of the description is not placed 
 upon vision alone. Also, and most important, 
 we catch the emotional resultant of the scene, 
 which serves to unify the selected details: 
 
 The frowsy chamber-maid of the ''Red Lion" 
 had just finished washing the front door steps. 
 She rose from her stooping posture, and, being 
 of slovenly habit, flung the water from her pail, 
 straight out, without moving from where she 
 stood. The smooth round arch of the falling 
 • water glistened for a moment in mid-air. John 
 Gourlay, standing in front of his new house at 
 the head of the brae, pould hear the swash of it 
 when it fell. The morning was of perfect still- 
 ness. 
 
 The hands of the clock across ''the Square" 
 were pointing to the hour of eight. They were 
 . yellow in the sun. 
 
DESCRIPTION 173 
 
 Blowsalinda, of the Red Lion, picked up 
 the big bass that usually lay within the porch 
 and, carrying it clumsily against her breast, 
 moved off round the corner of the public house, 
 her petticoat gaping behind. Half-way she 
 met the ostler with whom she stopped in amorous 
 daUiance. He said something to her, and she 
 laughed loudly and vacantly. The silly tee-hee 
 echoed up the street. 
 
 A moment later a cloud of dust drifting round 
 the corner, and floating white in the still air, 
 showed that she was pounding the bass against 
 the end of the house. All over the little town the 
 women of Barbie were equally busy with their 
 steps and door-mats. There was scarce a man 
 to be seen either in the square, at the top of 
 which Gourlay stood, or in the long street de- 
 scending from its near corner. The men were 
 at work; the children had not yet appeared; the 
 women were busy with their household cares. 
 
 The freshness of the air, the smoke rising thin 
 and far above the red chimneys, the sunshine 
 glistering on the roofs and gables, the rosy 
 clearness of everything beneath the dawn, above 
 all the quietness and peace, made Barbie, usually 
 so poor to see, a very pleasant place to look down 
 at on a summer morning. At this hour there was 
 an unfamiliar delicacy in the familiar scene, a 
 freshness and purity of aspect — alpiost-axL-un^-'' 
 earthliness — as though you viewed it through a 
 crystal dream. ... 
 
 L Through the big gate behind *him/ [Gourlay] 
 came the sound of carts being loaded for the day. 
 A horse weary of standing idle between the shafts, 
 
174 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 kicked ceaselessly and steadily against the ground 
 
 with one impatient hinder foot, clink, clink, 
 
 clink upon the paved yard. ''Easy, damn ye; 
 
 ye'U smash the bricks!" came a voice. Then 
 
 there was the smart slap of an open hand on a 
 
 sleek neck, a quick start, and the rattle of chains 
 
 as the horse quivered to the blow. — (Douglas, 
 
 The House with the Green Shutters,) 
 f 
 
 In the last description the descriptive point 
 
 of view is chiefly notable. It is early and clearly 
 
 indicated, and is strictly maintained throughout. 
 
 Thus the scene of the carters is told by means of 
 
 sound only, yet so clearly that we can visuaHze 
 
 it. We hear the chamber-maid's laughter, but 
 
 not her words, for we are too far away. When 
 
 she goes around the corner of the house, the 
 
 cloud of dust indicates that she is cleaning the 
 
 door-mat. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 DIALOGUE 
 
 Speech in short stories and novels must, first 
 of all, reveal character. It is by speech as well 
 as by action and analysis that personality is 
 made real to the reader. As the people of the 
 story differ one from another, so must their 
 speech be in character. The newsboy must not 
 speak like a poet; the sincere man must speak 
 sincerely, and the false friend reveal — to the 
 reader at least — his duplicity. This is not to 
 say that every word need bear, always, the stamp 
 of individuality. There are many occasions in 
 which the speech of one differs not at all from 
 the speech of another, in which no characteriza- 
 tion is possible. There is a common ground of 
 utterance of which all that is asked is that the 
 speech shall not be out of character. But in 
 many instances it must be something more, be 
 accurately significant and individual, conveying 
 unmistakably the personahty of the speaker, 
 who differs from every one else in the story. 
 That it should do this impHes, of course, that 
 175 
 
176 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 the writer enter truly into the hearts and speak 
 through the mouths of his characters. He must 
 be an actor skilled in many parts, which he can 
 lay aside at will. This power is fully realized 
 by Shakespeare, whose characters usually reveal 
 themselves with marked individuality, and are 
 eternally dififerent one from another. Othello 
 and lago differ not only in their deeds, but in 
 their speech as well. Act and word are aHke 
 characteristic. , 
 
 Yet the record of characteristic speech does 
 not suffice to constitute dialogue; the writer 
 must also advance his story. If he becomes ab- 
 sorbed in his dialogue he may devise conversa- 
 tion which interests the reader, but which, none 
 the less, retards the action. The proportions, 
 the true emphasis of his story, will suffer thereby. 
 The characters must set forth certain precon- 
 ceived situations. These must be adequately de- 
 veloped; neither must they be overemphasized. 
 Once a situation is clearly revealed the story pro- 
 ceeds to the development of a second. The 
 shorter the development, if adequate to the needs 
 of the story, the better. To achieve this dual 
 purpose of speech, characterization and develop- 
 ment of situation, is a difficult thing; yet in a 
 good story it may easily be remarked. The 
 passage from Markheim quoted in an earlier 
 chapter is a line instance. There we saw not 
 
DIALOGUE 177 
 
 only the character of the prospective murderer, 
 but were also enlightened by every speech as to 
 the impending action. Character development 
 and action proceeded hand in hand, mutually 
 interdependent. ,' 
 
 In the accomplishment of his story purpose 
 through dialogue, the writer must meet and over- 
 come several difficulties if he is to be clear, swift, 
 and at the same time achieve an effect of natural- 
 ness. In conversation we rely not upon words 
 alone, but upon tone of voice, gesture, and play 
 of feature. From these we interpret the impli- 
 cations of the thing said, the spirit which ani- 
 mates the words and gives them significance. 
 These are, so to speak, the context of the spoken 
 phrase. Herein lies one of the problems of the 
 story writer : he must learn to make his dialogue 
 convey not only superficial meanings, but the 
 very intent of the speaker. It is true that the 
 writer may describe the tone of the speaker, and 
 may even declare the intent, thus illuminating 
 the utterance, but to do this overmuch would 
 be to make the story tedious and slow. Instead 
 he must, for the most part, so phrase his dialogue 
 that without explanatory comment its meaning 
 and intent are unmistakable both to the other 
 persons of the story, and to the reader. This, 
 however, is but half the difficulty. 
 
 If we were to make a phonographic record of 
 
178 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 the conversation we hear in pubUc places, or at 
 social functions — on the street-car, in stores, or 
 at receptions and dinner parties — we should be 
 struck on rehearing it with its general inade- 
 quacy. From many words would emerge but a 
 slight kernel of meaning, and this often not clear 
 and unmistakable. We are poor speakers, most 
 of us, unable to express precisely what we mean. 
 Ours is not a rifle which pinks the bull's-eye of 
 meaning, but a shotgun aimed in a general direc- 
 tion, and from our scattered remarks perhaps 
 but one attains its proper objective. Our speech 
 is repetitious and inaccurate. 
 
 Were the story writer to take his conversation 
 unchanged from life, he would be long-winded. 
 It is his task to clarify the turbid and wasteful 
 flow of speech and direct it into exact channels. 
 His characters must speak to an end, and that 
 end must be swiftly and accurately realized. In 
 so far as dialogue attains this artistic perfection 
 it differs from the language of every day. It is 
 selective and interpretative rather than Hteral. 
 
 The writer should, then, set himself the task 
 of conveying in concise phrase the speaker's 
 thought, the intended meaning, rather than of 
 reporting with plausible accuracy the inadequate 
 spoken words. That he shall fail to do this is a 
 real danger if he is endowed with some gift of 
 auditory imagination, and can start his char- 
 
DIALOGUE 179 
 
 acters conversing with a degree of naturalness. 
 They will, then, too often take the story into 
 their own hands and talk to no profitable end; 
 the dialogue will become an end in itself. It is 
 a danger which besets young and clever writers 
 who are carried away by the reality of their own 
 creations. As a check upon this tendency the 
 writer must keep constantly before him the pur- 
 poses of dialogue — character revelation and the 
 advancement of the story action. 
 
 LiTERALNESS OF SPEECH 
 
 Let us now turn to another aspect of the 
 problem of effective dialogue, that of literalness 
 of speech. A phonographic record of chance 
 conversation would reveal, we said, the general 
 inadequacy and wordiness of normal speech. It 
 would reveal yet more; peculiarities of pronun- 
 ciation and diction, which we pass unheeding 
 when our attention is centred rather on the 
 meaning of speech than on its manner, would on 
 our record be apparent. There is a normal pro- 
 nunciation varying in different classes of society, 
 and a normal vocabulary, likewise variable, 
 which we individually approximate but to which 
 no one of us exactly conforms. All are possessed 
 of mannerisms to a greater or less degree. What 
 heed must the writer pay to these individual or 
 class differences? The question is not simple, 
 
i8o ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 for there are several considerations which must 
 be taken into account. 
 
 We may safely generalize to this extent: in a 
 story any departure from normal speech attracts 
 attention to itself; therefore all departure must 
 be intentional, must be for a legitimate pur- 
 pose. It may be that I have the bad habit of 
 pronouncing my a's flatly or of slurring the final 
 g of my participles. This peculiarity reveals a 
 slight departure from the best usage of English 
 speech, and bespeaks some inadequacy in my 
 training, or, it may be, only an imperfect ear, 
 which makes it difficult for me to reaHze my own 
 defects. Were my conversation recorded with 
 phonetic accuracy in a stor}^, my mistakes of 
 speech would attract attention. Is it legitimate 
 that they should do so? It is possible to con- 
 ceive instances in which so accurate a record 
 might be within the story's intent, but gener- 
 ally it is an irrelevant and unimportant mat- 
 ter. Specialists in phonetics are concerned with 
 such matters. The story -writer has another 
 purpose. 
 
 But let us take an extreme case. One of my 
 characters is a plantation negro who speaks a 
 marked dialect. Shall I record his utterance 
 accurately or shall I not? Perhaps I should, 
 first of all, consider my audience. If these are 
 Southerners, to whom this dialect is familiar, I 
 
DIALOGUE i8i 
 
 may be as literal as I please. If my audience is 
 a broader one, containing those unfamiliar with 
 the dialect, the task is more complicated. To 
 them the negro dialect is a strange tongue, known, 
 if at all, but slightly, and they must puzzle over 
 much of it. In any case it is sufficiently novel 
 to distract them from the story, from the con- 
 tent of speech to a mannerism. If the story- 
 action is of importance, its effectiveness is im- 
 paired thereby. What must be done? Shall 
 my plantation negro be made to speak simple 
 but correct English, or shall I modify his speech 
 somewhat? If the first, his speech is untrue to 
 reality; if the second, it is still untrue, but in 
 less degree. 
 
 Let us, for argument, select the second half of 
 the alternative, and endeavor to contrive a dia- 
 lect neither obscure nor bizarre, but sufficiently 
 characteristic to differentiate the speaker from 
 the other persons of the story. How must we go 
 about our task? The more difficult obscurities 
 must be modified, and but few mannerisms re- 
 tained, enough to suggest the nature of the true 
 speech, to give it flavor, but not sufficient to 
 make us pause as we read. The meaning of the 
 words should be apparent at a glance, so that 
 we may proceed with the story undeterred. 
 Such a dialect as we have devised must, of course, 
 be consistent with itself, and must be devoid of 
 
i82 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 peculiarities foreign to the original speech. Our 
 method has been to make it approximate normal 
 speech, while retaining a tincture of the original. 
 It is as though we should dilute it with a neu- 
 tral element; its character remains the same, its 
 potency is not so great. 
 
 It requires few and slight variations from the 
 normal to produce this distinctive quality of 
 dialect. The majority of writers who treat of 
 Scotch, Irish, or negro Hfe err on the side of 
 literalness. What, to a Scotchman, is simple 
 and intelligible enough, is to any one else largely 
 obscure. Thus we have the so-called "kail-yard 
 school" of Scotch realists. Their method is not 
 that of Stevenson or, to a lesser degree, Scott, 
 both Scotchmen, but writers not for their coun- 
 trymen alone. That the story should be intelli- 
 gible to his readers should be the writer^s chief 
 concern. If, to accomplish this, he must depart 
 from actuahty, let him do so. His story is not 
 a Uteral transcript from hfe, but an artificial 
 rearrangement of Ufe. 
 
 Yet we must not conclude from our generaliza- 
 tions thus far that dialect and class speech are 
 never to be accurately recorded for others than 
 those to whom that speech is famihar. There 
 are stories which have as their chief purpose to 
 portray background, manners of Hfe, and speech. 
 These stories are seldom of the first rank, and 
 
DIALOGUE 183 
 
 bear to the best stories about the relation that 
 a good photograph bears to a good painting. 
 Photographs, however, have their place and so, 
 too, these Hteral records of life. Their value lies 
 in the accuracy of the observed detail. To the 
 reader they are interesting chiefly by reason 
 of their novelty. Nowadays energetic, though 
 often imoriginal, writers seek out the less known 
 corners of the earth for the simple purpose of ex- 
 ploiting a fresh background. But stories pos- 
 sessed of this quality alone cannot long command 
 a hearing, and already the public wearies of dia- 
 lect, save, perhaps, as a device for the creation 
 of humor. Just as we find fantastic dress amus- 
 ing and the habits and dress of foreigners, so 
 do we find dialect humorous. We do not speak 
 as these people; their speech being unlike ours is, 
 therefore, absurd. 
 
 It would, perhaps, be interesting to trace in 
 English or American fiction the growth of literal- 
 ness in recording speech pecuHarities. We have 
 not here the space for so lengthy an examination. 
 It will suffice to point out that Washington 
 Irving and Hawthorne make no attempt to 
 catch dialect, with perhaps some consequent loss 
 in realism, and perhaps, some gain in unity of 
 impression. The negro dialect of Poe differs 
 considerably from that of Joel Chandler Harris 
 or Thomas Nelson Page — these last it seems to 
 
i84 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 me are on the whole too painstakingly accurate, 
 and are rather hard to read. I cite two examples 
 of Scotch dialect, the first from Scott, and the 
 second from Barrie. Scott seems to me to have 
 retained the flavor of the speech, and yet to have 
 made its understanding swift and easy. B arrie's 
 is closer to the soil, but attracts more attention to 
 itself. How true either is to life I cannot say. 
 The selection from Kipling illustrates the possi- 
 bilities of humor inherent in realistic class speech. 
 Again, just how true to life this may be I do not 
 know, nor is it a matter of any importance: 
 
 Sir Robert sat, or, I should say, lay, in a great 
 arm-chair, wi' his grand velvet gown, and his 
 feet on a cradle; for he had baith gout and gravel, 
 and his face looked as gash and ghastly as Satan's. 
 Major Weir sat opposite to him, in a red-laced 
 coat, and the laird's wig on his head; and aye 
 as Sir Robert girned wi' pain, the jackanape 
 girned too, like a sheep's head between a pair of 
 tangs — an ill-faur'd, fearsome couple they were. 
 The laird's buff-coat was hung on a pin behind 
 him, and his broadsword and his pistols within 
 reach; for he keepit up the auld fashion of having 
 the weapons ready, and a horse saddled day and 
 night, just as he used to do when he was able to 
 loup on horseback, and away after ony of the 
 hill-folk he could get speerings of. Some said it 
 was for fear of the Whigs taking vengeance, but 
 I judge it was just his auld custom — he wasna 
 gien to fear onything. The rental book, wi' its 
 
DIALOGUE 185 
 
 black cover and brass clasps, was lying beside 
 him; and a book of sculduddery sangs was put 
 betwixt the leaves, to keep it open at the place 
 where it bore evidence against the goodman of 
 Primrose Knowe, as behind the hand with his 
 mails and duties. Sir Robert gave my gudesire 
 a look, as if he would have withered his heart in 
 his bosom. Ye maun ken he had a way of bend- 
 ing his brows that men saw the visible mark of 
 a horseshoe in his forehead, deep-dinted, as if it 
 had been stamped there. — (Scott, Wandering 
 Willie's Tale.) 
 
 "Leeby kent perfectly weel," Jess has said, 
 *'*at it was a trial to Jamie to tak her ony gait, 
 an' I often used to say to her 'at I wonder at her 
 want o' pride in priggin' wi' him. Aye, but if 
 she could juist get a promise wrung oot o' him, 
 she didna care hoo muckle she had to prig. 
 Syne they quarreled, an' ane or baith o' them 
 grat (cried) afore they made up. I mind when 
 Jamie went to the fishin' Leeby was aye terrible 
 keen to go wi' him, but ye see he couldna be seen 
 gaen through the toon wi' her. *If ye let me 
 gang,' she said to him, 'I'll no seek to go through 
 the toon wi' ye. Na, I'll gang roond by the 
 roods an' you can tak the buryin'-ground road, 
 so as we can meet on the hill.' Yes, Leeby was 
 wiUin' to agree wi' a' that, juist to get gaen wi' 
 him. I've seen lassies makkin' themsel's sma' 
 for lads often enough, but I never saw ane 'at 
 prigged so muckle wi' her ain brother. Na, it's 
 other lassies' brothers they like as a rule." — 
 (Barrie, Leeby and Jamie.) 
 
i86 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 "I^m going out to say adoo to my girl," said 
 Lew to cap the climax. "Don't none o' you 
 touch my kit because it's wanted for active 
 service, me bein' specially invited to go by the 
 Colonel." 
 
 He strolled forth and whistled in the clump of 
 trees at the back of the Married Quarters till 
 Cris came to him, and, the preliminary kisses 
 being given and taken, Lew began to explain the 
 situation. 
 
 "I'm goin' to the front with the Reg'ment," he 
 said vaUantly. 
 
 "Piggy, you're a little liar," said Cris, but her 
 heart misgave her, for Lew was not in the habit 
 of l3dng. 
 
 "Liar yourself, Cris," said Lew, slipping an 
 arm round her. "I'm goin'. When the Reg'- 
 ment marches out you'll see me with 'em, all 
 galliant and gay. Give us another kiss, Cris, 
 on the strength of it." 
 
 "If you'd on'y a-stayed at the Depot — where 
 you ought to ha' been — you could get as many of 
 'em as — as you dam please," whimpered Cris, 
 putting up her mouth. 
 
 "It's 'ard, Cris. I grant you it's 'ard. But 
 what's a man to do? If I'd a-stayed at the 
 Depot, you wouldn't think anything of me." 
 
 "Like as not, but I'd 'ave you with me, Piggy. 
 An' all the thinkin' in the world isn't like kissin'." 
 
 "An' all the kissin' in the world isn't like 'avin' 
 a medal to wear on the front of your coat." 
 
 " You won't get no medal." 
 
 "Oh, yus, I shall though. Me an' Jakin are 
 the only acting-drummers that'll be took along. 
 
DIALOGUE 187 
 
 All the rest is full men, an' we'll get our medals 
 with them." 
 
 "They might ha' taken anybody but you, 
 Piggy. You'll get killed — you're so venture- 
 some. Stay with me, Piggy darlin', down at the 
 Depot, an' I'll love you true forever." — (Kipling, 
 The Drums oj the Fore and Aft.) 
 
 I have endeavored to make clear thus far that 
 speech in stories seldom corresponds literally 
 with the speech of every day. It is selected and 
 improved — standardized. Individual and class 
 peculiarities may, to be sure, be suggested to 
 some degree, this depending upon the character 
 of the story; but the color we bestow upon the 
 individual utterance is seldom more than a 
 tincture suggesting the human original. How 
 far this standardization may be carried in an in- 
 dividual instance cannot, of course, be made the 
 theme of a generalization. It is worth noting, 
 however, that we must at times almost com- 
 pletely standardize the speech of our characters, 
 and all writers might resort to the expedient 
 more frequently than they do. Consider the in- 
 stance of the foreigner speaking his native tongue. 
 
 What must be the writer's method when the 
 Grand Duke accosts the heroine in Russian? 
 Give the exact words of his greeting? This is 
 sometimes inconvenient; not all of us are familiar 
 with Russian. But the writer knows the Duke's 
 
i88 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 thoughts, and may, therefore, translate for us. 
 If the Grand Duke speaks good idiomatic Russian 
 there is no reason why his remarks should not be 
 rendered in idiomatic English. Too often the 
 author translates idiom literally, thus producing 
 a laughable and un-English dialect. Competent 
 writers, familiar with French or German, are 
 sometimes guilty of such a practice for humorous 
 purposes — a humor strictly analogous to the 
 misspellings of Josh Billings. The truly artistic 
 writer, however, translates into simple, idiotaatic 
 English, which serves easily and clearly to re- 
 veal the speaker's thoughts. Is not this transla- 
 tion of a foreign tongue analogous to the trans- 
 lation of a dialect of one's own tongue? 
 
 In the employment of a standardized language 
 as common to characters drawn from all classes 
 of society and various environments, are we not, 
 however, losing something of the flavor of reality, 
 the true quality of Hfe as we experience it? 
 There is justice in such a demurrer. Certainly 
 it would be unwise to dogmatize overmuch, for 
 the exceptions to the rule would be outstanding. 
 We must make clear some principle upon which 
 to base our practice; and this, I think, has been 
 implicit, if not explicit, in our discussion: the 
 degree of literalness advisable in the speech of 
 story characters is dependent always upon the 
 audience and the aim of the story. The audi- 
 
DIALOGUE 189 
 
 ence may, or may not, be so familiar with the 
 form of speech employed as to grasp its content 
 easily and wholly. Further, the theme of the 
 story and its tone must determine the character 
 of the speech. If the writer is concerned mostly 
 with manners, with external and superficial 
 things, the form of speech he permits his char- 
 acters may be as near that of reahty as he sees 
 fit to make it. The more his story concerns it- 
 self with deep and universal themes, the less 
 should the manner of speech distract our atten- 
 tion from these. Contrast is, however, always 
 possible, the gravity of the theme contrasting 
 with the inadequacy of the speech, and gaining 
 in power and suggestion thereby. 
 
 After all, it is not by class differences in speech 
 that we chiefly distinguish the servant from the 
 capitalist. The difference lies in the attitude of 
 mind, the one deferential and the other lordly; 
 and this attitude may be best caught not by 
 superficial differences in word and intonation, but 
 by the thought and emotion expressed. The 
 transportation official on boat or railway may 
 speak the same English as I, but his spirit is 
 haughty and intolerant, and mine is humble 
 before him; my deference is shown best by the 
 stumbling question which I put to him, his dis- 
 dain by the hard-clipt reply. There is here a 
 difference in attitude and phrasing, though none 
 
ipo ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 in the pronunciation or the selection of words. 
 It is a more vital difference, one both individual 
 and functional. The skilled writer can convey 
 a man's class and personality in a phrase, and 
 this in nowise peculiar as English. A single 
 fine example occurs to me from Maupassant's 
 The Necklace. The husband of the heroine is 
 given to remark with satisfaction as he seats 
 himself at dinner, "Ah, the good stew!" Could 
 any phrase be more enlightening? We conceive 
 the man to be hopelessly middle- class and un- 
 aspiring, content with his shabby lot, content 
 with his home, with himself, and with his wife. 
 He is both an individual and a member of a 
 class, for in his exclamation he reveals both un- 
 mistakably. Immediately we understand the 
 irritation of his ambitious wife. He was not one 
 to be caught by the glamour of fashion! Doubt- 
 less this is a striking instance, but it illustrates 
 the possibilities of suggestion lying within com- 
 mon speech, speech unmarked with dialect or 
 class pecuUarities. 
 
 The Key of Dialogue 
 
 It is but a step from the foregoing discussion 
 to what Stevenson calls "the key of dialogue," 
 by which is meant the tone of conversation — 
 whether it be base, commonplace, or elevated, 
 realistic or romantic, tragic or in the vein of 
 
DIALOGUE 191 
 
 light comedy. Thus in Shakespeare the comic 
 characters speak usually in prose and employ the 
 diction appropriate thereto. Prince Hal, in the 
 earlier scenes with Falstaff, talks the language 
 of the tavern; later, when he becomes king, his 
 words are kingly. Something the same is true 
 of a story. The writer endeavors to make his 
 dialogue in keeping with the theme of his story, 
 and this appropriateness involves to some de- 
 gree subject-matter, and to a greater degree 
 manner of speech. 
 
 It is difficult in seeking illustrations of subject- 
 matter, to cite instances which must always be 
 in point. Conceivably any subject may be a 
 fitting theme of discussion in some story or 
 play. In the plays of Brieux, for example, 
 topics are discussed which are usually considered 
 fit only for medical books. Yet in these plays 
 we do not feel that the discussion is out of place; 
 the themes are essential to the play, and the 
 manner of their discussion is such as to provoke 
 grave interest. Any theme, we might declare, 
 will serve for discussion if in the right place. 
 The difficult thing is to determine the right place. 
 What flagrant offences to taste may be committed 
 in story and drama the Hterature of the day at- 
 tests. The drama in particular is guilty. It 
 resorts persistently to the problem of sex relar 
 tionships; yet in comedies how seldom is the 
 
192 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 subject discussed in good taste. It is not that 
 the relations of men and women, married and 
 unmarried, do not afford capital themes for 
 comedy, but there are many graver aspects 
 which may be approached only with caution. 
 A false turn to the dialogue and the result is 
 vulgarity, not humor. 
 
 If the story is concerned with lofty action the 
 hero may not appropriately speak of the tooth- 
 ache. Not that the tooth-ache is a thing to make 
 light of, but we feel that it is essentially trivial 
 in its ultimate significance, whereas many a 
 thing seemingly less important may be significant 
 and so in keeping. Thus a bizarre dream may 
 be appropriate for discussion, for a dream is to 
 some degree significant of thought, and so, it 
 may be, prophetic of action to come. Or a 
 point of etiquette may not be trivial, for manners 
 may indicate character or signify amiable or 
 hostile intent. In short, the theme of conver- 
 sation must be in the tone of the story. If the 
 story is light and trivial it may not deal with the 
 problems of the universe. If serious or tragic 
 there must be no admission of trivial or petty 
 subjects — save perhaps for contrast, and, occa- 
 sionally, pathos, which may be so secured at 
 times. This is no more than to say, perhaps, 
 that the writer must be possessed of taste. 
 
 Yet life is notoriously in bad, or at least mixed^ 
 
DIALOGUE 193 
 
 taste. You attend a funeral. Your mood is one 
 of grief; your thoughts are upon conduct and 
 religion, and kindred themes. All the time you 
 are conscious, in the scene about you, of absurd 
 and incongruous details. The accoutrements of 
 death, the absurd hearse with its plumes and 
 mock curtains, the hideous garb of mourning, the 
 attitudes and expression of those in grief — all 
 these clash with the genuine though not over- 
 whelming emotion which you feel. Your own 
 personality is not subject altogether to its domi- 
 nant mood; unconsciously you note the incon- 
 gruities about you, and your mind suggests 
 humorous possibilities and irrelevancies. This 
 is true, is it not, unless one emotion is so domi- 
 nant as to exclude all else? Life is mixed of all 
 emotions and of congruous and incongruous 
 things. 
 
 The writer improves on life in that he frees 
 action and emotion, and so, consequently, speech, 
 of irrelevancies. It is his function to make life 
 congruous. Therefore must his characters speak 
 upon topics in harmony with the central theme 
 and not of things which will arouse conflicting 
 emotions. The writer is seeking to make a uni- 
 fied impression, and so he takes care that every- 
 thing shall contribute to that impression, no 
 touch suggesting incongruous associations hostile 
 to his aim. He may, of course, wish to create a 
 
194 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 mixed impression and so adopt a mixed style. 
 This is legitimate, and therein lie possibiUties of 
 contrast. Usually, however, his object is sim- 
 pler, and his danger that of incongruity. He 
 must guard against themes which may arouse 
 in the reader emotions hostile to the one he 
 seeks. He cannot, of course, do this with cer- 
 tainty, for some of his readers will have the most 
 imexpected and unconventional emotions asso- 
 ciated with common objects. Whereas pine-trees 
 are usually regarded as sombre and funereal, 
 the mention of them may evoke in some the ut- 
 most hilarity. Against this individual variant 
 there h no defence, but the writer should be 
 sufficiently wide-awake to the associations which 
 various topics will arouse in the average mind. 
 Thus Coleridge's poem upon the young ass has 
 never been reverently approached by the major- 
 ity of readers. 
 
 More subtle and difficult is the problem of the 
 speech itself. Language, besides denoting spe- 
 cific thoughts, is a tissue of connotations; that is, 
 of associated meanings, and of these the writer 
 should have a broad and accurate knowledge. 
 A mere range of vocabulary does not make a 
 stylist. He must know the current values of 
 speech, its colloquial and slang uses as well as 
 its noble and its poetic implications. No writer 
 can afford not to read good English, nor, I believe 
 
DIALOGUE 195 
 
 can he afford not to know colloquial and even 
 bad English. All are but forms of expression, as 
 both viohn and jew's-harp are instruments of 
 music, both capable, perhaps, of effective em- 
 ployment in the hands of Richard Strauss. But 
 the writer must know very accurately what is 
 good and what is not, what is slangy, and what 
 is colloquial but sound. Thus the phrase "to 
 start something" means in slang to make a dis- 
 turbance or trouble, though in their natural 
 state the words have no such idiomatic meaning. 
 A careful writer would, in a serious passage, 
 seek to avoid this form of words in its literal 
 meaning, even were it not unfit by reason of its 
 vagueness. He would seek at some inconve- 
 nience to find an adequate substitute happily free 
 from incongruous meanings and associations. 
 
 This is a trivial instance, but typical enough. 
 Any writer who wishes a command of his native 
 speech must master such values, as well as dis- 
 tinctions more elegant. The study is endless, 
 for the values of speech are ever changing. His 
 ear must be trained to speech as that of the musi- 
 cian is trained to gradations of tone, for upon his 
 nice use of words in their connotation as well as 
 their denotation, depends the tone and signif- 
 icance of every utterance. 
 
 The classes of words are various and many. We 
 have slangy speech, colloquial speech, localisms. 
 
196 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 dialects, various types of professional speech, 
 learned words and popular words, poetic words 
 and prosy words. And the problem of mastery 
 is made more difficult in that many words be- 
 long at one and the same time to several classes, 
 and in combination take on various shades of 
 meaning. What Stevenson doubtless meant, 
 when he declared that the writer must pitch his 
 dialogue to a certain key, was not only that he 
 must select suitable and congruous themes for 
 discussion, but that he must select his words to 
 harmonize. In a story of exalted action or 
 poetic theme, slang and colloquialisms are out 
 of place. In a story of quiet reahsm the speech 
 may be homely and colloquial. Here exagger- 
 ated or poetic diction would be as much out of 
 keeping as would be slang in the first instance. 
 
 The young writer is as prone to err in one 
 direction as the other. In his simple story of 
 rural life he makes his characters talk as do the 
 kings of Shakespeare; in his fairy tale he im- 
 ports the language of the street. The remedy 
 lies in reading, in training the ear to an appre- 
 ciation of the subtleties of speech. Only from a 
 knowledge of the practice of the best writers will 
 he be able to select words which are harmonious 
 and appropriate in every instance. 
 
 Our discussion has, it seems, transcended the 
 question of dialogue, and treated of diction in 
 
DIALOGUE 197 
 
 somewhat broader terms. But stories are not 
 told in dialogue alone. The writer telling the 
 story in his own person is subject to the same 
 restrictions. His narrative must be in key with 
 the speech of his characters. A final quotation 
 from Stevenson's Letters will serve by way of 
 summary to emphasize the point: 
 
 Yes, honestly, fiction is very difficult; it is a 
 terrible strain to carry your characters all the 
 time. And the difficulty of according the narra- 
 tive and the dialogue (in a work of the third 
 person) is extreme. That is one reason out of 
 half a dozen why I so often prefer the first. It 
 is much in my mind just now, because of my 
 last work, just off the stocks three days ago, 
 The Ehh Tide: a dreadful, grimy business in the 
 third person, where the strain between a vilely 
 realistic dialogue and a narrative style pitched 
 about (in phrase) "four notes higher" than it 
 should have been has sown my head with grey 
 hairs; or I believe so — if my head escaped, my 
 heart has them. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 TYPES OF STORY IDEAS 
 
 Classification of story themes into a small 
 but inclusive number of types is a not uncom- 
 mon practice in books upon story technic. We 
 have stories of the contest of man with man, 
 of man with fate, and similar groupings as you 
 please. This method of classification, however, 
 takes no account of the thought processes in- 
 herent in the creative act. A more profitable 
 grouping for our purposes will be one which con- 
 cerns itself with the inception of the story, and 
 the method of story development by which the 
 writer realizes his intent. Stories so classified 
 fall into five groups : stories of action, character, 
 setting, idea, and emotional effect. It will be 
 possible, I think, to show that all stories fall into 
 one or another of these divisions. 
 
 Stories of action constitute the greater part of 
 all stories, both long and short. Thus the Odyssey, 
 Grimm^s Fairy Tales, The Arabian Nights, Robin- 
 son Crusoe, the novels of Dumas and Scott, and 
 short stories innumerable are narratives of action. 
 198 
 
TYPES OF STORY IDEAS 199 
 
 That IS not to say that these ignore character and 
 setting, nor, again, that stories of other types are 
 devoid of action. It is a question of emphasis, 
 and back of that, the story inception. Homer 
 took as his theme the wanderings of Ulysses; 
 De Foe imagined a man to be shipwrecked on a 
 desert island. Kipling in The Man Who Would 
 Be King imagined the adventures of a white man 
 who, in a savage corner of the globe, set himself 
 up as ruler. In each instance the writer was 
 chiefly interested in the action, and sought to 
 develop a series of incidents which might fittingly 
 set forth the action theme which was the germ 
 of the story. To this end all other interests are 
 subordinated, and it is with the action, there- 
 fore, that the reader is concerned. 
 
 Let us examine the creative process more 
 specifically. I desire to write a story of action 
 and am seeking a fit theme. In the newspaper 
 I read the ancient tale of the young woman who 
 flagged the train just short of the broken bridge; 
 of the wealthy yachtsman who has fitted out an 
 expedition to seek the buried treasure of Captain 
 Kydd; of the suitor who disguised himself as a 
 footman or a chauffeur to be near his lady-love 
 despite parental objection. Or I may imagine 
 circumstances equally diverting: the story of 
 the sheriff who pursues Bad Bill, the outlaw, 
 and traps him by quaint device (this yet to be 
 
200 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 invented). Again, a story of quiet action: a 
 young man falls in love with a photograph (an 
 ancient theme), and seeking to discover the 
 original finds her to be a girl he already knows, 
 but whom, in the photograph, he has failed to 
 recognize. The themes are endless; every day 
 we have innumerable suggestions, not all good, 
 to be sure, and many, like those suggested, al- 
 ready employed a hundred times. But wherever 
 I find my theme, my interest has been centred in 
 the compHcation of the story, in its incidents, 
 and if I develop it, my creative act consists in 
 elaborating and relating the action. Only inci- 
 dentally do I create character and imagine an ap- 
 propriate background. These are of secondary 
 importance to me, and will be so to my readers, 
 if I hold a just emphasis as I write. 
 
 Suppose, however, my story has its inception 
 in character. Here, again, the idea may spring 
 from specific observation or from the unaided 
 imagination. If observation, the creative proc- 
 ess may be this: in Smith, m^ neighbor, I am 
 struck by an extreme conscientiousness. He 
 performs his every duty with painstaking thor- 
 oughness. There are other quaUties in Smith 
 which, for my purposes, are irrelevant. He is 
 rather forgetful, and has neglected to repay the 
 three dollars he once borrowed of me; and I, 
 knowing his sensitiveness, will never remind him. 
 
TYPES OF STORY IDEAS 201 
 
 For my story Smith is a man with the one domi- 
 nant quality, conscientiousness. I then con- 
 ceive a man resembling Smith, but freed of his 
 forge tfulness and other distracting traits. Him 
 I place in a situation which will try him to the 
 utmost, reveal the full potentialities of his char- 
 acter in the one direction. It may be that life 
 has never tried the real Smith in such fashion. 
 In my story, therefore, I present my creation 
 with a conflict of choices, let us say one of love 
 and duty. The love may be for wife or child, 
 the situation sufficiently vital that if he follow 
 the dictates of his conscience his love must 
 suffer in the person of wife or son. The situation 
 turns upon this choice. I supply any one of a 
 dozen sets of circumstances to set forth the con- 
 flict. Smith may be a judge on the bench, and 
 commit his son to prison ; he may cause his wife's 
 arrest for smuggling laces through the custom 
 house. The incidents are of secondary impor- 
 tance; my object is to reveal the soul of Smith. 
 Thus the theme of my story has been character, 
 and I have sought to invent circumstances which 
 will reveal character. 
 
 This is the method followed by many a story 
 writer. Turgenieff, for instance, has a story en- 
 titled A Lear of the Steppes in which the chief 
 character does as the mad king, and suffers as 
 he. The drcumstances are different, of course; 
 
202 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 the whole manner of life and the setting are 
 totally unlike those of the play. Again, Turge- 
 nieff writes of a Russian Hamlet, a man of dis- 
 eased will. The procedure is this: to conceive 
 an interesting character and then to reveal that 
 character in suitable incidents and situations. 
 The reader is interested in the action, as is the 
 author, primarily as a means to an end, not as 
 an end in itself. Stevenson's Markheim, already 
 quoted in another connection, is a story of this 
 type,* his, A Lodging for the Night a second. 
 Examples may be found on every hand. To 
 mention but one more, already discussed, Mau- 
 passant's The Coward is an excellent illustration 
 of the method. But though the examples are 
 obvious enough, it is well to remember that the 
 writers achieve their effects only by a rigid ad- 
 herence to the germinal idea. If, in a story of 
 character, the action should assume a command- 
 ing place in the reader's attention, the story 
 would be less effective. As character portrayal 
 is the goal, all else must be subordinated to it. 
 The third t3^e of story, that of setting or 
 background, is not so common as the story of 
 character and far less common than the story 
 of action. The theme has its origin in some 
 such manner as this. As I ride through the 
 East End of London toward West Ham I am 
 • It may also be classed as a story of idea. 
 
TYPES OF STORY IDEAS 203 
 
 impressed by the dreary monotony of the scene: 
 the endless rows of brick cottages, ugly, and 
 fashioned all alike; the dusty streets, the dearth 
 of trees and grass. It is respectable enough, not 
 a slum, but depressingly uniform and, seemingly, 
 utterly hopeless. I resolve to write a story ex- 
 pressive of the dreary monotony of the life which 
 must be lived here. However, as I do not know 
 English life accurately, I transfer my story to a 
 similar district of Chicago with which I am more 
 familiar. And I endeavor to make my story 
 express what the setting suggests to me. I select 
 my incidents with this in view, rigidly excluding 
 such as are not in keeping — those cheerful, gay, 
 and hopeful. My characters, too, must harmo- 
 nize. They are the product of the environment 
 which I depict. In this fashion I endeavor to 
 create a unity of impression and to subordinate 
 everything to the background so that my reader, 
 as he leaves the story, will carry away, as his 
 chief impression, a visual image of the place for 
 which I have interpreted one of the meanings. 
 
 Yet I need not always make my incidents and 
 characters harmonize with the scene, for there is 
 a single alternative. It may be that life in the 
 environment I have selected is gay and hopeful, 
 not unlike life in better-favored surroundings — 
 or at any rate I may imagine it to be so. Then 
 I can use my gray setting for contrast, a back- 
 
204 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 ground against which the varicolored tints of 
 life appear all the more vivid. Contrast is al- 
 ways a possible alternative to uniformity. 
 
 Our illustration may, however, be misleading 
 to some. Any setting which prompts a story im- 
 pulse will serve, and the impulses may be many 
 and utterly diverse. There are romantic scenes 
 calling for romantic stories to do them justice; 
 scenes ideally suited to tender love stories; 
 scenes which suggest mystery and horror; and 
 scenes which call for humorous treatment be- 
 cause of their whimsicaHty or absurdity. What- 
 ever it is the writer may feel, his obUgation and 
 method are clear; he must devise a story to fit 
 the scene, or, as an alternative, one which con- 
 trasts sharply with it. The second is the more 
 difficult to do, but is the more effective if done 
 well. 0. Henry, in some of his excellent stories, 
 J achieves notable effects in contrast, a theme pa- 
 thetic or tragic contrasting with bizarre and in- 
 congruous surroundings. 
 
 Of stories illustrative of setting, two or three 
 may be cited in conclusion. Poe's Fall of the 
 House of Usher would seem to have originated in 
 the sight of some old and melancholy mansion 
 falling into decay which prompts the author to 
 contrive a story in harmony with it, and ex- 
 pressive of it. This, at least, is the probable 
 origin of the story if we may judge from the 
 
TYPES OF STORY IDEAS 205 
 
 title, the descriptive emphasis upon the house, 
 and the picture which haunts the reader when 
 the story is done. Of Stevenson's Merry Men 
 there can be no doubt, for the author remarks in 
 his letters that the story was written to convey 
 a sense of the terror of the sea upon a wild coast,* 
 and that he had a specific place in mind as he 
 wrote. The action he designed to harmonize 
 with and express the scene. Moreover, it is the 
 picture of the place which he wished to make 
 memorable. This it is which we remember when 
 all else of the story is forgotten: 
 
 **My uncle himself is not the story as I see it, 
 only the leading episode of that story. It's 
 really a story of wrecks, as they appear to the 
 dweller on the coast. It's a view of the sea." 
 
 Conrad's story. Heart of Darkness, previously 
 mentioned, is also an excellent example of this 
 type. 
 
 Yet though the notable examples we have dis- 
 cussed are among the few of whose origin and 
 intent we can be certain, there can be no doubt 
 that place has more than a little to do with the 
 germination of many a story to be classed pri- 
 marily as one of character or action. A story 
 
 *This, again, might serve to classify the story as one of 
 emotional efifect. Undoubtedly scene and emotion go hand 
 in hand here, not to be divorced, and either may have been 
 the prime impulse. 
 
2o6 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 theme may lie undeveloped in the mind for 
 long and then of a sudden coalesce with some 
 fitting scene, and in a moment a story is created. 
 Here it would be unsafe to declare the scene a 
 prime cause of the story, but that it was vital to 
 the act of creation is none the less true. Nor 
 can we say how often setting is present in the 
 author's mind as he plans the action of his story. 
 Often it may be indefinite and yet color the 
 story and determine the choice and nature of the 
 incidents. 
 
 Stories of idea, a fourth classification, are, I 
 believe, of growing importance; to me they are 
 the most interesting. Let us see how such 
 stories originate. They are the result, usually, 
 of the author's generalized observations of life. 
 From his experience the author comes, perhaps, 
 to the conclusion that young people, unable to 
 understand their elders, are cruel and hard in 
 their judgments of them. This is not a novel 
 idea, but it is none the less powerful if to the 
 author it comes afresh and with individual sig- 
 nificance. About it he frames a story which is 
 to set forth and illustrate his theme. The story 
 may be humorous or tragic or in a mixed tone 
 of quiet reaHsm. The incidents may be many 
 and various, for innumerable plots might be de- 
 signed, all expressive of this single idea. It is 
 with the theme that the writer is most concerned. 
 
TYPES OF STORY IDEAS 207 
 
 and this he tries to express not in so many words 
 as in an abstract moral, but as a living truth 
 which the reader will phrase for himself upon 
 reading the story, just as the writer appreciated 
 it from his observation of life. 
 
 Innumerable abstract ideas may serve as story 
 texts, preferably such as have come to the writer 
 from his own observation of life though not 
 necessarily so. He may, for instance, take the 
 proverb "honesty is the best policy" and write 
 a story to prove or to disprove the thesis. Or he 
 may choose Mark Twain^s "be good and you'll 
 be lonesome," and base thereon a story humorous 
 or tragic. Nor need the ideas be so abstract or 
 generahzed. It is possible to set forth in story 
 form, that in the city one loses the interest in 
 his neighbor which is characteristic of the coun- 
 try; that in the country one does not appreciate, 
 as in the city, the sacrifice of selfish interests to 
 the commonweal. The possible themes are in- 
 finite, and each writer will select those which 
 appeal to him most strongly, which seem most 
 true and significant. Once he has selected his 
 theme he invents action wherewith to set it forth, 
 a harmonious setting, and suitable characters. 
 But as the idea was the inception of the story it 
 will dominate his selection throughout, for he 
 will wish, without phrasing it in so many words, 
 to make it apparent to the reader, and so will 
 
2o8 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 take care not to cloud or confuse it by irrelevant 
 or contradictory incidents or characters. 
 
 Stories of this type are innumerable, and I 
 need cite few to illustrate the point. Maupas- 
 sant's Necklace is an admirable though enig- 
 matical example. The author's purpose was, 
 I take it, to reveal his philosophy, his attitude 
 to life. It was not a cheerful philosophy, one 
 which may be summarized in some such fashion 
 as this: Hfe is senselessly tragic, filled with pain 
 out of all measure with its desert. It is a spec- 
 tacle to afford amusement to a cynical creator; 
 or perhaps there is no creator and all is unde- 
 signed, a mere matter of chance, pain or pleas- 
 ure dispensed haphazard. This seems to be the 
 philosophy back of the story and may, definitely 
 formulated, have guided Maupassant to the selec- 
 tion of appropriate incident for its expression. 
 It is also possible that some incident similar to 
 that of the lost necklace may have come within 
 his notice. This he refashioned and shaped, 
 guided in so doing by the philosophy he wished 
 to express. It is unlikely that the true incident 
 bore a close resemblance to the finished story. 
 It is equally unlikely that Maupassant worked 
 intuitively. His purpose was, I think, very 
 clear to him, however much we may puzzle over 
 it according to the degree of our understanding. 
 
 Illustrations of idea stories more obvious and 
 
TYPES OF STORY IDEAS 209 
 
 less open to dispute, are such as the following: 
 Hale's The Man without a Country, Hawthorne's 
 The Birthmark and The Great Stone Face, Poe's 
 The Purloined Letter, Stevenson's Will 0' the 
 Mill and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and Kipling's 
 Wireless. Any story with a clearly recognizable 
 purpose is, of course, a story of idea — generally 
 not a good one, for the idea should be so merged 
 with action that our interest is absorbed in the 
 story for its own sake, and we feel as we read 
 that we are developing unusual powers of insight 
 and speculation. An idea so expressed that the 
 reader thinks its discovery original with himself 
 is one artistically conveyed. In The Necklace 
 my interpretation may not coincide with yours, 
 for the writer would deem it poor art to be too 
 explicit. But both your idea and mine doubtless 
 passed through his mind. In The Man without 
 a Country the idea, or in this case the moral, is 
 only too apparent, and the story therefore fails 
 somewhat artistically. It was, however, a story 
 with a timely purpose, and the author doubtless 
 thought that it was well to be explicit. Had it 
 been less obvious it might not have been under- 
 stood by some for whom it was intended. 
 
 Stories of emotional effect constitute our fifth 
 group. I have been somewhat hesitant of mak- 
 ing this classification, for stories of this type 
 may, with but a slight stretch of definition, be 
 
2IO ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 classed as stories of idea. Moreover, all stories 
 aim at an emotional effect, though this may not 
 be the sole purpose nor inspire the story.* How- 
 ever, the classification is based on no less an au- 
 thority than Poe, and there is, too, some differ- 
 ence in creative intent and in method between 
 this class of stories and stories of idea. Poe's 
 illustration is The Raven, a poem in which he 
 sought to arouse in the reader an appreciation of 
 beauty tinged with sadness — the mood, that is, of 
 gentle melancholy. He therefore chose his sub- 
 ject, selected his incidents, setting, and refrain, all 
 with this end in view. A similar method and 
 intent may be the story writer's. His initial pur- 
 pose may be merely to create in the reader an 
 emotion of sentimental content. He will then 
 select subject-matter which seems to him appro- 
 priate: young love, spring-time, innocence, and 
 trust; or domestic happiness, the joy of children, 
 and the simple pleasures of home life. These or 
 similar things are the materials from which he 
 creates plot and devises characters appropriate to 
 his intended effect: the creation of an emotion 
 such as he himself feels as he writes. 
 
 If his purpose is to arouse horror and fear, his 
 
 materials may be night and superstition, ghosts 
 
 and crimes — all the materials which create in the 
 
 reader a fear of the unknown. Again, his mood 
 
 * See chapter XIII, " Unity of Tone." 
 
TYPES OF STORY IDEAS 211 
 
 may be ironically humorous, and he will then 
 select incidents which will reveal the foibles and 
 petty shams of humanity, the gulf between reality 
 and pretence. The starting-point for the story 
 in such a case will be only an attitude toward life, 
 or a dominant emotion. For the rest the creation 
 of the story will be a matter of intelligent selec- 
 tion of appropriate incident, a scant equipment, 
 seemingly, for a story beginning. In practice 
 the author is seldom so self-conscious and de- 
 liberate as has been intimated. Rather his atti- 
 tude toward hf e leads him unconsciously to select 
 themes and to devise situations which enable him 
 to express himself. The degree of consciousness 
 must vary greatly with the writer. Poe seems 
 always to have been aware of what he was doing, 
 and so with some others, the best artists because 
 the most deliberate. Those less aware of their 
 own methods will prove more uneven in quality, 
 for not being definitely conscious of their purpose 
 they are more easily led astray, beguiled by the 
 imagination to the selection of inappropriate ele- 
 ments. When the choice is happy they are, per- 
 haps, capable of better work than the deliberate 
 artists, for they give less the cold effect of de- 
 signed artistry. If a man is never carried away 
 by his own emotions he cannot hope always to 
 sway his readers.* 
 
 ♦ See chapter XIII, " Unity of Tone." 
 
212 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 It may be hard to determine with certainty 
 stories which originated in the sole design of 
 creating an emotional effect. Poe imdoubtedly 
 so planned various of his tales of horror and mys- 
 tery, The Black Cat serving, possibly, as an ex- 
 ample. Stevenson may sometimes have been so 
 guided, as in The Suicide Club or The Body- 
 Snatcher. Maupassant, in Moonlight^ was, I 
 think, similarly guided. The title would seem 
 to indicate that he deliberately contrived a 
 story expressive of the beauty and romance of 
 a moonlight night. This may, of course, be 
 considered a story illustrative of setting. A 
 further discussion of the place held by emo- 
 tional purpose in story-construction will be 
 found in the chapter on ''Unity of Tone.'* 
 What we have here set forth will suffice for 
 the moment. 
 
 Let us summarize to this point: stories may 
 originate in action, character, scene, idea, or emo- 
 tion. Whatever may be the germinal impulse, 
 the story should, in its development, seek to make 
 that impulse clear by subordinating all else to its 
 expression and so transforming intention to ef- 
 fect. A story of action should interest by reason 
 of its incidents and complications; a story of 
 character by its revelations of personality; and 
 so with the other forms. Strength and effective- 
 ness are dependent in large part upon the elimi- 
 
TYPES OF STORY IDEAS 213 
 
 nation of whatever is not germane to the writer's 
 immediate purpose. It is then necessary that he 
 know what that purpose is and make everything 
 in his story conform to it. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 TITLES AND NAMES 
 
 An appropriate and attractive title has no 
 little to do with the effectiveness of a story. In 
 recollection, story and title are so associated as 
 scarcely to be thought of apart. This being so, a 
 title is not to be selected lightly; we may say, in- 
 deed, that a good story can have but one effective 
 and suitable title. No second choice would be so 
 good, as a synonym is never so effective as the 
 one right word in style. But as titles are of all 
 sorts and conditions, we must review some of 
 them to decide upon the principles which deter- 
 mine an appropriate selection. 
 
 There is, first of all, the title drawn from the 
 name of the chief character: Guy Mannering^ 
 Daniel Deronda, Adam Bede, Lorna Doone, Jane 
 Eyre, Tom J ones , and a host of novels; of short 
 stories, Markheim, Ligeia, Colonel StarboUle, Mar- 
 jory Daw, Phoebe, Marse Chan, Rip Van Winkle, 
 and many more. Short stories do not so often 
 take their titles from the names of characters as 
 do long, and the reason is apparent. Whereas a 
 214 
 
TITLES AND NAMES 215 
 
 novel may concern itself with the development 
 of a personality and thus appropriately derive its 
 title, a short story, attempting less, usually can- 
 not with a just signification take a single name as 
 descriptive of its theme. The name would often 
 imply too much; the story does not attempt to 
 develop all of a character but to set forth a situa- 
 tion in the life of that character. 
 
 A character title is simple and unpretentious; 
 it is also short; and these are virtues. It is not, 
 however, highly interesting in itself alone, nor 
 does it arouse curiosity. Once the story is read 
 the title may seem imbued with meaning; then it 
 has value. But unless the name is peculiar or 
 arresting, as Oliver Twist or Martin Chuzzlewit, 
 it does not provoke interest. In a short story, 
 therefore, the name is more often qualified and a 
 situation involving the character is suggested. 
 Thus we have The Madness of Private Ortheris, 
 The Incarnation of Krishna Mulvaney, Tod^s 
 Amendment, The Madness of Phillip, and the like. 
 Such titles are more specific and limited than 
 name alone. They suggest something of the 
 nature of the story. 
 
 Names of place, if the story is most concerned 
 with setting, are often appropriate as titles. Thus 
 of novels: Bleak House, The House of Seven Ga- 
 bles, The House on the Marsh, The House with the 
 Green Shutters, The Mill on the Floss, Middle- 
 
2i6 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 march, Cranford, The Garden of Allah, A Window 
 in Thrums — to mention but a few. Of short 
 stories it is not easy to recall notable titles of 
 place, but a few will suffice: The Merry Men (the 
 reference is to the waves so named breaking on 
 the reefs), In the House of Suddhoo, The Fall oj 
 the House of Usher, La Grande Breteche, The Great 
 Stone Face, The Beach of Falesd. As in the case 
 of titles drawn from characters, these are mem- 
 orable if the place is truly conspicuous in the 
 story. They arouse curiosity only if unusual or 
 suggestive and seldom afford a clear clew to the 
 story. 
 
 Names of character and place may be com- 
 bined in a title: Hamlet of Shshtchigry County, 
 The Venus of Hie, A Lear of the Steppes — in all 
 these the nature of the story is more or less clearly 
 suggested and the title is in part literary and 
 allusive. Others: King Solomon of Kentucky, 
 The Sire de Maletroit^s Door, Will 6* the Mill, 
 Rose of Dutcher^s Cooley. In these, presumably, 
 character and place could not easily be dissoci- 
 ated in the author's mind, or merely, the name of 
 the place was thought to give the title a touch of 
 picturesqueness. It is not a class which need 
 detain us long. 
 
 Titles such as A Lear of the Steppes are, as was 
 suggested, rather more than compounds of name 
 and place. They suggest through allusion some- 
 
TITLES AND NAMES 217 
 
 thing of the nature of the story. The best titles, 
 that is, most suggestive and memorable, are, per- 
 haps, those which tell something of the story. 
 How much the title may safely tell we shall con- 
 sider later. We should first discuss some of the 
 means whereby the theme is suggested. 
 
 A Lear of the Steppes is a literary title the sig- 
 nificance of which is bound up with the associa- 
 tions which surround the Lear story. There are 
 many such titles in English literature. Vanity 
 Fair recalls Pilgrim'' s Progress; Red Pottage is 
 Biblical; The Mettle of the Pasture is from Shake- 
 speare; Baa Baa Black Sheep and Georgie Por- 
 gie are from Mother Goose; The Lie Absolute 
 and Rosemary for Remembrance are from Shake- 
 speare; The Lotos-Eaters, Tennyson; Bread Upon 
 the Waters, Such as Walk in Darkness, and With- 
 out Benefit of Clergy are among others of this large 
 class. The merit of these is that they are sug- 
 gestive; the story is enriched by the literary asso- 
 ciations which cling to the passage in literature 
 from which the title is drawn. The story's 
 theme is, too, more or less clearly indicated in so 
 far as the literary application is not far-fetched. 
 A title which inappropriately draws upon litera- 
 ture for a false atmosphere is, however, insipid by 
 reason of the pretence. 
 
 Stories may, in their titles, tell much or little of 
 the story in ways other than allusive : The Story 
 
2i8 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 of a Lie, The Taking of the Redoubt, In Each 
 Other^s Shoes, The Phonograph and the Graft, 
 Peter Rugg, the Missing Man, The Attack on the 
 Mill, The Adventures of a New Yearns Eve, Chris- 
 tian Gellerfs Last Christmas, The Unfaithful 
 Lover, A Derelict, Youth, The End of the Tether, A 
 Good-for-Nothing, The Man without a Country, 
 The Man Who Was, The Man Who Would Be 
 King, The Purloined Letter — all these tell some- 
 thing of the story, some Httle, some much; they 
 seek to express the theme of the story, to catch 
 the gist of it in a phrase. There is no question 
 that they are appropriate; but it is certain also 
 that they are of uneven merit. 
 
 The less excellent, such as The Adventures of a 
 New Year's Eve, apparently tell too much. The 
 reader turns to a story if his curiosity has been 
 piqued by the title, but is uninterested if told too 
 much. Such a title as The Man Who Was is, 
 however, provocative of curiosity. Something 
 of the story's theme is surmised, but only enough 
 to prompt a reading that the guess may be veri- 
 fied. The Man without a Country, on the other 
 hand, is explicit, but is so surprising in itself that 
 we wish to discover the explanation, and there- 
 fore read the story. So, too, with TJte Suicide 
 Club. The title is explicit, but serves, none the 
 less, to arouse curiosity. We may generalize 
 thus much: a good title, though accurate in its 
 
TITLES AND NAMES 219 
 
 definition of the story's theme, is so phrased as 
 to excite attention and curiosity. If it were no 
 more than a label for goods, the writer only a 
 shopman, it would be well to provide an attract- 
 ive announcement for the stimulation of trade. 
 And even though the story prove not so interest- 
 ling as the name implies, the reader will forgive 
 the deception by reason of his anticipatory thrill 
 — though I do remember, as a boy, being much 
 misled by a novel entitled Slings and Arrows, 
 which, to my huge disappointment, had nothing 
 to do with battles. 
 
 Titles of name and place or those which define 
 the story theme are not, however, all. There is 
 at least one other class of importance, and in this 
 are to be found some of the most effective titles 
 in literature. They do not label the theme ab- 
 stractly, but instead name some specific object 
 around which the story centres. They are prob- 
 ably most effective in retrospect, for the story 
 must be read to invest them with meaning; but 
 they are forever memorable. The Necklace, The 
 Scarlet Letter, The Moonstone, The Black Pearl, 
 The Piece of String, The Monkeys Paw, The Gold 
 Bug — the stories which these suggest come viv- 
 idly to mind as one reads the list. It is hard to 
 believe that they had not always this significance; 
 yet though sufficiently inviting, they cannot have 
 exerted so powerful a hold upon the imagination 
 
220 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 when the story was yet to read as now in retro- 
 spect. Durability is their great virtue. 
 
 There is an excellent reason for the success of 
 titles such as these. Literature, though it deals 
 with ideas and emotions, is best when it is con- 
 crete rather than abstract. Maupassant's theme 
 in The Necklace may be the irony of chance; 
 but his philosophy is not abstractly put; it is 
 told in terms of human experience; its substance 
 is the concrete fact of Hfe. The tragedy of The 
 Necklace is summed up in the jewel itself — which 
 was paste. Therefore the story's title is doubly 
 effective in that it recalls something which ap- 
 peals to the senses of touch and vision, and which 
 also symbolizes the idea of the story. So, too, 
 with The Scarlet Letter, most admirable title. 
 The glowing symbol of Hester's sin is the best 
 possible device wherewith to label the story. 
 The Scarlet Letter, moreover, is highly provoca- 
 tive of curiosity. 
 
 Concrete titles, names of objects, are, then, 
 possessed of a double appeal. When they are 
 both suggestive and inviting they would seem to 
 meet all requirements of a perfect title. But we 
 must not conclude that all good titles are of this 
 class. Kipling's Without Benefit of Clergy, with 
 its neat misuse of a phrase, is both inviting and 
 memorable. So, too, is the title They of what is, 
 perhaps, ELipling's masterpiece of suggestion. It 
 
TITLES AND NAMES 221 
 
 is a puzzling, enigmatical title, one which com- 
 mands a reading of the story. In retrospect it 
 seems highly appropriate, nor can it ever be for- 
 gotten. There must be individual preferences in 
 titles as in stories. Each one of us recalls this 
 one or that — The Scarlet Letter, The Lady or the 
 Tiger, The Outcasts of Poker Flat, They, The Gold 
 Bug — which has for some reason impressed him 
 as appropriate and effective. Yet any selected 
 will, I think, possess one or more of the desirable 
 qualities of which we have spoken. And all, 
 without exception, will be short. The day of the 
 long and double title is past. Seldom more than 
 five words are permissible, and four or three are 
 yet better. Many notable titles are of but one 
 or two. The practice permits, seemingly, of few 
 or no exceptions. 
 
 It may be well before we leave the subject to 
 note the titles of some of the fairy tales which 
 have persisted for generations. The fairy story, 
 we observed at the outset of our study, was wor- 
 thy of careful examination, for a story which sur- 
 vives generations of oral tradition is pretty sure 
 to be effective and polished narrative. The 
 titles, too, must have been worn smooth of all 
 superfluities. They have, perhaps, even changed 
 and but the best survived. There are such as 
 Cinderella or the Crystal Slipper — sometimes 
 either singly, Jack and the Beanstalk, Snow-White, 
 
v^ 
 
 222 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Blue-Beard, Beauty and the Beast y Sleeping Beauty, 
 The Babes in the Wood — all are memorable and 
 arresting; all are short. 
 
 Names of Characters 
 
 In the novels and plays of the seventeenth and 
 eighteenth centuries and even later, it was cus- 
 tomary to designate the dominant attribute of 
 the story's characters by means of the name 
 chosen. There are such as Mr. Worldly Wise- 
 man, Allworthy, Squire Western, Mrs. Milla- 
 mant, and Snake. These are too obvious for our 
 modern taste, and the custom has pretty well 
 dropped in literature. Yet Dickens, Meredith, 
 and Hardy at times employ modifications of the 
 device, and Dickens often closely approaches his 
 predecessors of the early days of the novel. The 
 Cheeryble brothers suggest only too openly gen- 
 tlemen of a cheery disposition. Meredith, too, in 
 The Egoist, sees fit to call his hero Sir Willoughby 
 Patterne, a name clearly indicative of character. 
 Hardy selects for one of his rustics such a name 
 as Gabriel Oake. 
 
 Names may undoubtedly be made highly indic- 
 ative of character without too openly defining it. 
 Dickens, who is at times too obvious, is also 
 often inimitably successful. Mr. Micawber is an 
 ideal name for an erratic and humorous charac- 
 v/ ter. Nicholas Nickleby seems in keeping with 
 
TITLES AND NAMES 223 
 
 the energetic and care-free nature of that young 
 man; and Silas Wegg, Uriah Heep, Mr, Peck- 
 sniff, Sairey Gamp, Samuel Weller, and Mr. Pick- 
 wick, though uneven in quality, are all excellent. 
 Why is it that a name seems appropriate? Do 
 the qualities of character as revealed in the story 
 so color it that for this reason alone it seems sig- 
 nificant? Or is there a subtler reason? 
 
 As an extreme instance of an artfully contrived 
 name, let us examine Poe's Ligeia. The sound of 
 it is suggestive of grief and sadness. This is due 
 to the associations which cluster about the 
 sounds of which it is composed, for Ligeia is but 
 a rearrangement of the letters which compose 
 ^* elegy." The associations of this word uncon- 
 sciously surround the name Ligeia and give it 
 color. Certain sounds, singly or in combination, 
 are humorous in their connotation. Thus " q," 
 perhaps because of its association with "queer," 
 suggests something odd. A few of my readers 
 may recall a once-noted book entitled Queechy. 
 It is a beautifully absurd name, suggestive of wet 
 weather and goloshes. But though the heroine, 
 Queechy, was much given to tears, the author did 
 not, I fancy, intend the suggestion. 
 
 The associations of sounds and their power of 
 suggestion usually elude exact analysis. Certain 
 combinations of letters are absurd, others digni- 
 fied, and yet others poetic. A sensitive ear de- 
 
224 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 tects the suggestion, even though it cannot define 
 it. The careful author, aUve to this fact, seeks 
 names which harmonize with his characters; the 
 less obvious the harmony, the better, if the effect 
 be gained. Dickens possessed an ear usually 
 trustworthy and sought the desired name until 
 he found it. 
 
 Aside from the less definable, suggestive power 
 of sounds, are associations less difficult to grasp. 
 I once read a story of which the heroine was 
 named Miss Dill, unhappily suggestive of pickles. 
 A tragic or grave tone would be difficult to 
 maintain were the hero named Juggins or Tootle. 
 These, appropriate to farce-comedy, are, because 
 of their associations, for some reason absurd. 
 Names subtly appropriate to character may, in- 
 deed, not be demanded of every story, though 
 never amiss; but the author should seek to render 
 them at least innocuous, and in so far as possible 
 devoid of incongruous associations. 
 
 That names in sound and suggestion should 
 harmonize with the characters and the story 
 theme is, however, but the half of the obligation. 
 Names are much more than individual appel- 
 lations; they are indicative of race and class. 
 Schmidt, Ryan, and Sobieski, Warren, Lee, and 
 Alden are names of racial and sectional import. 
 Silas Lapham is appropriate to a Yankee of long 
 descent, and either close to the soil or but a sin- 
 
TITLES AND NAMES 225 
 
 gle remove from it. Clara Middleton and Eliza- 
 beth Bennett are names appropriate to middle- 
 class heroines. Lovelace suggests the cavalier, 
 and is suited either to a villain or a hero. Maggie 
 TuUiver is a name applicable to a rustic maiden 
 of the lower middle class. 
 
 Given names, as well as surnames, are rich in 
 suggestive quahties by reason of characters in 
 real life and in fiction with which these names are 
 associated. Dorcas and Priscilla suggest modest 
 maidens of Puritan origin. Mary is a name denot- 
 ing virtue and honesty, as, too, is John. Claude 
 and Percival suggest to me erratic and unreli- 
 able characters. Muriel, Gwendolyn, and Gladys 
 are appropriate to fashionable maidens of the 
 British aristocracy. Oliver, Henry, Susan, and 
 Ruth are names which I associate with solid char- 
 acters, devoid of affectation. It is certain that 
 names are colored for each of us by our individual 
 associations, and it is hkewise true that we know 
 many a man and woman inappropriately named. 
 Parents are unreliable in these matters, and too 
 often afSict commonplace offspring with fanciful 
 names. Nevertheless, there is some common 
 basis of consent as to the significance of many 
 names, and this the writer should take into ac- 
 count as he labels his characters. 
 
 Perhaps it is fear of the danger which waits 
 upon unusual names that leads many present-day 
 
226 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 writers to employ them sparingly. Neutral 
 names take on the characteristics with which the 
 writer endows his creations and are, therefore, 
 safe. Kipling and others not infrequently en- 
 dow the heroes of romantic stories with prosaic 
 names, achieving thereby 'an effect of greater 
 credibihty and realism. When Thomas Smith 
 meets romantic experiences we are inclined to be- 
 lieve them true. Note that in Without Benefit 
 of Clergy the hero is named, prosaically, John 
 Holden. The girl, however, is named Ameera, 
 which, whatever its Oriental significance, to 
 Western ears suggests love. 
 
 We cannot, therefore, lay down any hard-and- 
 fast principles in this matter of nomenclature. 
 It will suffice to point out that names convey dim 
 suggestions of character, and arouse congruous 
 or incongruous associations by reason of the 
 soimds of which they are composed. Given 
 names, too, are enriched by associations, these 
 varying with the individual experience. The 
 careful writer bears these points in mind as he 
 seeks names appropriate to his creations, seek- 
 ing at least to avoid the incongruous. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 
 
 It is a limitation of painting and sculpture, as 
 static arts, that they cannot portray motion. 
 They can, however, suggest it; for, as Rodin 
 points out, a statue may, in its pose, combine 
 two successive attitudes and thus suggest the 
 transition from the one to the other which we call 
 motion. Great sculpture, though fashioned of 
 inert stone, may in this way be suggestive of life 
 and movement; and a great picture may do as 
 much. Were one to turn his eyes away for an in- 
 stant the statue or portrait might, one believes, 
 in that moment of inattention alter its pose. 
 
 Literature, too, is subject to limitations which 
 are also its opportunities for effective artistry. 
 It is a temporal art, moving, that is to say, in 
 time, as does music. Unlike painting, it cannot 
 set before us as a single impressicm a number of 
 persons and objects in relation one to another. 
 This we have seen to be one of the difficulties 
 which description has to evade. Moreover, if the 
 story is short, one of but a few thousand words, 
 227 
 
228 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 it can set forth only a lunited number of charac- 
 ters and incidents and these so swiftly that but 
 little elaboration is possible. That careful selec- 
 tion may overcome the difficulty somewhat has 
 been shown in preceding chapters; economy of 
 action, speech, time, and place may do much in 
 little to suggest the complexity and richness of 
 Hfe. 
 
 We should do well at this point to sum up what 
 we have learned thus far and to develop certain 
 associated principles. For convenience we will 
 treat of suggestion first as a group of mechanical 
 devices designed for swift effects, and, second, as 
 an artistic principle of wider implications. So to 
 divide the subject is arbitrary, but the gain to 
 clearness will justify the method. 
 
 We must, first of all, define what we mean by 
 suggestion: it is an invitation to the reader to 
 ^ collaborate in the creation of the story. Art is 
 two-sided, needing one to make and the other to 
 appreciate; one to write and the other to under- 
 stand. The writer seeks, by whatsoever means 
 he may, to enlist the activities of the reader in his 
 behalf. These activities are of the imagination 
 based upon experience. The reader devoid of 
 imagination can understand only the most ob- 
 vious writing. The reader lacking in experience 
 cannot supply all that the writer requires, as a 
 child must fail to understand the true relations of 
 
SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 229 
 
 men and women. An appeal to experience and 
 imagination is, then, what is meant by the term 
 "suggestion.'* 
 
 Intensification by Suggestion 
 
 In its more mechanical aspects suggestion de- 
 mands that the writer be no more explicit than is 
 compatible with clearness. If a hint is enough, a 
 full statement is superfluous and serves but to 
 bore the reader. This principle, you will remem- 
 ber, was touched upon in our earlier analysis of 
 description, characterization, dialogue, and expo- 
 sition. Moreover, when hints suffice for elabo- 
 rate statements, not only is there great saving of 
 space, but the appeal to the reader's intelligence, 
 if deftly made, does much to stimulate that sense 
 of intellectual satisfaction wherein lies much of 
 the pleasure of reading. Nowhere is this more 
 obvious than in an artful ending. In the oft- 
 cited Necklace of Maupassant the story ends with 
 the heroine's discovery that the jewel was of 
 paste. There is no statement of after events and 
 whatever compensation there may be for wasted 
 years. This would be superfluous, an anticlimax. 
 The reader may imagine this for himself. So, 
 too, of a love story. We need no description of 
 the wedding to assure ourselves that the young 
 people were legally married, that one of them did 
 ^ot die of heart-disease on the morning previous, 
 
230 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 or the other suffer a cautious second thought. 
 Once the line of future development is clearly in- 
 dicated the story is done. 
 
 With the exposition and description at the out- 
 set a like economy may be effected. The writer's 
 object is to get the essentials to clearness before 
 the reader as swiftly as possible. There are all 
 sorts of relevant but superfluous disclosures from 
 which he refrains. In the first paragraphs of 
 Matkheim, earher quoted for its character-draw- 
 ing and exposition, will be found a good illustra- 
 tion of this compactness, this freedom from the 
 superfluous, and dependence upon the reader's 
 ability to grasp a hint. 
 
 It would seem that writers generally might be 
 quicker than they are to utilize the obvious tricks 
 of suggestion. Thus, if I mention Mendelssohn's 
 '* Wedding March " and an expectant clergy- 
 man at the altar I need not add that a wedding is 
 in prospect, the scene a church. If Smith, bear- 
 ing a valise freshly stuck with labels, walks up the 
 yy street with an air at once confident and curious, 
 I may infer that Smith has returned to town after 
 a considerable absence. In a thousand little 
 ways the skilled writer may guide his readers to 
 their own deductions and, while effecting an 
 economy of space, confer pleasure upon them in so 
 doing. Yet there is relatively httle of this swift 
 and confident style. Only good writers seem to 
 
 v/ 
 
SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 231 
 
 possess it and not all of them, for writers there 
 are whose substance interests despite defect- 
 ive artistry. Doubtless the vicious habit of edi- 
 tors of paying a fixed rate per word rather than a 
 price dependent upon compactness and intensity 
 has much to do with the prevailing cult of wordi- 
 ness and obviousness. Certainly nine-tenths of 
 creditable short stories might be improved by 
 cutting away superfluities and by the substitu- 
 tion of suggestion for explanation. Clearness is, \ ^ 
 however, the first essential and must not be sac- '^ 
 rificed. Kipling, whose suggestive short cuts in 
 style are worthy the study of any writer, is some- 7 
 
 times rather obscure by reason of overcom- 
 pression. 
 
 A happy compromise between obviousness, 
 which is tedious, and overrefinement of sugges- 
 tion, which is obscure, may be found in Kipling's 
 story They. More is deftly suggested than is 
 openly stated, as befits a story of the supernatu- 
 ral in which the imagination of the reader must 
 be the author's reliance for conviction and 
 acceptance. To wrench certain of the suggestive 
 passages from their context is, of course, bar- 
 barous, and to appreciate them in their full excel- 
 lence the story should be read as a whole. How- 
 ever, a few instances will serve to make evident 
 exactly what is meant by suggestion in our first 
 application of the term. 
 
232 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 The story recounts three motor visits to a beau- 
 tiful old house deep hidden in woods. The nar- 
 rator, chancing upon the place and taken with its 
 beauty, sees at a distance, in the garden and at 
 the windows of the house, children, who gaze in 
 shy curiosity at the motor-car, but who do not 
 come near. A blind woman is mistress of the 
 place. Her manner of speaking of the children 
 is strange, as when she says, "They really are 
 fond of me" — this when they do not come near. 
 Again, speaking of the inability to see the be- 
 loved dead in dreams: " Then it must be as bad as 
 being blind." The butler, too, who sets the 
 visitor upon the right road when he departs, asks 
 if he saw the children before the mistress of the 
 house appeared. Why should her presence be 
 necessary, we wonder, and why are the children 
 so shy? Is she their mother? 
 
 On the second visit, the woman, when asked 
 how many children there are, replies: "I don*t 
 quite know; sometimes more and sometimes less." 
 It seems, too, that she possesses the strange 
 psychic power of perceiving the human aura and 
 is sensitive to the colors of it. Later she is as- 
 tonished that the visitor does not understand 
 something, we do not learn what, relating to 
 the children. She says he will come again, 
 because it is his right, and "will walk in the 
 wood." The butler, it seems, has lost a child, 
 
SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 233 
 
 and other incidents touch upon the death of 
 children. 
 
 On the third and last visit the scene is within 
 doors mostly. The beautiful old house is filled 
 with things to dehght children, but though the 
 mistress calls them they are still shy and will not 
 come near. A tenant farmer, greatly and unac- 
 countably frightened, seeks an interview with the 
 lady of the manor. The fireplace of the room is 
 without iron (iron is hostile to spirits) . Then by 
 a sign the visitor recognizes the presence of his 
 own dead child and what has been plainly fore- 
 shadowed is fully explicable. The blind woman, 
 who loved children but who had none of her own, 
 had by her psychic power and the strength of her 
 longing called the spirits of dead children to be 
 her consolation. 
 
 I have not given a half of the suggestive 
 touches by which the story is built up. At no 
 place, moreover, does the story baldly explain, 
 even at the last. The reader must look between *^ 
 the lines. And the result is a story wonderfully 
 affecting, one which stirs the imagination to en- 
 dow the narrative with a pathos which touches 
 all experience of loss. 
 
 Restraint 
 
 This story will serve to launch our discussion 
 upon a second principle of suggestion, that of re- 
 
234 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 straint. The emotion of the visitor who sees the 
 spirit of his dead child is touching, because only- 
 hinted at. There is no parade of emotion, no 
 words to explain it; for no words are adequate. 
 Great literature in its moments of intensity must 
 needs only suggest, not proclaim, its feeling. We 
 distrust eloquence at such a time, for eloquence 
 is calculated to an effect, and when a man is 
 swept with passion he cannot master himself to 
 adequate expression. A simple suggestion is far 
 more effective, for on that the reader will build, 
 supplying from experience and imagination what 
 no words could convey. 
 
 Restraint is effective in a hundred ways, but 
 particularly in all portrayal of intense emotion. 
 If the words which could most powerfully set 
 forth the emotion are inadequate, it is far bet- 
 ter not to attempt even these and to undershoot 
 the mark. The inadequacy of stammering and 
 broken words, or of simple and unpretentious 
 statement will, of itself, force the reader to supply 
 in imagination — if he has it — what the author 
 deemed it impossible to convey by direct means. 
 A gesture, even, or the description of facial ex- 
 pression, may be better than any attempt at 
 words, as a hand clasp or a glance may express 
 sympathy more certainly than eloquent and 
 elaborate speech. That this is so all great liter- 
 ature attests. Thus Macduff, when news is 
 
SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 235 
 
 brought him of wife and children slain by Mac- 
 beth, "He has no children!" In Henry Esmond 
 the quarrel of Esmond and the Pretender is a 
 fine example; and again, in Vanity Fair, the scene 
 in which Rawdon Crawley surprises Becky and 
 Lord Steyne. 
 
 Restraint may be likened to control in singing. 
 The great tenor at the opera knows just how far 
 he can crowd his voice in pitch and volume — and 
 never permits himself to go so far. The result is, 
 that though he is doing almost all of which he is 
 capable, he seems to be holding himself in check, 
 to be capable of yet higher notes and a still 
 greater volume of tone. The less artful singer 
 pushes himself to the utmost, and the hearer is on 
 tenter-hooks lest the voice break utterly. The 
 sense conveyed of power in reserve, of resources 
 dehberately ignored, is the quality of restraint. 
 It gives strength to style, and the great writers in 
 their most commanding utterances are thus, 
 seemingly, most simple and imforced. 
 
 Enlargement by Suggestion 
 
 In our analysis of restraint we have passed be- 
 yond the merely mechanical aspects of sugges- 
 tion, that is of compressed utterance, and entered 
 a larger field. Suggestion in its broader impUca- 
 tions employs devices some of which we should 
 consider in detail. 
 
236 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 If the writer, in his selection of incidents and 
 in their narration, can stimulate the reader to 
 ^ imagine untold incidents, he has then been sug- 
 gestive in the fullest meaning of the term. Dau- 
 det^s story The Siege of Berlin will serve to illus- 
 trate the point. The story concerns a veteran 
 of the First Empire who, upon news of the first 
 disaster of the Franco-Prussian War, is prostrated 
 and seems upon the point of death. To make 
 possible his recovery, his granddaughter and the 
 doctor combine to deceive him as to the true 
 course of events. They manufacture news of the 
 war and fabricate letters from his son, who is at 
 the front. France, instead of being overrun by 
 an invading army, is herself the invader, and, 
 while Paris is besieged, the old colonel imagines 
 BerHn all but taken: 
 
 "It was necessary to keep him au courant with 
 the movements of the army and to invent mih- 
 tary bulletins. It was pitiful to see that beautiful 
 girl bending night and day over her map of Ger- 
 many, marking it with little flags, forcing herself 
 to combine the whole of a glorious campaign— 
 Bazaine on the road to BerHn, Frossard in Ba- 
 varia, MacMahon on the Baltic. In all this she 
 asked my counsel, and I helped her as far as I 
 could, but it was the grandfather who did the 
 most for us in this imaginary invasion. He had 
 conquered Germany so often during the First 
 Empire. He knew all the moves beforehand. 
 
SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 237 
 
 'Now they should go there. This is what they 
 will do,' and his anticipations were always real- 
 ized, not a little to his pride. Unfortunately, we 
 might take towns and gain battles, but we never 
 went fast enough for the Colonel. He was in- 
 satiable. Every day I was greeted with a fresh 
 feat of arms. 
 
 '"Doctor, we have taken Mayence,' said the 
 young girl, coming to meet me with a heartrend- 
 ing smile, and through the door I heard a joyous 
 voice crying: 
 
 *" We are getting on, we are getting on. In a 
 week we shall enter Berlin.' 
 
 ''At that moment the Prussians were but a 
 week from Paris. 
 
 "From that day our military operations be- 
 came much simpler. Taking Berhn was merely 
 a matter of patience. Every now and then, when 
 the old man was tired of waiting, a letter from his 
 son was read to him — an imaginary letter, of 
 course, as nothing could enter Paris, and as, since 
 Sedan, MacMahon's aide-de-camp had been sent 
 to a German fortress. Can you not imagine the 
 despair of the poor girl, without tidings of her 
 father, knowing him to be a prisoner, deprived of 
 all comforts, perhaps ill, and yet obHged to make 
 him speak in cheerful letters, somewhat short, as 
 from a soldier in the field, always advancing in a 
 conquered country. Sometimes, when the inva- 
 lid was weaker than usual, weeks passed without 
 fresh news. But was he anxious and unable to 
 sleep, suddenly a letter arrived from Germany 
 which she read gayly at his bedside, struggling 
 
238 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 hard with her tears. The Colonel listened re- 
 ligiously, smiling with an air of superiority, ap- 
 proving, criticising, explaining, but it was in his 
 answers to his son that he was at his best. 
 * Never forget that you are a Frenchman,' he 
 ) wrote; 'be generous to those poor people. Do 
 not make the invasion too hard for them.' His 
 advice was never ending; edifying sermons about 
 respect of property, the politeness due to ladies, 
 — in short, quite a code of military honor for the 
 use of conquerors. With all this he put in some 
 general reflections on politics and the conditions 
 of peace to be imposed on the vanquished. 
 With regard to the latter, I must say he was 
 not exacting: 
 
 ** *The war indemnity and nothing else. It is 
 no good to take provinces. Can one turn Ger- 
 many into France? ' " 
 
 Little is told of the siege of Paris, only a detail 
 now and then, sufficient to keep before the reader 
 the suppressed background of reality. As the 
 veteran, in his comfortable room, follows the suc- 
 cesses of the French invaders, the reader sup- 
 phes in imagination the privations which are en- 
 dured close at hand with the French, not the 
 Prussians, the sufferers. The effect is curiously 
 powerful and graphic, and due solely to the im- 
 agination, guided, of course, by the writer, to 
 whom the scenes untold are even more vivid 
 than to us. Yet one must needs be a good reader 
 to get the full force of the story. 
 
SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 239 
 
 Suggestion may, too, open up avenues of spec- 
 ulation by touching upon incidents and relations 
 antecedent or auxiliary to the story proper. The 
 story then becomes the centre of interest among 
 several or many scenes, and there is given to it the 
 effect of being but an incident taken from a larger 
 whole — that of life itself. The story gains in 
 effect immensely thereby, for it no longer seems a 
 detached, complete, and unrelated thing but a 
 part, one of many parts, of experience as a whole. 
 This does not contravene any principle of unity, 
 for it may be a complete and harmonious whole, 
 and yet suggest the larger whole. If this ap- 
 pears paradoxical it is, as we have seen, but one 
 of the many paradoxes, such as the dual time 
 scheme, which the art of fiction embraces. 
 
 But let us consider specific illustrations to 
 make our meaning apparent. I recall a story of 
 Bunner's, Our Aromatic Uncle, which illustrates 
 the point in simple fashion. It is of a rich China 
 merchant, who seeks his nephew and niece whom 
 he has never seen. In the end it turns out that 
 he is not the uncle at all, but the butcher boy 
 who admired him and who ran away to sea 
 with him. With these youthful adventures the 
 story has not directly to do, but the hints of 
 this antecedent action envelop the story with a 
 romantic atmosphere. The reader speculates 
 upon the story suggested, and thereby is the 
 
240 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 written story enriclied and made a part of a 
 larger whole. 
 
 Hints of previous action in which the charac- 
 ters have participated may often be legitimately 
 given in dialogue and without obscuring the im- 
 mediate purpose in hand. Or the author in his 
 exposition may give the clew. Kipling, in his 
 earlier work, often made use of the device of citing 
 a second story by way of illustration, and then 
 dismissing it with the words ^'but that is another 
 story." In this instance the device becomes a 
 mere trick, but the purpose of creating atmos- 
 phere by suggestion is sound. 
 
 Another device, similar in kind, is that of the 
 generalized or philosophical introduction. The 
 writer makes a comment upon life, phrasing a 
 generalization which he believes universally true. 
 He then tells his story as a specific incident in 
 point. The story thus seems to be broadly typ- 
 ical, its significance not of itself alone but of 
 many another instance like it. Maupassant, 
 Kipling, Turgenieff, and other good writers re- 
 sort sometimes to this expedient to weight their 
 narratives with suggestive power. 
 
 That the author may successfully charge his 
 story with suggestive hints, it is necessary, how- 
 ever, that he imagine more incident than he 
 actually incorporates in his story. He should so 
 have imagined characters, so created circum- 
 
SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 241 
 
 stances antecedent to and coincident with the - 
 story proper that he can refer to them without 
 effort in passing, and without distracting atten- 
 tion from incidents which the reader should 
 weigh. Not otherwise can the hints dropped 
 seem natural and unforced, nor will unity and 
 proper emphasis be possible. The story can be 
 made a cross-section of life only as life is really *^ 
 grasped. Pretence and sham will be apparent. 
 
 The introductory paragraphs of Bourget's 
 story Another Gambler will serve to illustrate this 
 wealth of story material suggested, but not di- 
 rectly utilized: 
 
 "Though he was your cousin," I said to Claude 
 after reading a telegram which he handed to me, 
 "you surely cannot grieve for his death. He has 
 done justice on himself ; and I did not expect it of 
 him. His suicide spares your old uncle the scan- 
 dal of a shocking trial. But what a history! . 
 That old woman murdered merely for the sake of ^ 
 her trumpery savings! To come to such an end, 
 through degradation after degradation — he whom 
 we once knew so proud, so elegant! I see him 
 now when he first arrived in our old provincial 
 town, just after he had been appointed lieutenant 
 of artillery. We followed him in the streets with 
 such boyish pride. He was twenty-seven, and 
 you were not a third of his age. Ah, well, in 
 spite of all — ^poor, poor Lucien!" 
 
 With the incidents thus briefly outlined tJie 
 story is not concerned, save in this suggestive 
 
242 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 fashion; these are the indirect outcome of the 
 story incidents yet to be related. Who the old 
 woman was, the manner of her death, and the 
 theft of her money are not given in any fuller de- 
 tail. But from what we learn later of the crim- 
 inal we are at liberty to speculate and devise 
 whatsoever stories we please. 
 
 Selection of setting, character, and incident, all 
 have their place in imparting that larger signifi- 
 cance to a story which is embraced in the mean- 
 ing of our term ''suggestion," If the action is 
 peculiar, the setting remote, and the characters 
 bizarre, the less likehhood is there that the story 
 possess a significance wider than that explicit in 
 the action. Art attempts to universalize; that is, 
 it selects characters, situations, emotions, and 
 ideas which touch our experience closely at many 
 points. We say of a story that it is characteris- 
 tic or true — characteristic in that it is representa- 
 tive of life and implies more than it tells. But 
 these implications we ourselves supply from our 
 own experience of life, though the writer must, 
 of course, touch our latent memories by artful ap- 
 peal. Herein lies much of the power of a quiet 
 and detailed realism. The little familiar touches, 
 commonplace in themselves, serve to recall our 
 experiences of a Hke kind, which, thus remem- 
 bered, are somehow more pleasant than reality 
 Itself. It is as though we were but suddenly 
 
SUGGESTION AND RESTRAINT 243 
 
 awakened to the true flavor of life, which we had 
 not realized before. Stories equally well done 
 but dealing with a manner of life or emotion 
 utterly foreign to us make no such appeal; hence 
 the difficulty of appreciating the literature of a 
 foreign people, unless the writer is so universal as 
 to make the differences of experience less signifi- 
 cant than the resemblances. Bjornson, for ex- 
 ample, I read with little understanding, and con- 
 sequently little interest. Tolstoy and Turgenieff , 
 however, I find intelligible, for they bring home 
 the likenesses of people rather than racial differ- 
 ences of custom and emotion. Being thus uni- 
 versal, they are interesting, for the life which they 
 reveal is fundamentally like that I know. 
 
 In this chapter I have touched only upon cer- 
 tain fairly obvious devices whereby suggestion is 
 attained. I trust I have made clear its object if 
 nothing more. It seeks to enrich the story, which 
 must perforce deal with but few and selected in- 
 cidents, by stimulating the imagination of the 
 reader to the elaboration of other incidents and 
 stories antecedent, coincident, and subsequent. 
 In so doing it relates the story to the larger whole 
 of Ufe. 
 
-v^ 
 
 ( .J 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 UNITY OF TONE 
 
 Many of my readers will, I am sure, have taken 
 exception to this or that generalization laid 
 down as fundamental to a sound story technic. 
 They will have had in mind certain fine stories 
 which violate the unities of action, time, or place, 
 or commit other artistic misdemeanors, and are 
 nevertheless vital and effective pieces of writing, 
 superior to academic rules and precepts. Yet our 
 generalizations are sound in the main; safe guides 
 for the writer who is learning his craft, and the 
 exceptions themselves obey a higher law which 
 we have now to define. "Unity of Tone" is the 
 term employed to designate the highest degree of 
 story effectiveness, and some stories which vio- 
 late an accepted principle of structure possess 
 this compensating virtue. But it is a term which, 
 though critically useful, is vague, and demands 
 careful explanation. 
 
 By unity of tone is meant a harmony of parts 
 — incidents, characters, speech, place, and emo- 
 tion — which has as its result singleness of im- 
 244 
 
UNITY OF TONE 245 
 
 pression. The reader recalls not so much the in- 
 cidents of the story as the totality of its effect 
 upon him. It aroused in him a single dominant 
 emotion — fear, sympathy, kindliness, irony, pes- 
 simism, and the like. This it did because all of 
 its energies were directed to that end, the author, 
 dominated by the emotion which he sought to 
 arouse in his readers, selecting his materials with 
 this object in view. This emotional intent of 
 the author may be said to overlay or envelop 
 his simple story purpose, that of recounting ac- 
 tion, of picturing character or place, or of con- 
 veying an abstract idea. That is to say, if I 
 write a story of action, I select my incidents to 
 make my story interesting and effective; but I am 
 further guided by an emotion which leads me to 
 select a certain kind of incident from the many 
 incidents possible, a kind in harmony with my 
 emotion. I have really two purposes here which 
 I endeavor to harmonize. 
 
 If I am successful in my attempt to reconcile 
 emotion and selection, there is every chance that 
 my story will be convincing. If I fail, my story 
 will certainly lack "unity of tone" and its re- 
 sultant ''unity of impression." Let us be more 
 specific to make the point clear. I have, we will 
 say, resolved to write a story of exciting incident, 
 an adventure story. I select appropriate inci- 
 dents and endeavor to combine them into an 
 
246 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 effective whole. I feel, however, no great enthu- 
 siasm for this sort of thing, much as I may recog- 
 nize its merits. My temperament is of a dif- 
 ferent sort. Action that is of interest to me is 
 action which reveals character, not action for its 
 own sake. If I am not in emotional accord with 
 my proposed story the result will be one of two 
 things: either my story will change under my 
 hands and become something different from what 
 I intend, or I may stick to my original purpose 
 and the story become limp and nerveless; more 
 technically, it will lack conviction, my emotion 
 being in opposition to my theme. This discord 
 is at the root of the failure of many a story writ- 
 ten by a competent author whose heart was not 
 in his work. The story does not convince; this 
 means more explicitly that the author in his se- 
 lection of materials was not so guided by an emo- 
 tion in harmony with his story purpose that he 
 selected always the right incidents; or his story 
 became a mere exercise devoid of enthusiasm, 
 uninteresting to him, and hence, in ways unac- 
 countable, uninteresting to his readers. 
 
 Scott, Dumas, and Stevenson have written ex- 
 cellent stories of adventure, for they delighted in 
 action. Their stories are of a kind with them- 
 selves. We cannot imagine any one of them writ- 
 ing The Mill on the Floss, or Pride and Prejudicey 
 or The Rise of Silas Lapham, excellent stories 
 
UNITY OF TONE 247 
 
 but utterly different in kind from Ivanhoe, The 
 Three Musketeers, and Kidnapped. Excellence 
 depends not so much upon the kind of subject 
 selected as upon sincerity and genuineness of in- 
 terest. Great stories can be written of a dozen 
 different types provided the writer have an en- 
 thusiasm for his work, for his interest or lack of it 
 is bound to show — to animate his work, to confuse 
 and perplex it, or, again, to leave it inert and 
 dead. He is fortunate who early finds the kind 
 of thing he can do best, which arouses his genu- 
 ine interest, and who tries to do nothing else. 
 
 Unity of tone demands, then, that the emotion 
 of the writer, and thus his purpose, be in har- 
 mony with his theme. Emotion is not, of course, 
 sufficient in itself, though essential, for it must 
 be supplemented by good judgment and an ade- 
 quate technic. It is here that our comment 
 can be made definite and helpful, for we deal 
 with nothing so intangible as emotional states, 
 but with definite incidents which we may ex- 
 amine and whose suitabiHty to their purpose 
 we can weigh. 
 
 Let us consider, as an initial illustration, the 
 rationalized story of the supernatural. The writer 
 here suffers from a conflict of emotions. He real- 
 izes that the supernatural is possessed of a 
 powerful appeal and of this he desires to avail 
 himself. He does not, however, believe in the 
 
248 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 supernatural — in ghosts, or premonitions, or 
 spirit-communications — nor is he able to lend 
 himself in imagination to such a belief. There- 
 fore he devises a situation which is apparently- 
 explicable only by recourse to supernatural 
 agencies, and at the end, having wrought his 
 readers to a pitch of superstitious emotion, pro- 
 ceeds to show that all the phenomena are ex- 
 plicable by perfectly natural agencies. In such 
 stories I am conscious always of a distinct disap- 
 pointment which I believe to be perfectly justi- 
 fied and due to a fault in the writing. The story 
 purporting to deal with the supernatural, I lend 
 myself to it and, in imagination, yield to its con- 
 ditions. I thus am in accord with its tone. But 
 when in its solution it becomes perfectly rational, 
 I am at a loss, and conscious of being tricked. It 
 is not that I am really a believer in the super- 
 natural, but that I am quite ready to pretend to 
 such a belief as the condition of the story, and 
 in that imaginary belief I take pleasure. The 
 writer has made the mistake of selecting two di- 
 verse and incompatible orders of incident, the 
 supernatural and the natural. These will not 
 harmonize, and the result is failure. 
 
 The great story writers do not make this mis- 
 take. Mr. Henry James, who delights in quiet 
 psychological studies, who is rational and free 
 from superstition, nevertheless, in such a story 
 
UNITY OF TONE 249 
 
 as The Turn of the Screw, lays aside his natural 
 maimer and tells his ghost-story, with its horrors 
 and its apparitions, as though it were true. He 
 makes no attempt to rationalize it, for it is 
 frankly in the realm of the inexplicable. So, too, 
 Poe, Maupassant, and Kipling in their stories of 
 the supernatural are never misled to an explana- 
 tion. I say never, but I recall a story of Kip- 
 ling in which the ghostly noises are traceable to 
 the wind blowing through a knot-hole or some- 
 thing of the sort. The story is fiat, and I recall 
 no other instance in Kipling of a like failure. Fic- 
 tion is governed by laws of its own. The ghost 
 in Hamlet may not coincide with our scientific 
 conceptions of the universe, but in Hamlet it is 
 true, and we lend our imaginations to it and be- 
 lieve it. 
 
 The failure of the writer to remain true to the 
 tone which he establishes at the outset of his 
 story is of Uke kind with the misuse of the super- 
 natural. A tragedy should begin as a tragedy, a 
 comedy in the light manner appropriate to it. 
 In one of Stevenson's letters to Barrie occurs a 
 comment in point: 
 
 . The Little Minister ought to have ended badly; 
 we all know it did; and we are infinitely grateful 
 to you for the grace and good feeling with which 
 you hed about it. If you had told the truth, I 
 for one could never have forgiven you. As you 
 
250 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 had conceived and written the earlier parts, the 
 truth about the end, though indisputably true to 
 fact, would have been a he, or what is worse, a 
 discord in art. If you are going to make a book 
 end badly, it must end badly from the beginning. 
 Now your book began to end well. You let 
 yourself fall in love with, and fondle, and smile at 
 your puppets. Once you had done that your 
 honor was committed — at the cost of truth to life 
 you were bound to save them. It is the blot on 
 Richard Fever el, for instance, that it begins to end 
 well; and then tricks you and ends ill. But in 
 that case there is worse behind, for the ill-ending 
 does not inherently issue from the plot — the 
 story had, in fact, ended well after the last great 
 interview between Richard and Lucy — and the 
 bUnd, illogical bullet which smashes all has no 
 more to do between the boards than a fly has to 
 do with the room into whose open window it 
 comes buzzing. It might have so happened; it 
 needed not; and unless needs must, we have no 
 right to pain our readers. I have had a heavy 
 case of conscience of the same kind about my 
 Braxfield story. Braxfield — only his name is 
 Hermiston — has a son who is condemned to 
 death; plainly, there is a fine tempting fitness 
 about this; and I meant he was to hang. But 
 now on considering my minor characters, I saw 
 there were five people who would — in a sense, 
 who must — break prison and attempt his rescue. 
 They were capable, hardy folks, too, who might 
 very well succeed. Why should they not then? 
 Why should not young Hermiston escape clear 
 out of the country? and be happy. . . . 
 
UNITY OF TONE 251 
 
 Stevenson means this. The Little Minister is 
 keyed at the outset to the light romantic manner. 
 Character, incident, scene, and dialogue point 
 all to a story of this tone. Yet the theme of the 
 story logically precludes a happy and romantic 
 ending. The hero is, by rights, forced to choose 
 between Babbie and his church. He cannot 
 have both, for they are irreconcilable. To sur- 
 render either is to involve tragedy. Barrie elects 
 to keep the tone romantic, in the vein of comedy, 
 and forces his story to a conclusion which we can- 
 not rightly believe. We know it could not really 
 end that way, but we are glad that he chose to 
 have it so, for our affections have been enlisted. 
 Nevertheless, though Barrie has been true to the 
 tone established, the story is badly constructed, 
 for we should not be forced to a position of sym- 
 pathy and judgment at odds. 
 
 In The Ordeal of Richard Feverel the converse is 
 true. There is here a discord between the tone 
 established at the outset and that of the termina- 
 tion of the story. By its conditions the story 
 may or may not end tragically, but the high 
 romantic manner of the opening has led us to 
 expect a happy ending. The author has trusted 
 his head, not his heart, in his choice and has 
 forced his story to a logical though not an ar- 
 tistic denouement. His error lay in leading us 
 to anticipate something better. With his con- 
 
252 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 elusion in mind as he began, he should have 
 led us to expect it. 
 
 The plays of Shakespeare afford numerous 
 examples of tone in harmony with the theme. 
 From the first scene of Hamlet — the time, setting, 
 and emotions of the characters — we are led to 
 anticipate a tragedy involving supernatural ele- 
 ments. From Romeo and Juliet we expect at the 
 outset a romantic tragedy of rapid and exciting 
 action; from Twelfth Night a romantic and sen- 
 timental comedy. As You Like It strikes a false 
 note at the outset and does not get into the ap- 
 propriate tone for a scene or two; in fact, not 
 until the action is transferred to the forest. 
 
 In selecting incidents appropriate to the action 
 a writer is guided almost solely by the nature 
 of the tone estabUshed. In a dashing story of 
 adventure we gayly accept the impossible. The 
 hero may perform prodigies and we never ques- 
 tion his ability. Yet in one of Jane Austen's 
 n/ quiet stories we should be startled by any- 
 thing other than the commonplace. M. Marcel 
 Schwob, in an illuminating passage, discusses this 
 point with reference to Stevenson. The following 
 is a free translation of a part of his comment: 
 
 The realism of Stevenson is quite irrational, 
 and it is for that reason that it is so powerful. 
 Stevenson regards objects only with the eyes of 
 imagination. No man has a face as large as a 
 
UNITY OF TONE 253 
 
 ham; the sparkling of the silver buttons of Alan 
 Brack's coat when he leaps aboard the Covenant 
 is highly improbable; the unwavering flames and 
 smoke of the candles in the duel scene of the 
 Master of Ballantrae would be possible only in a 
 laboratory; never would the leprosy resemble the 
 speck of lichen which Keawe discovered on his 
 skin; who can beUeve that CassiUs, in thePavilion 
 on the Links, could see a man's eyes glisten 
 in the light of the moon, though he was a good 
 many yards distant? I need not speak of an 
 error which Stevenson himself recognized, that 
 by which he made Alison do an impossible thing: 
 ''She spied the sword, picked it up . . . and 
 thrust it to the hilt into the frozen ground." 
 
 But these are not in truth errors: they are 
 impressions stronger than reality itself. Often 
 we find in writers the power of enhancing the ef- 
 fect of reality through words alone; I know of no 
 other impressions which without the aid of dic- 
 tion are more vivid than reality. . . . Yet though 
 false to the world of experience as we know it, 
 they are, properly speaking, the quintessence of 
 fact. . . . They create that heightened vigor and 
 vivacity by which beings in the world of books 
 surpass the people whom we know in the world 
 about us. 
 
 The point would seem to be this: in romance it 
 is permissible to introduce impossible incidents 
 provided the story has wrought the reader to 
 such a pitch that he accepts the incidents as cred- 
 ible. The converse is equally true. If a story 
 
254 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 has failed to create the necessary emotional con- 
 dition in the reader it may not introduce inci- 
 dents perfectly possible but out of harmony with 
 the story. We will not beheve such incident; 
 imder the conditions of the story it is not credible. 
 Credibility, not possibility, is the test of incident, 
 and credibiUty depends upon the emotions and 
 the imagination, not upon reasoned judgment. 
 Not every one beheves this, either writer or 
 reader. Readers there are who scoff at fairy 
 tales, stories of the supernatural, anything, in 
 short, not expHcable by the laws of natural science. 
 Such a state of mind argues a defective imagina- 
 tion. A good reader is himself an artist, and 
 without him good writing would be impossible. 
 Like the White Queen, your good reader can 
 believe six impossible things before breakfast — 
 only, before he can do so, it is essential that you 
 work him to a pitch of imagination and emotional 
 response to the story. 
 
 Mention was made in the chapter upon "Ex- 
 position and Preparation" of the surprise stories 
 of 0. Henry. These are in part explicable by the 
 principles of construction there outlined, but as a 
 whole are more readily understood at this point. 
 They may best be explained by analogy, and this 
 to a minor form of prose fiction, the extrava- 
 ganza. 
 
 The extravaganza is openly in violation of all 
 
UNITY OF TONE 255 
 
 probability and possibility. In it the reader 
 takes pleasure in the topsy-turvydom of the 
 natural order of events. He expects not a log- 
 ical solution of a difficulty but an illogical, and he 
 finds pleasure in being outguessed by the author 
 as to its terms. He is, however, on the alert, Hke 
 a scout anticipating an ambush, and who is, there- 
 fore, not surprised when he stumbles into one. 
 All depends upon the awareness of the reader. 
 In Alice in Wonderland at the outset Alice falls 
 asleep. We then are prepared for the illogical 
 order of dreams, and are not astounded when the 
 White Rabbit begins to talk or when Alice falls 
 to the bottom of the well unhurt. After this any- 
 thing may happen, for the tone of extravaganza 
 has been set. Events must, however, be hence- 
 forth illogical and absurd, or the tone will be un- 
 true, just as in a realistic story an extravagant cir- 
 cumstance would be false and out of tone. Fairy 
 tales and stories of the supernatural partake ov 
 the impossible in varying degrees. In a story 
 which begins "Once there lived a witch," it is 
 permissible that cats and dogs speak to us. The 
 tone established permits such deviations from 
 human experience. Incident is selected not for 
 its truth to life but for its suitability to the story. 
 The means whereby the heroine attains happi- 
 ness may be impossible; yet a perfectly normal 
 incident involving her in unhappiness when the 
 
256 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 story had promised a brighter conclusion would 
 be worse than this; it would be false art. 
 
 0. Henry in his stories masters the tone which 
 permits the unexpected. Usually there is some 
 logical preparation as well, but the main resource 
 is the established tone. By bizarre description, 
 setting, and characterization the writer puts us on 
 the alert for unusual happenings. Coincidence 
 and accident are here permissible, though these 
 in the normal story are taboo. Thus in The 
 Fifth Wheel of the Chariot the missing son is re- 
 stored- to his mother by a chain of coincidences 
 which, in a story of a different tone, we could not 
 accept. All depends upon the degree of realism 
 with which the writer pretends to reflect life. 
 The tone once established, it must be maintained 
 consistently. Savage realism is as untrue to 
 light romance — as incredible therefore — as would 
 be a normal reahstic cat in place of the Cheshire 
 Cat in Alice in Wonderland. In the novels of 
 Mr. Howells the light mood of romance or the 
 bizarre incidents of O. Henry would strike as 
 falsely upon the ear as a discord in music. 
 
 Unity of tone, involving as it does the har- 
 mony of all parts, cannot be here illustrated in 
 each of its aspects. My readers will recall the 
 illustration cited in the chapter upon " Dialogue " 
 as a further case in point. In the passage quoted, 
 Stevenson spoke of his difficulty in pitching the 
 
UNITY OF TONE 257 
 
 dialogue in The Ebb Tide to the proper key. The 
 problem was this: the narrative is told in the 
 writer's own person, the point of view being that 
 of the author-omniscient; the style, therefore, 
 is that of Stevenson, the finished writer. The 
 characters, however, speak realistically, in an- 
 other tone, that is. Stevenson felt there was a 
 discord here, one which he could not overcome by 
 reason of the point of view selected. Were the 
 story to be told from the point of view of one of 
 the participants the difficulty might be obviated, 
 but such a point of view would have made impos- 
 sible the character analysis which the author 
 sought. It was because of such difficulties that 
 Stevenson inclined to the point of view of the 
 actor-narrator, whose matter-of-fact narrative 
 might be brought into accord with the dialogue. 
 There are difficulties here as well, for a bare and 
 restricted style proves uninteresting if long main- 
 tained, and the point of view hampers the expo- 
 sition and the choice of incident. The merit of 
 the method is that it affords opportunity for a 
 consistent narrative tone. 
 
 A further problem of unity of tone is the mat- 
 ter of appropriate setting. Scene, time of year, 
 time of day, sunshine, rain, or fog are all within 
 the control of the writer. He may select such 
 natural conditions as will harmonize with his 
 story, and influence the reader, through sugges- 
 
258 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 tion, to the state of mind essential to a proper 
 acceptance of the story as a whole. The quiet, 
 realistic stories of Jane Austen and Howells de- 
 mand no unusual settings or conditions. Com- 
 monplace surroundings are in keeping with the 
 incidents of the story; the wild and gloomy back- 
 grounds of romantic noveHsts are unsuited to the 
 theme. So, too, are times more romantic than 
 our own. Therefore, Jane Austen and Mr. How- 
 ells write of their own day. The romantic au- 
 thor goes afield in time and place to find circum- 
 stances in harmony with his theme, to the days of 
 knighthood, to the wars, to the wild places of the 
 earth ; or if he writes of our own day he seeks the 
 romantic aspects of it — the lives and conditions 
 of soldiers, detectives, criminals, and the like. 
 
 The writer upon the supernatural does not set 
 his story in the middle of Broadway on a sunny 
 afternoon. He seeks mysterious houses, lonely 
 situations, night-time, and other appropriate cir- 
 cumstances. For his love scenes another selects 
 spring-time and outdoor beauty, sunshine and 
 growing things. This is not the invariable pro- 
 cedure, of course, for contrast is always possible; 
 the hero may propose to the heroine on a trolley- 
 car in a rain-storm. Whatever its character, the 
 setting should be selected for its probable effect 
 upon the reader; it can never be a matter of 
 indifference. 
 
UNITY OF TONE 259 
 
 I fancy many readers objecting to this state- 
 ment. They disdain the artistry which selects its 
 scene, its time of day and year, its characters and 
 dialogue and incident, all deliberately and with 
 the object of effecting a harmony of parts. This 
 is too cold and deliberate a process, say they, and 
 its result is conventionality and usualness. Let 
 us do without artificial aids. The convention of 
 a spring setting for a love scene is old and time- 
 worn. My story will gain in freshness should I 
 discard the convention. In other words, the ob- 
 jection here, as in any sophisticated art, is to ob- 
 vious artifice. However deliberate may have 
 been the selection of every detail, the effective- 
 ness of the whole is impaired if too openly con- 
 trived. The art of it should be concealed; the 
 story must be, seemingly, spontaneous. But the 
 effect of careless frankness and disregard of ar- 
 tistic conventions is a tone of writing in itself. 
 The actor-narrator perhaps remarks: "I am a 
 plain, blunt man, and shall set down the strange 
 occurrences of the night of July 16 exactly as I 
 witnessed them." This is a transparent attempt 
 to command the reader's creduKty, and is as much 
 an artifice as any other tone. When artistically 
 managed, however, the seemingly artless story is 
 highly effective. Kipling and Conrad are suc- 
 cessful often in concealing their artistry, and thus 
 achieve convincingness. Conrad does it some- 
 
26o ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 times, like an inexperienced writer, by the hazard- 
 ous expedient of violating the time order'.'^ Kip- 
 ling, in his earlier stories, by a journaHstic method, 
 by incorporating a good deal of corroborative de- 
 tail, by suggestion — relating the story to inci- 
 dents precedent, collateral, and subsequent, and 
 by an avoidance of the familiar devices of the 
 story-teller — contrives this effect of ease and nat- 
 uralness. We believe that the author is, as he 
 pretends, a mere eye-witness, chronicling facts 
 over which he has no control. A tone so estab- 
 lished is excellent for some purposes, particularly 
 for stories of impossible or unlikely happenings. 
 The businesslike matter-of-factness of the tone 
 inspires creduhty in the reader. Many of Stock- 
 ton's stories achieve this effect admirably, utterly 
 absurd circumstances being told with a gravity of 
 countenance and a realism of detail which silence 
 scepticism. 
 
 In contrast with this easy, natural, and seem- 
 ingly, artless tone are many of the stories of Ste- 
 venson and Poe. These writers were, perhaps, 
 as consciously artistic as any in our hterature, 
 and at times their artistry is only too apparent. 
 I have cited from their works again and again, 
 for they illustrate to the best advantage nearly 
 every point of story technic. Yet it is undenia- 
 ble that the reader, though admiring the art, is 
 not always carried away by the story. The con- 
 
UNITY OF TONE 261 
 
 sciousness that the story is a thing apart is dom- 
 inant, and the reader does not give himself abso- 
 lutely to it; his imagination does not sweep him 
 to complete surrender. In so far as this is true 
 the stories of Poe and Stevenson — and Haw- 
 thorne as well — fall short of the highest art which 
 conceals itself. 
 
 The extreme of naturalness in tone may be il- 
 lustrated by stories written after the manner of 
 Nevinson's Slum Stories of London. In these the 
 structural principle that no incident should be in- 
 troduced which does not contribute to the prog- 
 ress of the story, to the development of plot, is 
 deliberately violated. A situation is constructed 
 which leads us to expect a logical conclusion 
 therefrom. Yet the preparation so carefully con- 
 trived leads to nothing. The story fails to realize 
 its promise; characters introduced at the begin- 
 ning, who should by all the laws of conventional 
 structure reappear to round off the situation, are 
 never seen again- The effect is of perfect casual- 
 ness; that of life itself, which prepares a situation 
 and then neglects to develop it. Life is filled 
 with such unfinished stories. All of us have had 
 experience of them and have been disappointed 
 when the characters necessary for their comple- 
 tion have dropped from sight, never to reappear; 
 death and circumstance intrude upon our expec- 
 tation of what is fit and appropriate. Life is in- 
 
 / 
 
262 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 artistic; yet to convey a sense of life's incomplete- 
 ness and inadequacy is in itself an artistic effect, 
 if deliberately designed, and such stories as those 
 of Nevinson arouse no thought of an inadequate 
 technic or a lack of skill. An untrained writer 
 might through sheer inability fail to round ofif his 
 story in accordance with its terms. But the 
 efifect upon the reader would then be different. 
 The unfinished ending, if it is to be effective, must 
 appear to be designed and not the result of mis- 
 chance. The French, who have mastered this 
 seemingly artless type of narrative, call stories of 
 the kind ''bits of life." Their tone is perfectly 
 natural, and the effect that of reaHty vividly set 
 forth. A high degree of selection is, of course, 
 the basis of this effect, though the reason for that 
 selection is not obvious. 
 
 It would seem, then, that an author may vio- 
 late any of the structural conventions which we 
 have so painstakingly set down, provided his 
 story purpose demand it and he pitch his story 
 to the right key. But his violation must be de- 
 liberate, for a preconceived effect. If it is not, 
 the story will appear ineffectual and inadequate; 
 his ignorance of his craft will be certain at some 
 place to show. 
 
 I shall cite as my concluding illustration a 
 story of high artistry which, though it violates 
 certain of the conventional principles of structure, 
 
UNITY OF TONE 263 
 
 succeeds admirably, as it seems to me, in achiev- 
 ing unity of tone. The story is Stevenson's Will 
 o'Jhe Mill. 
 
 ^ The action covers the entire Hfetime of a man, 
 a theme which we previously declared to be un- 
 fitted for a short story.' Space is necessary to de- 
 velop character, and this a short story has not. 
 But though Will o" the Mill is the story of a man's "~7 
 life, there is no attempt made to develop a com- ' 
 plex character. The story is concerned with but 
 one of Will's problems, which is this : Is happiness 
 to be won by a life of action or of contemplation? 
 Will is a contemplative character. He never 
 goes far from the mountain valley in which he 
 was born, though from it he looks upon the sea- 
 ward plain and the cities of men, with all the ac- 
 tivities which these suggest. Echoes of Hf e occa- 
 sionally disturb the quiet valley. An army once 
 passes through and vanishes, never to return. 
 Travellers put up for a time and go their way. 
 Of the hfe beyond the valley Will knows only by 
 hearsay, and he ponders a bit wistfully what he 
 learns. Of human life near at home he knows 
 little through experience. He is once in love but 
 so placidly that marriage seems to him undesir- 
 able, and the girl, though she loves him, marries 
 somebody else. After this he still remains in his 
 valley home and evolves his philosophy of Hfe: 
 that the strangeness of Hfe lies within himself, 
 
264 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 that adventure is of the spirit, and not to be 
 found among the things of the earth. 
 
 It is the emphasis upon and constant recur- 
 rence of this idea which chiefly unifies the story, 
 though the freedom from specific incident and 
 situation, the unity of place, and the lack of 
 sharp transitions in time all contribute to a uni- 
 iied effect. The narrative and dialogue are 
 pitched to the same key of simplicity. A de- 
 scription of the sea, for a sight of which Will 
 longs, is given, not in the words of the author, but 
 in the simple and artless language of the Miller. 
 So, throughout, simpHcity is the key-note, and the 
 tone is uniform. The effect is powerful, partly 
 because of this and partly because of the signifi- 
 cance of the theme, which is close to every one — 
 the query: What is the end of Kfe, and how shall 
 a man best conduct himself therein? 
 
 Unity of tone is, to repeat, the chief of all uni- 
 ties, for its purpose is to make upon the reader a 
 single emotional effect. It demands that the 
 emotion of the writer dominate and suffuse his 
 theme, that it be in accord with that theme. It 
 demands that the writer clearly know his purpose 
 before he begins to write, and that he bend all his 
 energies to it. What the tone may be is as vari- 
 ous as are the emotions. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 THE PSYCHOLOGY OF STORY 
 WRITING 
 
 So far as I am aware, little has been written to 
 reveal the actual mental processes incident to 
 story composition. Brain, emotion, and imagina- 
 tion working in harmony upon a theme achieve 
 a result, and, behold ! a story. But this is all too 
 indefinite. What we desire is to follow the actual 
 mental steps, to trace the false starts, to analyze 
 the reasons which led to the acceptance of one 
 idea or the rejection of another; to decide, if pos- 
 sible, upon some economical procedure by follow- 
 ing which we can ourselves, without waste of 
 energy, contrive an effective story. 
 
 Authors have unfortunately left little for our 
 guidance. Perhaps they fear to show us the 
 gross process of story development lest we be ap- 
 palled at the crudity of it and no longer think of 
 the author as a person somehow different from the 
 rest of us, of finer mind and imagination, working 
 in some mysterious and inspired way. Or, again, 
 many are doubtless forgetful of their own 
 chains of thought, and, once the story is created, 
 265 
 
266 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 are unable to retrace the steps of its development. 
 Certain it is that one has to build his theory of 
 the story writer's psychology from hints gathered 
 here and there, and from such rare and illuminat- 
 ing documents as Poe's Philosophy of Cofnposi- 
 tion. 
 
 The imagination under the dominance of an 
 emotion contrives a story through the exercise 
 of the intelligence, which, if trained by critical 
 study, is equipped for the demands to which it 
 is subjected. It must, however, have a theme 
 upon which to work, for it cannat function in 
 vacuo. It is here that the young writer meets his 
 initial difficulty. He wishes to express his no- 
 tions of Ufe, and he is confident that he has much 
 to say, provided he had a theme, but he is aghast 
 when for the first time he realizes that he has no 
 particular story to tell. His first need is some 
 means whereby he may secure a story theme. 
 
 Ideas for stories, it is true, come often through 
 the workings of the subconscious mind. Of a 
 sudden and without warning an idea pops to the 
 surface Hke a cork freed from restraint, and the 
 writer congratulates himself upon a lucky inspi- 
 ration. Yet this is a chance discovery; often he is 
 not so fortunate, and meanwhile he must work. 
 How can he force himself to acquire themes? I 
 shall elaborate here somewhat the discussion 
 upon story ideas to be found in Chapter X. I 
 
PSYCHOLOGY 267 
 
 assume, of course, that my mind works much as 
 any one else's and that what I find useful may be 
 of value to others. It is possible that this is not, 
 in every instance, so, but I have no other recourse 
 and must proceed upon this assumption. 
 
 Story ideas may spring, we said, from incident, 
 character, place, idea, and emotion. The theme 
 for any of these may arise spontaneously in the 
 mind as the result of associations which we can- 
 not analyze. If it does not, we must resort to 
 various expedients. For the moment I shall con- 
 fine myself to the story of incident and enumerate 
 several devices whereby a plot may be secured. 
 
 I may first go to other stories or plays and 
 borrow a plot. This method has the sanction of 
 Shakespeare, who sought his plots in novels, his- 
 tories, and other plays, often combining several 
 from diverse sources, modifying as he deemed 
 best, and in the end creating a new thing. His 
 originality lay not so much in devising incidents 
 and contriving action as in imagining appropri- 
 ate characters; did his plays not reveal an insight 
 into human nature surpassing that of his con- 
 temporaries, and a style more beautiful and 
 varied than theirs, he would not be regarded as 
 their superior upon the sole point of plot con- 
 struction. 
 
 I may, then, take such a story as Cinderella, or 
 Patient Griselda, or a poem such as The Ancient 
 
268 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Mariner, or Andrea del Sarto, or a story from 
 Boccaccio, and modernize it. This means that 
 I invent new characters, situations, and settings 
 which will make the old theme new and different. 
 Or, again, I may pick up the latest magazine and 
 with a story theme taken therefrom devise a vari- 
 ant which, when I have done, will bear no resem- 
 blance to the original. Again, I may utilize some 
 chance incident which I have heard related, or I 
 may turn to the newspaper for an idea. My con- 
 cern is with the starting-point. Given a point of 
 departure, my imagination under guidance can 
 spin the story. 
 
 Let me take a specific instance. I once read a 
 newspaper item to the effect that a maiden lady, 
 deceased, had left all her property to be devoted 
 to the care of her pet cat. This is a somewhat 
 unusual procedure, and visions of disappointed 
 and irate relatives hovered in the background as 
 I read. Suppose the cat left to the care of one of 
 these, he to spend the income upon its mainte- 
 nance, subject, of course, to legal supervision. It 
 is to his apparent advantage to prolong the life 
 of the cat. Suppose him tempted to substitute 
 a second cat surreptitiously upon the death of the 
 first. Here is a nice point of ethics, involving 
 some interesting psychology. But further pos- 
 sibilities suggest themselves. The disposition of 
 the property, once the cat is dead, is known only 
 
PSYCHOLOGY 269 
 
 to the lawyer. The relative naturally supposes 
 that it will not come to him. He substitutes the 
 second cat, maintains the fraud as long as he 
 dares, and in the end discovers that the property 
 is his, that had he been honest he would have 
 been the gainer. Or a second ending is possible : 
 let him resist temptation and be rewarded for 
 his honesty. From a small but definite begin- 
 ning it has not been difficult to devise a plot as 
 good as that of many a story we read in the 
 magazines. 
 
 A likely storehouse for story themes is, I have 
 always thought, legal records. All human activ- 
 ities come at last to court. All manner of stories 
 are suggested there, and were I in need of a 
 theme I should seek one of the many published 
 records of cases. The theme I selected might 
 bear little relation to the subsequent story, but 
 it would be a definite starting-point, and that is 
 my immediate concern. Collections of fables, 
 folklore, poetry, biography, and the like might 
 serve my purpose equally well. 
 
 Character themes I discussed somewhat at 
 length in a previous chapter. The source again 
 is observation or literature. I may borrow a 
 character as did Turgenieff or select some person 
 I know, simplifying to secure consistency and 
 brevity. My situations I shall devise to set the 
 character forth adequately. 
 
270 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Scene, too, I have discussed elsewhere. Do 
 not imagine that foreign or unusual experience is 
 necessary to a story of this type. What manner 
 of life may be appropriate to the Httle house on 
 the corner, to the apartment opposite? What 
 story will convey my sense of desolation as I con- 
 template the ragged and mean outskirts of a great 
 city? What will express a type of life suited 
 to the tawdry or respectable mansion on the 
 avenue? Each of these is food for the imagina- 
 tion, and, though the resulting story bear but 
 little resemblance to the initial suggestion, this 
 has served its purpose, none the less, in stimu- 
 lating invention. 
 
 Stories of idea were considered at sufficient 
 length in another place. Their source is, again, 
 a generalization based upon experience, or an 
 inspiration derived from reading. I should be 
 careful to select one which is of genuine interest 
 to me, for otherwise I court failure. To be truly 
 original in this field I should be something of a 
 philosopher, for if I do not genuinely hold the 
 idea which I seek to express, the resulting story 
 will be cold and reveal too openly the source from 
 which I derived it. None the less the starting- 
 point may be the thought of another, provided it 
 fire me with speculations of my own. 
 
 I have chosen to base my plot illustration for 
 this chapter upon a story idea which springs 
 
PSYCHOLOGY 271 
 
 simply from the determination to arouse in the 
 reader a specific emotion. I have done this for 
 the reason that the impulse here is of the slight- 
 est, the choice a mere exercise of the judgment. 
 The development in the first stages, therefore, is 
 almost purely intellectual and should show to 
 some degree how the imagination may be guided 
 into channels wherein it will work with the maxi- 
 mum of economy and effect. The difficulty in 
 story writing is not to imagine but to imagine 
 effectively, that is, to imagine in such a way as 
 to accomplish a predetermined purpose. To do 
 this the imagination must be held in check until 
 the story theme has been outlined with some 
 completeness. 
 
 I select my theme, fear, because this is a 
 powerful passion, one universal and compelling. 
 What are the ideas associated with fear? The 
 following present themselves: 
 
 Death, danger, the unknown, the supernat- 
 ural, fear for another, ridicule. 
 
 I think also of associated devices: night, lonely 
 situation, criminal or savage men, war, ghosts, 
 and the like. 
 
 Doubtless there are many more associated 
 ideas, but invention fails for the moment, and I 
 review the Hst to see what I can make of it. I 
 recognize here the conventional elements of many 
 stories, some of which I recall specifically. Still 
 
272 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 I am dissatisfied. Doubtless a new and effective 
 story can be built of the old materials, but I de- 
 sire something fresher, something which I can 
 seize upon with interest. Is there no more com- 
 pelling fear than any of these? The thought is 
 illuminating. Surely the great fear is a man's fear 
 of himself. I remember moments when I feared 
 greatly that I should make a fool of myself, that 
 I should say or do something I didn't intend. I 
 have feared, too, that my will might become pow- 
 erless and I mad. Here are various themes more 
 vital and less hackneyed than those first suggested. 
 
 How then shall I make use of self-fear as a story 
 motive? Shall I simply analyze the emotion, 
 setting it forth in trivial incident? Great writers 
 have done this, but it calls for greater power than 
 I possess. I need to devise action — a plot. What, 
 then, if some one inspire this fear in another for 
 some purpose — revenge, perhaps? This appeals 
 to me. I shall conceive of a man playing upon 
 the emotions of another to revenge himself for 
 some wrong. The victim may have succeeded in 
 rivalry for a woman; his enemy may be, osten- 
 sibly, his friend, as intimacy is essential if the 
 victim is to be played upon. 
 
 The means is to be subtle suggestion, the vic- 
 tim a trusting and honorable person unaware 
 that he is being influenced. It remains then to 
 devise situations. I thought first of the follow- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY 273 
 
 ing: the victim is to be a doctor attendant upon 
 a relative who is hopelessly ill and who desires 
 death. The doctor may profit by a bequest 
 when the relative dies. Suggestion tempts the 
 doctor to give his patient the means of suicide. 
 He fights the thought, and the fear of himself be- 
 comes a nightmare. 
 
 I did not like this plot, for it appealed to me 
 as conventional. Surely I had read stories with 
 this theme. I must seek a better. Here is a pos- 
 sibility I had ignored. What of the woman for 
 whom the men had been rivals? The loser would 
 wish above all things to lower the husband in the 
 eyes of the wife. To make him act dishonorably, 
 to reveal in him forces which the wife had never 
 suspected, would be a fitting revenge. The theme 
 has now changed somewhat, but no matter, for 
 we have a story in sight. A difiiculty arises, 
 however, at this point. I do not wish the hus- 
 band to be a really dishonorable man. What, 
 then, am I to do? I fall back upon psychology. 
 All of us, I reflect, have base thoughts which we 
 suppress, are subject to temptations which we 
 resist, but of which we are none the less ashamed. 
 We are debased in our own eyes that we should 
 harbor them, rather than glad of our power to 
 overcome them. Let us suppose that the hus- 
 band does not grasp this fact and that under the 
 influence of suggestion he fancies his nature de- 
 
274 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 caying. He is afraid he will show himself in 
 what he fancies are his true colors and thus lose 
 the love and respect of his wife. Here is the situ- 
 ation, the temptation another woman, perhaps. 
 The denouement must be the husband's confes- 
 sions of his terror of self. I then conceive his 
 wife to be a woman of understanding who has long 
 distrusted her husband's supposed friend and is 
 able to put two and two together. She opens his 
 eyes to the friend's poisonous suggestions. This 
 development has forced me to outline my charac- 
 ters with some definiteness. I feel that in time they 
 will become for me distinct and individual persons. 
 
 We have now to devise scenes and to select a 
 point of view, setting, class of life, and to deter- 
 mine the tone. At the outset I am troubled by 
 the first story I planned, that of the doctor. The 
 very conception of the story suggested the shadow 
 of a scene. I saw dimly the doctor looking upon 
 his hopeless patient and tempted to permit him 
 the means of suicide. That scene, slight as it is, 
 suffices to distract me as I seek to imagine other 
 situations appropriate to my altered story. I 
 must beware of hampering myself in like fashion 
 a second time. I must decide first upon desira- 
 ble situations before I let my imagination make 
 them real to me, for it is very hard to erase any- 
 thing which has once been definitely conceived. 
 
 Let me first determine the point of view. Upon 
 
PSYCHOLOGY 275 
 
 a hasty consideration I dismiss the characters as 
 unsuited to tell the story, for my theme demands 
 that my reader become acquainted with hidden 
 motives. Some one who knows the thoughts of 
 all the characters seems best, the omniscient au- 
 thor, therefore. Yet I do not wish to tell every- 
 thing. Suggestion will be a powerful aid in mak- 
 ing the situations and characterization telling. 
 I must write as one with qualified omniscience, 
 understanding but one of the characters inti- 
 mately. Again, on second thought, I might wish 
 to moralize a bit, but don't wish to do so in my 
 own person. I revert to the first possibility, that 
 of the actor-narrator. How can any such be ac- 
 quainted with all the facts the reader should 
 know? Suppose he doesn't tell how he came to 
 know so much? Can we imagine some one in- 
 venting the story, or, better, intimating that he 
 was in some undefined way connected with it? 
 Perhaps he knew all the participants, one of 
 whom confessed to him. Or suppose him one of 
 the men involved, the instigator of the situation, 
 a man of keen insight though conscienceless. He 
 may seek relief from his sense of guilt by anony- 
 mous confession. This is true to human nature, 
 and, if the truth is but hinted at, envelops the 
 story in suggestion. 
 
 Who, then, shall be the centre of action? Ob- 
 viously, if the narrator is, as suggested, a par- 
 
276 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 tidpant, he will unconsciously dwell on his own 
 thoughts and observations; we shall see the story- 
 through his eyes. Therefore he must be the cen- 
 tre of action. There are difficulties here, for he 
 must be keen to read in others what we must 
 know for an intelligent grasp of the story. But 
 difficulties of some sort are inherent in all points 
 of view. 
 
 The tone must be serious. We have departed 
 so far from our initial impulse that we seek no 
 longer to arouse a crude emotion of fear. Rather 
 we wish to stir the reader to thoughtful intro- 
 spection, to make him speculate on problems of 
 conduct. Our tone will be one of moral gravity 
 seeking to arouse a thoughtful self-analysis. 
 
 What is the state of the problem to this point? 
 We have a story told by a participant of the 
 action, this suggested only. He seeks to revenge 
 himself upon his successful rival by stirring him to 
 a fear of self. The victim ultimately confesses to 
 his wife, who forgives him, and the enemy is cast 
 into outer darkness. This is a concise statement 
 of the result of much analysis, but by reason of 
 the thought processes by which we arrived at it, 
 it is far more significant than had it been given us 
 out of hand by some one else. We have con- 
 ceived characters with some definiteness and 
 have found much to write about on the way. 
 We have the materials for a story. 
 
PSYCHOLOGY 277 
 
 First of all we have the initial scene. A num- 
 ber of men are gathered together relating experi- 
 ences. Fear is discussed, and the opening for the 
 narrative provided. The necessary exposition 
 can be set forth in the words of the speaker. 
 The class of life has been decided by the nature 
 of the story. It must be the middle or upper 
 class, for the character of the action is intellec- 
 tual. The persons of the story must not be too 
 primitive, such as speak their thoughts at once, 
 but such as reflect. 
 
 I foresee a difficulty in the husband's confes- 
 sion. How can the wife be brought to a right 
 understanding of the truth? Obviously her sus- 
 picions of the friend must be aroused, and she 
 must be observant of many things before the con- 
 fession. The other woman may be a guest in the 
 house, a relative, perhaps, and the action take 
 place there. This has the advantage of unity. 
 The scenes may be quiet and domestic, a dinner, 
 a conversation or two, several interviews of the 
 man with his friend — essential to the necessary 
 suggestion. That is all we need in the way of 
 incident. The effectiveness of the story will de- 
 pend upon the elaboration, upon dialogue chiefly. 
 
 As I review this analysis I am struck with the 
 remoteness of the conclusion from the inception 
 of the theme, and with my own moralizing tend- 
 ency. The bent of my mind has revealed itself 
 
278 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 at every turn, and I have made of my materials 
 what is of interest to me. Another mind begin- 
 ning at the same point would have arrived at a 
 story utterly different. But though I have not 
 done as I intended at the outset, I have arrived 
 with a fair degree of definiteness at a possible 
 story, one which, if well enough elaborated will 
 be worth the doing. This demonstrates that the 
 method I have employed is of some value. 
 
 The story is, of course, far from done, though 
 for purposes of illustration I drop it at this point. 
 It must be laid aside for a while and allowed to 
 grow. Story growth is an interesting thing, 
 though not to be definitely analyzed. It is 
 mostly a subconscious process and requires time. 
 Every little while I shall turn to my story and 
 attempt to visualize the characters or to elabo- 
 rate a bit of dialogue. It is as though the story 
 were a seed sprouting in darkness, at which I look 
 occasionally to note progress. I can observe its 
 growth but I cannot explain it. Of this I am sure : 
 in time it will cease to be a story, an invented 
 thing, and will become real. I shall have been 
 familiar with it for so long that I shall be un- 
 able to distinguish it from fact. When it reaches 
 this stage of development I may begin to write 
 upon it. 
 
 To clothe it in words is a forcing process. By 
 putting pen to paper I stimulate thought and 
 
PSYCHOLOGY 279 
 
 discover what my mind has been doing with the 
 theme while I have left it. The pen point serves 
 to precipitate and crystallize ideas unrecognized 
 until the moment of writing. Each draught of my 
 story will be a little more elaborate and definite 
 than the last. Finally, I shall be prepared to 
 write it afresh in its ultimate form, ignoring all 
 previous attempts, for the story will lie in my 
 mind definite and complete. I need not, of 
 course, set pen to paper to bring it to this final 
 state. I may have carried it in my memory 
 throughout. All depends upon my individual 
 idiosyncrasies, the manner in which I work 
 best. 
 
 Rarely will a story written in the first creative 
 impulse carry conviction. Even though definite 
 and well constructed, it will be, somehow, thin. 
 It will lack the power of suggestion, that is, of re- 
 lation to the life about it, which we saw to be de- 
 sirable. This power of suggestion will be lacking 
 because the story is, in truth, without it, the char- 
 acters not conceived with the necessary fulness, 
 nor the story as but a single incident related to 
 the larger whole of life. The dearth of mate- 
 rial will be apparent. If enough time is given for 
 a proper growth, this defect will be remedied. 
 Unconsciously the author will endow the story 
 with a background and make the incidents he 
 tells significant of more which he suppresses. 
 
28o ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 I have endeavored to make this discussion as 
 specific as possible and have, therefore, elabo- 
 rated my illustration at what would, otherwise, 
 be undue length. I cannot pretend that all 
 stories are composed after the manner I have 
 outlined, but what has been set down may, none 
 the less, afford some assistance to my readers in 
 the solution of their difficulties. It seems to me 
 possible to develop a method of story-construc- 
 tion which shall be to some degree free from the 
 hit-or-miss practice of letting the imagination 
 roam at will. The imagination is the most vital 
 of the faculties involved, but without guidance 
 it may lead us nowhere or plunge us into diffi- 
 culties which the critical intelligence will find 
 almost insuperable. The story mould once cast 
 is not easily broken. It is, therefore, well to con- 
 struct it on sound lines. 
 
 At this point of our discussion it is scarcely 
 necessary to indicate the value of study and the 
 mastery of critical principles. Native endow- 
 ment, necessary as it is, will not suffice of itself. 
 The imagination must be disciplined and work 
 at the direction of a guiding intelligence. Once 
 the resources of story method are so mastered 
 that the writer works freely with them he is con- 
 scious of power. There will be a time when they 
 seem to hamper him, for he will be unduly con- 
 scious of them, and subservient to their require- 
 
PSYCHOLOGY 281 
 
 ments. But he can gain freedom only through 
 them. If he ignores them as academic and dead- 
 ening, his mind will never receive the discipline 
 essential to good work. Nor, when he is unsuc- 
 cessful, will he know the cause of failure. The 
 true artist is always keenly interested in the 
 mechanics of his trade, in all its technicahties. 
 It is the sentimentalist and he who shirks work 
 who ignores the example and the advice of others. 
 A writer who relies upon inspiration will seldom 
 accomplish much. 
 
 Of the methods of novelists and short-story 
 writers hints are to be found here and there in 
 letters and biographies. To Poe's method in The 
 Raven I have already made reference. Haw- 
 thorne, it is apparent from his note-book, worked 
 often from an abstract conception to the story 
 which embodied it. A passage from George 
 Eliot's letters reveals a like method of work. 
 Writing to Frederic Harrison, she says: 
 
 That is a tremendously difficult problem you 
 have laid before me; and I think you see its diffi- 
 culties, though they can hardly press upon you 
 as they do on me, who have gone through again 
 and again the severe efforts of trying to make 
 certain ideas thoroughly incarnate, as if they re- 
 vealed themselves to me first in the flesh and not 
 in the spirit. I think aesthetic teaching is the 
 highest of all teaching, because it deals with Y\if* 
 in its highest complexity. But if it ceases to be 
 
282 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 purely aesthetic — if it lapses anywhere from the 
 picture to the diagram — it becomes the most 
 offensive of all teaching. . . . Consider the sort 
 of agonizing labor to an EngKsh-fed imagination 
 to make out a sufficiently real background for the 
 desired picture, — to get breathing individual 
 forms, and group them in the needful relations, 
 so that the presentation will lay hold on the emo- 
 tions as human experience, — will, as you say, 
 ** flash'* conviction on the world by means of 
 aroused sympathy. 
 
 A like progress from the abstract conception to 
 the concrete story is to be noted in at least one 
 of Stevenson's stories, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. 
 We are told in his biography that the theme 
 which he endeavored to clothe in story form was 
 that of the dual personality of man, the good and 
 evil spirits which struggle for mastery. Thus 
 stated the theme is abstract; but so well realized 
 is the story that its moral is for most readers 
 an afterthought. The plot, the incidents, are in 
 themselves compelling. 
 
 Turgenieflf's method I have referred to in an- 
 other place. With him character was the start- 
 ing-point. Perhaps the "born story-tellers " pur- 
 sue a less self-conscious method. For them, 
 morals and ideas are secondary. Incidents and 
 emotions are their game, and doubtless they ex- 
 perience less difficulty in realizing their concep- 
 tions than do writers who make use of the story 
 
PSYCHOLOGY 283 
 
 form for a philosophical purpose. One can but 
 guess at their methods of work. 
 
 It is self-evident, I take it, that with all our 
 talk of story methods and economical processes 
 of work we have shed little hght upon the heart 
 of the mystery, that hinted at in the passage 
 quoted from George Eliot. We may outHne a 
 story by an exercise of the intelligence and devise 
 a structure which will meet our critical tests. But 
 this outline is not a story until its abstractions 
 become flesh-and-blood reahties. This is the 
 most difficult step of all. A great writer such as 
 George Eliot confesses her weakness here, and 
 for the best of story-tellers this part of the crea- 
 tive process must be difficult. We cannot an- 
 alyze the mysterious transformation which the 
 imagination in some way effects, that whereby a 
 character real as life is made to talk and act 
 convincingly. Our method can take us to this 
 point and no further. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 CONCLUSION 
 
 [' 
 
 At the outset of our study we declared a con- 
 cise yet adequate definition of the short story to 
 be impossible. We chose instead to consider the \ 
 underlying principles of all narrative writing, j 
 pointing out that the shorter the story the more ; 
 exacting became the selective process and the 1 
 more unified the action, place, and time^J^Loose- \ 
 ness of construction, often permissible in a long 
 narrative, is, in the short story, accompanied by 
 no compensating advantages. The writer must | 
 bend all his artistic ingenuity to the accomplish- j 
 ment of swift and emphatic effects. /Should we ] 
 seek a loose characterization of the short story as 
 distinguished from a long we should find our 
 terms chiefly in the chapter devoted to unitv^ of 
 tone/i A short story aims at a single effect: the 
 1 writer, dominated by a single emotion, endeav- 
 ors so to devise his story as to convey this and 
 arouse an echo of it in his readers. In a longer 
 narrative the writer is less rigidly bound, and in 
 the endeavor to arouse a variety of effects may 
 284 
 
CONCLUSION 285 
 
 more nearly mirror the complexities of emotional 
 life. Definitions more precise than this will not 
 profit us. 
 
 I trust that from our discussion of principles no 
 reader has devised for his guidance any inflexible 
 body of rules. One does not achieve a good story 
 by a mere adherence to precept. Yet a knowl- 
 edge of possible effects and the means whereby 
 good writers have attained these is not only de- 
 sirable but essential. The power of self-criti- 
 cism is necessary to all good work. Moreover, it 
 is by imitation first that a writer attains a mas- 
 tery of his craft; later he may come to the point 
 at which true individual expression is possible. 
 The most original of geniuses must profit by the 
 work of his predecessors. He must study, an- 
 alyze, and imitate before he, in his turn, may 
 achieve originahty. Most of us never reach the 
 final stage, but even so, the study of technic is 
 not only interesting in itself but valuable in that 
 it develops a power of discriminating apprecia- 
 tion and thus enhances the joys of reading. 
 
 I fancy there will be many who disagree with 
 this assertion. There is a wide-spread behef in 
 "inspiration" which I, personally, do not share. 
 Writing is an intellectual exercise which may be 
 mastered to the degree of the native intelligence 
 of the student just as may law, medicine, or any 
 other study. Any one who seeks to improve 
 
286 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 himself in it, and who will frankly recognize his 
 own defects, may do much to develop his powers. 
 I wish to devote a Httle space to the elaboration 
 of this idea. 
 
 Granted an adequate technic — that is, means 
 of expression which, as we have seen, is the re- 
 sult of study, practice, and self-criticism— Kterary 
 power is dependent upon freshness of impression 
 and truth of insight. Observation and thought^ 
 are the two essentials. All of us see and think 
 to some degree, but no one to the utmost of his 
 innate capacity. We permit conventional inter- 
 pretations of Hfe both to dull our ability to see 
 afresh and to phrase the results of our observa- 
 tion. Most of us, in Stevenson's phrase, "swal- 
 low the universe like a pill." A recognition of 
 our own conventional natures is the first step to 
 freedom and power. The true writer is, I take 
 it, forever in a state of wonder, conscious always 
 of the infinite variety and entertainment which 
 life affords. The power of wonder, or freshness 
 of impression, is largely a gift of youth; in all but 
 strongly individual natures it dies soon. We be- 
 come with the years at home with life and find 
 this a more comfortable state than the more 
 vivid emotions of youth. But it is not a writer*s 
 business to be comfortable but to see. If he 
 would see freshly he must force himself so to do. 
 This is a matter of will. 
 
CONCLUSION 287 
 
 The recognition of the plasticity of one's own 
 nature, of the dominance of the will, is essential 
 not only to moral but to artistic growth. I may 
 not, to be sure, make of myself whatsoever I 
 choose, but I may approximate my desire, ap- 
 proach ever nearer to it. With this I must, per- 
 force, be content, for I am not to blame that my 
 capacity for self-improvement is not the greatest. 
 My concern is the development, to their utmost, 
 of those possibilities I possess. 
 
 I may by nature be unobservant. If I recog- 
 nize the defect I may force myself to see more in 
 the world about me than I have hitherto noted. 
 The power will grow with use, and, though I never 
 develop it to the degree of another's natural en- 
 dowment, I have yet done something. Kim, in 
 Kipling's story, was trained to observe and to re- 
 member. This is a fictitious instance, to be sure, 
 but I fancy that Kipling drew upon his own expe- 
 rience in its creation. A more authentic illustra- 
 tion is that of the training which Maupassant 
 underwent at the hands of Flaubert. No small 
 part of this was devoted to mere visual observa- 
 tion, for upon perception and memory much lit- 
 erary power depends. Hawthorne made use of 
 note-books to record his impressions. How wide- 
 spread similar practices among other authors 
 may be I cannot say, but the merit of the exer- 
 cise is self-evident. If I am slow to distinguish 
 
288 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 the characteristics of sounds or to note the play 
 of facial expression, I can remedy the defect 
 somewhat by deliberate attention. It is not a 
 matter which calls for leisure or exceptional op- 
 portunity. The materials are to my hand if I 
 will avail myself of them. 
 
 The same is true of thought. Most of us are 
 so involved by the routine of daily hfe, so de- 
 pendent upon books and newspapers for our 
 ideas, that the habit of thought is undeveloped 
 and the opportunity for its exercise seems scant. 
 Effort is required if we are to react upon our ex- 
 perience and form individual opinions. If we are 
 modest, courage is necessary if we are to find 
 worth in opinions so formed. Yet a man may, in 
 all humility, recognize his ideas to be inadequate 
 and yet find some good in them. If he is to 
 write he must have some conceit of himself, for 
 otherwise the great names of literature will op>- 
 press him to utter silence. Herein Hes the dan- 
 ger of an academic training. The well-read man 
 thinks that everything worth the saying has been 
 said. 
 
 But are ideas essential to literary power? Are 
 not emotional susceptibility and imagination the 
 chief essentials? In poetry, certainly, originality 
 of thought seems to be secondary. The poet 
 phrases ideas current in his time; what is de- 
 manded of him is power of expression. In fiction 
 
CONCLUSION 289 
 
 this is not true to so great an extent. In its best 
 examples fiction is increasingly intellectualized. 
 The conventional writer, he who accepts out- 
 worn ideas, is less and less a power in his gener- 
 ation. I do not mean to say that every noveUst 
 need write with a purpose, but he should at least 
 be abreast of his day and, in so far as he can, re- 
 act upon its thought with ideas of his own. For 
 ideas determine a man's attitude toward life, and 
 this it is which gives his work originality. The 
 fiction writer should read thought-provoking 
 books; the ideas of others will stimulate his. 
 History, biography, criticism, philosophy, and all 
 documents which report life at first hand; the re- 
 ports of observers in all fields of life — travellers, 
 missionaries, and social workers — these should 
 constitute his reading. The skilful fiction writer 
 not only observes afield but also studies in his 
 library. His work is more than a record of im- 
 pressions. It is a comment upon life. 
 
 Observation and thought are much, but sym- 
 pathetic insight into the lives of others is yet 
 more. This is nothing but imagination. The 
 unsympathetic man is the one of untrained imag- 
 ination; he does not see himself in his neighbor's 
 place, and so is not moved by the joy and sorrow 
 of those about him. The novelist must be able 
 to enter into the lives of his characters, and that 
 such may be real he must understand the lives of 
 
290 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 those about him, for a knowledge of life is a guide 
 to, and a check upon, the imagination. Without 
 this check, imagination degenerates into fancy. 
 
 Imagination, leading to insight and sympathy, 
 may be developed somewhat by exercise. A val- 
 uable practice is the deliberate creation of inci- 
 dents and circumstances in the lives of others 
 whom we know but slightly. The imagination 
 is constructive, and working from a slight basis 
 of observation may create a structure logical and 
 true. JMr. Henry James relates the instance of a 
 novelist who wrote convincingly of the hfe of 
 French Protestants, the sole basis in observation 
 being but a glimpse into a home of this class : 
 
 ... I remember an English novelist, a woman 
 of genius, telling me that she was much com- 
 mended for the impression she had managed to 
 give in one of her tales of the nature and way of 
 life of the French Protestant youth. She had 
 been asked where she learned so much about this 
 recondite being, she had been congratulated on 
 her pecuUar opportunities. These opportunities 
 consisted in her having once, in Paris, as she 
 ascended a staircase, passed an open door where, 
 in the household of a pasteur, some of the young 
 Protestants were seated at table round a fin- 
 ished meal. The glimpse made a picture; it 
 lasted only a moment, but that moment was ex- 
 perience. She had got her direct personal im- 
 pression, and she turned out her type. She knew 
 what youth was, and what Protestantism; she 
 
CONCLUSION 291 
 
 also had the advantage of having seen what it 
 was to be French, so that she converted these 
 ideas into a concrete image and produced a real- 
 ity. Above all, however, she was blessed with 
 the faculty which when you give it an inch takes 
 an ell, and which for the artist is a much greater 
 source of strength than any accident of residence 
 or of place in the social scale. The power to 
 guess the unseen from the seen, to trace the impli- 
 cation of things, to judge the whole piece by the 
 pattern, the condition of feeling life in general so 
 completely that you are well on your way to 
 knowing any particular corner of it — this cluster 
 of gifts may almost be said to constitute experi- 
 ence, and they occur in country and in town, and 
 in the most differing stages of education. If ex- 
 perience consists of impressions, it may be said 
 that impressions are experience, just as (have we 
 not seen it?) they are the very air we breathe. 
 Therefore, if I should certainly say to a novice, 
 "Write from experience and experience only," I 
 should feel that this was rather a tantalising mo- 
 nition if I were not careful immediately to add, 
 ''Try to be one of the people on whom nothing is 
 lost."J 
 
 Details are significant of a greater whole, and 
 from a remark, a glimpse into a home or shop, or 
 an exchange of glances, I may create an imagina- 
 tive structure which is true to probability, true, 
 that is, to the nature of life if not true to the spe- 
 cific instance. Thus the ethnologist may from a 
 skull determine the whole nature, physical and 
 
292 ART OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 mental, of a prehistoric man; or the paleontolo- 
 gist from a single bone reconstruct an antedi- 
 luvian monster. The imagination in such an ex- 
 ercise is guided in part by experience and in part 
 by the logical sense. The story writer must de- 
 pend much upon it. 
 
 Limitation of natural endowment is sometimes 
 no greater a handicap to successful work than a 
 wealth of powers. The singer with the glorious, 
 natural voice is under no necessity of enlarging 
 his resources. Sheer beauty of tone will carry 
 him over his difficulties. The less-gifted singer is 
 obliged to supplement his voice by cultivating a 
 beautiful enunciation, by developing his mu- 
 sicianship, by enlarging his resources of tone- 
 color. In the end he may be the more successful 
 of the two by reason of his shrewd utilization of 
 all his powers and by his careful avoidance of 
 monotony. 
 
 My readers must have noted the many in- 
 stances in which I have cited Stevenson to illus- 
 trate this or that point in construction. Steven- 
 son is not the greatest of modern writers; his work 
 is a little thin, a bit self-conscious, and touches 
 life none too intimately. But, as he said truly of 
 himself, few writers with so limited a natural en- 
 dowment have gone so far. He is, therefore, an 
 inspiring example. The pleasure we derive from 
 art lies in the sense of its triimiph over difficulties 
 
CONCLUSION 293 
 
 — ^in form and materials, as in the sonnet or the 
 sculptor's marble — but often, in the very nature 
 of the artist. The story that Turner's color 
 sense sprang from defective vision is a case in 
 point. Only — and the point cannot be overem- 
 phasized — it is imperative that a writer early de- 
 termine his limitations, and work in that field or 
 medium for which his powers may suffice. To do 
 this requires self-knowledge and the study of 
 artistic resources; that is to say, technic. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 I HAVE included Poe's Philosophy of Composi- 
 tion within the covers of this book, first, because my 
 treatment of story writing owes its inspiration in 
 part to this essay; secondly, because Poe's analysis 
 of his manner of work is one of the few definite and 
 helpful discussions of constructive method to be 
 found in English literature. Though it has mainly 
 to do with The Raven, a poem, the method outlined 
 is equally applicable to stories. 
 
 Considerable doubt has been cast upon the honesty 
 of Poe's confession. It is felt by many that the cre- 
 ative process as defined by Poe is altogether too in- 
 tellectual to be in accord with the facts. The poet 
 and the story writer surely do not work in so mathe- 
 matical a mood, their processes of thought are not so 
 coldly critical; emotional rather than intellectual 
 judgments must, we think, largely determine the 
 formal devices of expression. 
 
 In answer to this criticism we have, as verification 
 of Poe's statement, his poems and stories. These 
 are in my judgment a confirmation rather than a 
 refutation of his method. His poetry lacks that 
 final charm which eludes analysis; it is a little cold 
 and calculated. So, too, with his stories. They are 
 29s 
 
296 APPENDIX 
 
 the work of an excellent craftsman, but our admira- 
 tion for the technic is seldom lost in a complete 
 emotional surrender to the story itself. That this is 
 so marks a defect, certainly, in Poe's art; but our ap- 
 preciation of the fact should not blind us to his great 
 and obvious merits. 
 
 THE PHILOSOPHY OF COMPOSITION 
 
 Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, 
 alluding to an examination I once made of the mech- 
 anism of "Barnaby Rudge," says — "By the Vv-a}', are 
 you aware that Godwin wrote his 'Caleb Williams' 
 backwards? He first involved his hero in a web of 
 difficulties, forming the second volume, and then, for 
 the first, cast about him for some mode of account- 
 ing for what had been done." 
 
 I cannot think this the precise mode of procedure 
 on the part of Godwin — and indeed what he himself 
 acknowledges, is not altogether in accordance with 
 Mr. Dickens' idea— but the author of "Caleb Will- 
 aams" was too good an artist not to perceive the 
 advantage derivable from at least a somewhat simi- 
 lar process. Nothing is more clear than that every 
 plot, worth the name, must be elaborated to its de- 
 nouement before anything be attempted with the 
 pen. It is only with the denouement constantly in 
 view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of 
 consequence, or causation, by making the incidents 
 and especially the tone at all points, tend to the de- 
 velopment of the intention. 
 
 There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode 
 of constructing a story. Either history affords a 
 thesis — or one is suggested by an incident of the 
 day — or at best, the author sets himself to work in 
 the combination of striking events to form merely 
 
APPENDIX 297 
 
 the basis of his narrative — designing, generally, to 
 fill in with description, dialogue, or autorial com- 
 ment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may from 
 page to page, render themselves apparent. 
 
 I prefer commencing with the consideration of an 
 effect. Keeping originality always in view — for he is 
 false to himself who ventures to dispense with so 
 obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest 
 — I say to myself, in the first place, " Of the innumer- 
 able effects, or impressions, of which the heart, intel- 
 lect or (more generally) the soul is susceptible, what 
 one shall I, on the present occasion choose?" Hav- 
 ing chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid effect, 
 I consider whether it can be best wrought by incident 
 or tone — whether by ordinary incidents and pecuUar 
 tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of inci- 
 dent and tone — afterward looking about me (or 
 rather within) for such combinations of event, or 
 tone, as shall best aid me in the construction of the 
 effect. 
 
 I have often thought how interesting a magazine 
 paper might be written by any author who would — 
 that is to say, who could — detail step by step, the 
 processes by which any one of his compositions at- 
 tained its ultimate point of completion. Why such a 
 paper has never been given to the world, I am at a 
 loss to say — but, perhaps, the autorial vanity has had 
 more to do with the omission than any one other 
 cause. Most writers — poets in especial — prefer hav- 
 ing it understood that they compose by a species of 
 fine frenzy — an ecstatic intuition — and would posi- 
 tively shudder at letting the public take a peep be- 
 hind the scenes, at the elaborate and vacillating cru- 
 dities of thought — at the true purposes seized only 
 at the last moment — at the innumerable glimpses of 
 idea that arrived not at the maturity of full view — at 
 the fully matured fancies discarded in despair as un- 
 
298 APPENDIX 
 
 manageable — at the cautious selections and rejec- 
 tions — at the painful erasures and interpolations — 
 in a word, at the wheels and pinions — the tackle for 
 scene-shifting — the step-ladders and demon traps — 
 the cock's feathers, the red paint and the black 
 patches, which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, 
 constitute the properties of the literary histrio. 
 
 I am aware, on the other hand, that the case is 
 by no means common, in which an author is at all in 
 condition to retrace the steps by which his conclu- 
 sions have been attained. In general, suggestions, 
 having arisen pell-mell, are pursued and forgotten in 
 a similar manner. 
 
 For my own part, I have neither sympathy with 
 the repugnance alluded to, nor, at any time, the least 
 difficulty in recalling to mind the progressive steps 
 of any of my compositions; and since the interest of 
 an analysis, or reconstruction, such as I have con- 
 sidered a desideratum, is quite independent of any 
 real or fancied interest in the thing analyzed, it will 
 not be regarded as a breach of decorum on my part 
 to show the modus operandi by which some one of my 
 own works was put together. I select "The Raven" 
 as the most generally known. It is my design to 
 render it manifest that no one point in its composi- 
 tion is referable either to accident or intuition — that 
 the work proceeded, step by step, to its completion 
 with the precision and rigid consequence of a mathe- 
 matical problem. 
 
 Let us dismiss, as irrelevant to the poem, per se, the 
 circumstance — or say the necessity — which, in the 
 first place, gave rise to the intention of composing a 
 poem that should suit at once the popular and the 
 critical taste. 
 
 We commence, then, with this intention. 
 
 The initial consideration was that of extent. If 
 any literary work is too long to be read at one sit- 
 
APPENDIX 299 
 
 ting, we must be content to dispense with the im- 
 mensely important effect derivable from unity of im- 
 pression — for, if two sittings be required, the affairs 
 of the world interfere, and everything like totality 
 is at once destroyed. But since, ceteris paribus, no 
 poet can afford to dispense with anything that may 
 idvance his design, it but remains to be seen whether 
 there is, in extent, any advantage to counterbalance 
 the loss of unity which attends it. Here I say no, at 
 oice. What we term a long poem is, in fact, merely 
 a succession of brief ones — that is to say, of brief 
 poetical effects. It is needless to demonstrate that 
 a poem is such, only inasmuch as it intensely excites, 
 by elevating, the soul: and all intense excitements are, 
 through a psychal necessity, brief. For this reason, 
 at Itast one half of the "Paradise Lost" is essentially 
 proffi — a succession of poetical excitements inter- 
 spened, inevitably, with corresponding depressions — 
 the vhole being deprived, through the extremeness 
 of itslength, of the vastly important artistic element, 
 totaliy, or unity, of effect. 
 
 It ippears evident, then, that there is a distinct 
 limit, as regards length, to all works of literary art — 
 the Unit of a single sitting — and that, although in 
 certaii classes of prose composition, such as " Robin- 
 son Crasoe" (demanding no unity), this limit may 
 be advmtageously overpassed, it can never properly 
 be ovepassed in a poem. Within this limit, the ex- 
 tent of a poem may be made to bear mathematical 
 relation to its merit — in other words, to the excite- 
 ment.oi elevation — again, in other words, to the de- 
 gree of :he true poetical effect which it is capable of 
 produciig; for it is clear that the brevity must be in 
 direct r;tio of the intensity of the intended effect: — 
 this, wi'h one proviso — that a certain degree of dura- 
 tion is i)solutely requisite for the production of any 
 effect at all. 
 
300 APPENDIX 
 
 Holding in view these considerations, as well as 
 that degree of excitement which I deemed not above 
 the popular, while not below the critical, taste, I 
 reached at once what I conceived the proper length 
 for my intended poem — a length of about one hun- 
 dred lines. It is in fact a hundred and eight. 
 
 My next thought concerned the choice of an im- 
 pression, or effect, to be conveyed; and here I might 
 as well observe that, throughout the construction, } 
 kept steadily in view the design of rendering tha 
 work universally appreciable. I should be carried toi) 
 far out of my immediate topic were I to demonstrate 
 a point upon which I have repeatedly insisted, aid 
 which, with the poetical stands not the slightest need 
 of demonstration — the point I mean, that Beaut;" is 
 the sole legitimate province of the poem. A :'ew 
 words, however, in elucidation of my real meanng, 
 which some of my friends have evinced a disposi:ion 
 to misrepresent. The pleasure which is at once the 
 most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure, 
 is, I believe, found in the contemplation of the beau- 
 tiful. When indeed men speak of Beauty, they nean, 
 precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but ai ef- 
 fect — they refer, in short, just to that intense and 
 pure elevation of soul — npt of intellect, or of h<art — 
 upon which I have commented, and which is experi- 
 enced in consequence of contemplating " the teauti- 
 ful." Now I designate Beauty as the provhce of 
 the poem, merely because it is an obvious ruleof Art 
 that effects should be made to spring from direct 
 causes — that objects should be attained tlrough 
 means best adapted for their attainment — noone as 
 yet having been weak enough to deny that th< pecu- 
 liar elevation alluded to is most readily attainecin the 
 poem. Now the object Truth, or the excitenent of 
 the Heart, are, although attainable, to a certlin de- 
 gree, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose. 
 
APPENDIX 301 
 
 Truth, in fact, demands a precision, and Passion, a 
 homeliness (the truly passionate will comprehend me) 
 which are absolutely antagonistic to that Beauty 
 which, I maintain, is the excitement, or pleasurable 
 elevation, of the soul. It by no means follows from 
 anything here said, that passion or even truth, may 
 not be introduced, and even profitably introduced, 
 into a poem — for they may serve in elucidation, or 
 aid the general effect, as do discords in music, by 
 contrast — but the true artist will always contrive, 
 first, to tone them into proper subservience to the 
 predominant aim, and, secondly, to enveil them as 
 far as possible, in that Beauty which is the atmos- 
 phere and the essence of the poem. 
 
 Regarding, then. Beauty as my province, my next 
 question referred to the tone of its highest mani- 
 festation — and all experience has shown that this 
 tone is one of sadness. Beauty of whatever kind, in 
 its extreme development invariably excites the sen- 
 sitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most 
 legitimate of all the poetical tones. 
 
 At length, the province, and the tone, being thus 
 determined, I betook myself to ordinary induction, 
 with the view of obtaining some artistic piquancy 
 which might serve me as a key-note in the construc- 
 tion of the poem — some pivot upon which the whole 
 structure might turn. In carefully thinking over all 
 the usual artistic effects — or more properly points, in 
 the theatrical sense — I did not fail to perceive im- 
 mediately that not one had been so universally em- 
 ployed as that of the refrain. The universality of 
 its employment sufficed to assure me of its intrinsic 
 value, and spared me ^he necessity of submitting it to 
 analysis. I considered it, however, with regard to 
 its susceptibility of improvement, and soon saw it 
 to be in a primitive condition. As commonly used, 
 the refrain, or burden, not only is limited to lyric 
 
302 APPENDIX 
 
 verse, but depends for its impression upon the force 
 of monotone — both in sound and thought. The 
 pleasure is deduced solely from the sense of identity 
 — of repetition. I resolved to diversify, and so 
 vastly heighten, the effect^ by adhering, in general, 
 to the monotone of sound, while I continually varied 
 that of thought; that is to say, I determined to pro- 
 duce continuously novel effects, by the variation of 
 the application of the refrain — the refrain itself re- 
 maining, for the most part, unvaried. 
 
 These points being settled, I next bethought me of 
 the nature of my refrain. Since its application was 
 to be repeatedly varied, it was clear that the refrain 
 itself must be brief, for there would have been an in- 
 surmountable difficulty in frequent variations of ap- 
 plication in any sentence of length. In proportion 
 to the brevity of the sentence, would, of course, be 
 the facility of the variation. This led me at once to 
 a single word as the best refrain. 
 
 The question now arose as to the character of the 
 word. Having made up my mind to a refrain^ the 
 division of the poem into stanzas was, of course, a 
 corollary; the refrain forming the close to each stanza. 
 That such a close, to have force, must be sonorous 
 and susceptible of protracted emphasis, admitted no 
 doubt; and these considerations inevitably led me 
 to the long o as the most sonorous vowel, in connec- 
 tion with r as the most producible consonant. 
 
 The sound of the refrain being thus determined, it 
 became necessary to select a word embodying this 
 sound, and at the same time in the fullest possible 
 keeping with the melancholy which I had predeter- 
 mined as the tone of the poem. In such a search it 
 would have been absolutely impossible to overlook 
 the word "Nevermore." In fact, it was the very 
 first which presented itself. 
 
 The next desideratum was a pretext for the con- 
 
APPENDIX 303 
 
 tinuous use of the one word "Nevermore." In ob- 
 serving the difficulty which I at once found in invent- 
 ing a sufficiently plausible reason for its continuous 
 repetition, I did not fail to perceive that this diffi- 
 culty arose solely from the pre-assumption that the 
 word was to be so continuously or monotonously 
 spoken by a human being — I did not fail to perceive, 
 in short, that the difficulty lay in the reconciliation 
 of this monotony with the exercise of reason on the 
 part of the creature repeating the word. Here then, 
 immediately, arose the idea of a non-resLSoning crea- 
 ture capable of speech; and very naturally, a parrot, 
 in the first instance, suggested itself, but was super- 
 seded forthwith by a Raven, as equally capable of 
 speech, and infinitely more in keeping with the in- 
 tended tone. 
 
 I had now gone so far as the conception of a 
 Raven — the bird of ill omen — monotonously repeat- 
 ing the one word "Nevermore" at the conclusion 
 of each stanza, in a poem of melancholy tone, and in 
 length about one hundred lines. Now, never losing 
 sight of the object, supremeness, or perfection, at all 
 points, I asked myself — "Of all melancholy topics, 
 what, according to the universal understanding of 
 mankind, is the most melancholy?" Death — was 
 the obvious reply. "And when," I said, "is this 
 most melancholy of topics most poetical?" From 
 what I have already explained at some length, the 
 answer, here also, is obvious — "When it most closely 
 allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beautiful 
 woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic 
 in the world — and equally is it beyond doubt that 
 the lips best suited for such topic are those of a 
 bereaved lover." 
 
 I had now to combine the two ideas, of a lover 
 lamenting his deceased mistress and a Raven con- 
 tinuously repeating the word "Nevermore." — I had 
 
304 APPENDIX 
 
 to combine these, bearing in mind my design of vary- 
 ing at every turn, the application of the word re- 
 peated; but the only intelligible mode of such combi- 
 nation is that of imagining the Raven employing the 
 word in answer to the queries of the lover. And 
 here it was that I saw at once the opportunity af- 
 forded for the effect on which I had been depending 
 — that is to say, the effect of the variation of applica- 
 tion. I saw that I could make the first query pro- 
 pounded by the lover — the first query to which the 
 Raven should reply "Nevermore" — that I could 
 make tliis first query a commonplace one — the sec- 
 ond less so — the third still less, and so on — until at 
 length the lover, startled from his original noncha- 
 lance by the melancholy character of the word itself 
 — by its frequent repetition — and by a consideration 
 of the ominous reputation of the fowl that uttered it 
 — is at length excited to superstition, and wildly pro- 
 pounds queries of a far different character — queries 
 whose solution he has passionately at heart — pro- 
 pounds them half in superstition and half in that 
 species of despair which delights in self-torture — 
 propounds them not altogether because he believes 
 in the prophetic or demoniac character of the bird 
 (which, reason assures him, is merely repeating a 
 lesson learned by rote) but because he experiences a 
 phrenzied pleasure in so modelling his questions as 
 to receive from the expected "Nevermore" the most 
 delicious because the most intolerable of sorrow. 
 Perceiving the opportunity thus afforded me — or 
 more strictly, thus forced upon me in the progress 
 of the construction — I first established in mind the 
 climax, or concluding query — that to which "Never- 
 more" should be in the last place an answer — that in 
 reply to which this word "Nevermore" should in- 
 volve the utmost conceivable amount of sorrow and 
 despair. 
 
APPENDIX 305 
 
 Here then the poem may be said to have its begin- 
 ning — at the end, where all works of art should 
 begin — for it was here, at this point of my preconsid- 
 erations, that I first put pen to paper in the compo- 
 sition of the stanza: 
 
 " Prophet," said I, " thing of evil 1 prophet still, if bird or 
 
 devil! 
 By that heaven that bends above us — by that God we 
 
 both adore, ' 
 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if within the distant 
 
 Aidenn, 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore ; 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name 
 
 Lenore." 
 
 Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." 
 
 I composed this stanza, at this point, first that, by 
 establishing a climax, I might the better vary and 
 graduate, as regards seriousness and importance, the 
 preceding queries of the lover — and, secondly, that I 
 might definitely settle the rhythm, the metre, and the 
 length and general arrangement of the stanza — as 
 well as graduate the stanzas which were to precede, 
 so that none of them might surpass this in rhyth- 
 mical effect. Had I been able, in the subsequent 
 composition, to construct more vigorous stanzas, 
 I should without scruple, have purposely enfeebled 
 them, so as not to interfere with the climacteric 
 effect. 
 
 And here I may as well say a few words of the versi- 
 fication. My first object (as usual) was originality. 
 The extent to which this has been neglected, in ver- 
 sification, is one of the most unaccountable things in 
 the world. Admitting that there is little possibility 
 of variety in rhythm, it is still clear that the possible 
 varieties of metre and stanza are absolutely infinite — 
 
3o6 APPENDIX 
 
 and yet, for centuries no man, in verse, has ever done, 
 or ever seemed to think of doing, an original thing. The 
 fact is, originality (unless in minds of very unusual 
 force) is by no means a matter, as some suppose, of 
 impulse or intuition. In general, to be found, it 
 must be elaborately sought, and although a positive 
 merit of the highest class, demands in its attainment 
 less of invention than negation. 
 
 Of course, I pretend to no originality in either the 
 rhythm or metre of the ** Raven." The former 
 is trochaic — the latter is octameter acatalectic, 
 alternating with heptameter catalectic repeated in 
 the refrain of the fifth verse, and terminating with 
 tetrameter catalectic. Less pedantically — the feet 
 employed throughout (trochees) consist of a long syl- 
 lable followed by short; the first line of the stanza 
 consists of eight of these feet — the second of seven 
 and a half ( in effect two-thirds) — the third of eight — 
 the fourth of seven and a half — the fifth the same — 
 the sixth three and a half. Now each of these lines, 
 taken individually, has been employed before and 
 what originaUty the "Raven" has, is in their com- 
 bination into stanza; nothing even remotely ap- 
 proaching this combination has ever been attempted. 
 The effect of this originality of combination is aided 
 by other unusual, and some altogether novel effects, 
 arising from an extension of the application of the 
 principles of rhyme and alliteration. 
 
 The next point to be considered was the mode of 
 bringing together the lover and the Raven — and the 
 first branch of this consideration was the locale. For 
 this the most natural suggestion might seem to be a 
 forest, or the fields — but it has always appeared to 
 me that a close circumscription of space is absolutely 
 necessary to the effect of insulated incident: — it has 
 the force of a frame to a picture. It has an indis- 
 putable moral power in keeping concentrated the at- 
 
APPENDIX 307^ 
 
 tention, and, of course, must not be confounded with 
 mere unity of place. 
 
 I determined, then, to place the lover in his cham- 
 ber — in a chamber rendered sacred to him by memo- 
 ries of her who had frequented it. The room is rep- 
 resented as richly furnished — this in mere pursuance 
 of the ideas I have already explained on the subject 
 of Beauty, as the sole true poetical thesis. 
 
 The locale being thus determined, I had now to in- 
 troduce the bird — and the thought of introducing 
 him through the window, was inevitable. The idea 
 of making the lover suppose, in the first instance, that 
 the flapping of the wings against the shutter, is a 
 ''tapping" at the door, originated in a wish to in- 
 crease, by prolonging, the reader's curiosity, and in a 
 desire to admit the incidental effect arising from the 
 lover's throwing open the door, finding all dark, and 
 thence adopting the half-fancy that it was the spirit 
 of his mistress that knocked. 
 
 I made the night tempestuous, first, to account for 
 the Raven's seeking admission, and secondly, for the 
 effect of contrast with the (physical) serenity within 
 the chamber. 
 
 I made the bird alight on the bust of Pallas, also 
 for the effect of contrast between the marble and the 
 plumage — it being understood that the bust was ab- 
 solutely suggested by the bird — the bust of Pallas 
 being chosen, first, as most in keeping with the schol- 
 arship of the lover, and, secondly, for the sonorous- 
 ness of the word, Pallas, itself. 
 
 About the middle of the poem, I have availed my- 
 self of the force of contrast, with a view of deepening 
 the ultimate impression. For example, an air of 
 the fantastic — approaching as nearly to the ludi- 
 crous as was admissible — is given to the Raven's 
 entrance. He comes in "with many a flirt and 
 flutter." 
 
3o8 APPENDIX 
 
 Not the least obeisance made he — not a moment stopped 
 
 or stayed he, 
 But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber 
 
 door. 
 
 In the two stanzas which follow, the design is more 
 obviously carried out: — 
 
 Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smil- 
 ing 
 
 By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 
 
 "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, 
 "art sure no craven, 
 
 Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven wandering from the 
 nightly shore — 
 
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night*s Plu- 
 tonian shore!" 
 
 Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." 
 
 Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so 
 
 plainly. 
 Though its answer little meaning — little relevancy bore; 
 For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being 
 Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber 
 
 door — 
 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber 
 
 dooff 
 
 With such name as "Nevermore." 
 
 The effect of the denouement being thus provided 
 for, I immediately drop the fantastic for a tone of the 
 most profound seriousness: — this tone commencing 
 in the stanza directly following the one last quoted, 
 with the line, 
 
 But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke 
 only, etc. 
 
 From this epoch the lover no longer jests — no 
 longer sees anything even of the fantastic in the 
 
APPENDIX 309 
 
 Raven's demeanor. He speaks of him as a "grim, 
 ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore," 
 and feels the "fiery eyes" burning into his "bosom's 
 core." This revolution of thought or fancy, on the 
 lover's part, is intended to induce a similar one on the 
 part of the reader — to bring the mind into a proper 
 frame for the denouement — which is now brought 
 about as rapidly and as directly as possible. 
 
 With the denouement proper — with the Raven's 
 reply, "Nevermore," to the lover's final demand if he 
 shall meet his mistress in another world — the poem, 
 in its obvious phase, that of a simple narrative, may 
 be said to have its completion. So far, everything 
 is within the limits of the accountable — of the real. 
 A raven, having learned by rote the single word 
 "Nevermore," and having escaped from the custody 
 of its owner, is driven at midnight, through the vio- 
 lence of a storm, to seek admission at a window from 
 which a light still gleams — the chamber-window of 
 a student, occupied half in poring over a volume, 
 half in dreaming of a beloved mistress deceased. 
 The casement being thrown open at the fluttering of 
 the bird's wings, the bird itself perches on the most 
 convenient seat out of the immediate reach of the 
 student, who, amused by the incident and the oddity 
 of the visitor's demeanor, demands of it in jest and 
 without looking for a reply, its name. The raven 
 addressed, answers with its customary word, "Nev- 
 ermore" — a word which finds immediate echo in the 
 melancholy heart of the student, who, giving utter- 
 ance aloud to certain thoughts suggested by the oc- 
 casion, is again startled by the fowl's repetition of 
 "Nevermore." The student now guesses the state 
 of the case, but is impelled as I have before ex- 
 plained, by the human thirst for self-torture, and in 
 part by superstition, to propound such queries to 
 the bird as will bring him, the lover, the most of the 
 
3IO APPENDIX 
 
 luxury of sorrow, through the anticipated answer 
 "Nevermore." With the indulgence, to the ex- 
 treme, of this self-torture, the narration, in what I 
 have termed its first or obvious phase, has a natural 
 termination, and so far there has been no overstep- 
 ping of the limits of the real. 
 
 But in subjects so handled, however skilfully, or 
 with however vivid an array of incident, there is al- 
 ways a certain hardness or nakedness, which repels 
 the artistical eye. Two things are invariably re- 
 quired — first, some amount of complexity, or more 
 properly, adaptation; and, secondly, some amount 
 of suggestiveness — some under-current, however in- 
 definite, of meaning. It is this latter, in especial, 
 which imparts to a work of art so much of that rich- 
 ness (to borrow from colloquy a forcible term) which 
 we are too fond of confounding with the ideal. It 
 is the excess of the suggested meaning — it is the ren- 
 dering this the upper instead of the undercurrent of 
 the theme — which turns into prose (and that of the 
 very flattest kind) the so-called poetry of the so-called 
 transcendentaHsts. 
 
 Holding these opinions, I added the two conclud- 
 ing stanzas of the poem — their suggestiveness being 
 thus made to pervade all the narrative which has pre- 
 ceded them. The undercurrent of meaning is ren- 
 dered first apparent in the lines — 
 
 "Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form 
 from off my door!" 
 
 Quoth the Raven "Nevermore." 
 
 It will be observed that the words, "from out my 
 heart," involved the first metaphorical expression in 
 the poem. They, with the answer, "Nevermore," 
 dispose the mind to seek a moral in all that has been 
 previously narrated. The reader begins now to re- 
 
APPENDIX 311 
 
 gard the Raven as emblematical — but it is not until 
 the very last line of the very last stanza, that the in- 
 tention of making him emblematical of Mournful and 
 Never-ending Remembrance is permitted distinctly to 
 be seen: 
 
 And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sit- 
 ting, 
 
 On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber 
 door; 
 
 And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is 
 dreaming. 
 
 And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow 
 on the floor; 
 
 And my soul from out thai shadow that lies floating on 
 the floor 
 
 Shall be lifted — nevermorel 
 
INDEX 
 
 Accident, place of, 83, 91. 
 Action, stories of, 198. 
 Action, unity of. See Unity. 
 Alice in Wonderland, 255. 
 Another Gambler, 241. 
 Art of Fiction, The, 164, 290. 
 As You Like It, 89, 170, 252. 
 Austen, Jane, 33, 252, 258. 
 Autobiography. See Narra- 
 tive. 
 
 Beta, Baa, Black Sheep, 50. 
 
 Balzac, 26, 112. 
 
 Barrie, 184, 185; letter to, 
 
 from Stevenson, on Little 
 
 Minister, 249. 
 Bazin, Ren6, 165. 
 Bennett, Arnold, 32. 
 Bjomson, 243. 
 Black Cat, The, 212. 
 Body-Snatcher, The, 212. 
 Bourget, 241. 
 Bride Comes to Yellow Sky, 
 
 The, 162. 
 Brieux, 191. 
 Bunner, 239. 
 
 Caryll, Guy Wetmore, 88. 
 
 Cask of Amontillado, The: 
 forces, 17; point of view, 
 22, 23; unity of place, 56; 
 exposition, 81; prepara- 
 tion, 85; character simpli- 
 fication, 120. 
 
 Centre of interest, 35. 
 
 Character Drawing: incon- 
 sistency in, for story pur- 
 pose, 87; weak motivation, 
 89; practice of Turgenieff, 
 115; conventional char- 
 acters, n6; Hawthorne, 
 117; selection in character 
 drawing, 118; freedom from 
 inconsistencies, 118; over- 
 simplification, 120; char- 
 acters imaginatively con- 
 ceived, 122; analysis by 
 author, 124; characteriza- 
 tion by running analysis, 
 127; actor-narrator's anal- 
 ysis, 129; action as means 
 of character revelation, 130; 
 character building, 131; 
 analysis of Markheim, 132; 
 variety of means employed 
 in good characterization, 
 138; illustration from Tur- 
 genieff, 139; personal ap- 
 pearance, 143; character 
 stories, 200; character ti- 
 tles, 215; titles of character 
 and place, 216. 
 
 Cinderella:-: outline and anal- 
 ysis of incidents, 9; point 
 of view, 27. 
 
 Clarissa Harlowe, 24. 
 
 Clayhanger, 32. 
 
 Coincidence, 83, 86, 91. 
 
 313 
 
314 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Collins, Wilkie, 25. 
 
 Conrad, Joseph: Youth, point 
 of view, 22; introduction, 
 Heart of Darkness, 104, 205; 
 departures from time order, 
 114, 260; personal descrip- 
 tion, 146; importance of 
 description in stories, 160; 
 description from Youth, 
 171. 
 
 Coward, The: exposition in, 
 77; preparation in, 78; 
 characterization in, 127; 
 type of character story, 
 202. 
 
 Crane, Stephen, 161, 163. 
 
 Daudet, 236. 
 
 De Foe, 23, 160, 199. 
 
 De Morgan, 81. 
 
 Description: lack of corre- 
 spondence between writing 
 and seeing, 143; avoidance 
 of personal description in 
 stories, 144; brief personal 
 descriptions, 146; assist- 
 ance of reader enlisted, 146; 
 description by slow accu- 
 mulation of details, 147; 
 order of description in 
 scene from Master of Bal- 
 lantrae, 148; individual- 
 izing details, 149; elabo- 
 rateness of personal descrip- 
 tion dependent on length 
 of story, 149; illustration 
 from The Singers, 150; un- 
 due reliance on vision, 151; 
 dress, 152; surroundings 
 indicative of personality, 
 152; description of back- 
 ground, 153; conciseness 
 
 difficult, 154; variety o£ 
 sense impressions, 154; or- 
 der of recording details, 155; 
 scene described through 
 eyes of characters, 156; 
 effect of mood on selection, 
 156; test for relevancy in 
 description, 156; part of 
 emotion in description, 158; 
 object of description a uni- 
 fied emotional impression, 
 159; descriptive point of 
 view, 159; importance of 
 description in modern lit- 
 erature, 160; weakness of 
 impressionistic description 
 — Stephen Crane, 161; con- 
 trast essential, 163; descrip- 
 tion not to be considered as 
 separate element of story 
 but as fused with action, 
 164; citation from Henry 
 James, 164; illustration 
 from Bazin's Redemption, 
 165; from Tlie Egoist, 167; 
 Kipling, 171; Conrad, 171; 
 Douglas, 172. 
 
 Detective story, 92, 93. 
 
 Dialect, 180, 182, 183. 
 
 Dialogue: as a means of ex- 
 position, 74; forced for 
 story purpose, 76; must be 
 individual, 175; must ad- 
 vance story, 176; must be 
 more clear than speech of 
 reality, 177; must be 
 swifter than colloquial 
 speech, 178; writer makes 
 it interpretative, not literal, 
 178; literalness of speech, 
 179; departure from normal 
 in story attracts attention. 
 
INDEX 
 
 3^5 
 
 i8o; all variations must be 
 deliberate, i8o; dialect, 
 i8o; modified dialects, i8i; 
 place of dialect stories, 182; 
 growth of literalness in re- 
 cording dialect, 183; illus- 
 aations from: Scott, 184, 
 Barrie, 185, Kipling, 186; 
 standardized speech, 187; 
 degree of literalness advis- 
 able, 188; peculiarities of 
 speech not essential to in- 
 dividualization, 189; "key 
 of dialogue" discussed, 190; 
 subject-matter of dialogue, 
 191; harmony of dialogue 
 with tone of story, 192,196; 
 incongruities of reality, 
 193; selected diction, 194; 
 classes of words, 195; neces- 
 sity for training the ear, 
 196; harmony of dialogue 
 and author's narrative in 
 The Ebb Tide, 197. 
 
 Diary. See Narrative. 
 
 Dickens, 34, 222. 
 
 Diction, 194. 
 
 Douglas, George, 172. 
 
 Doyle, Conan, 26. 
 
 Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, 282. 
 
 Drums of the Fore and Ajty 
 The, 186. 
 
 Dumas, 246. 
 
 Ebb Tide, The, 197, 257. 
 
 Egoist, The, 167, 222. 
 
 Eliot, George, 29, 281. 
 
 End of the Tether, The, 114. 
 
 Exposition : by actor-narrator, 
 65; by author-omniscient, 
 68; by author-observant, 
 70; dialogue as a means of, 
 
 74; various devices of, 75; 
 direct exposition, 76; place 
 in story, 77; preparation, 
 78; inadequate preparation 
 in Guy Mannering, 79; ex- 
 position in Cask of Amon- 
 tillado, 81; integral part of 
 action, 83 ; the place of acci- 
 dent, 83; story action pre- 
 dictable, 84; coincidence, 
 86; inconsistency of char- 
 acter, 87; weak motivation, 
 89; accident a violation of 
 story logic, 90; adequacy 
 of causation, 90; when ac- 
 cident and coincidence are 
 permissible, 91; the surprise 
 story, 92; structure of de- 
 tective story, 92; surprise 
 prepared for, 94; The Lady 
 or the Tiger, 94; problem of 
 introductions due in part 
 to exposition, 96. 
 Extravaganza, 254. 
 
 Fall of the House of Usher, 
 
 The, 204. 
 Fielding, 33, 38. 
 
 Gold Bug, The, 42. 
 Guy Mannering, 79. 
 
 Hamlet, 85, 130, 249, 252. 
 
 Hardy, 222. 
 
 Harrison, Frederic, 281. 
 
 Hawthorne: point of view in 
 Scarlet Letter, 32; exposi- 
 tion in Scarlet Letter, 75; 
 oversimplification of char- 
 acter, 117, 120; title of 
 Scarlet Letter, 220; con- 
 
3i6 
 
 INDEX 
 
 sciously artistic, 261; use 
 
 of note-books, 287. 
 Heart of Darkness^ 104, 205. 
 Henry, O., 95, 204, 256. 
 Henry Esmond, 235. 
 Hermiston, 250. 
 Hilda Lessways, 32. 
 House with the Green Shutters, 
 
 The, 172. 
 Howells, 75, 256, 258. 
 
 Introductions: complicated 
 by necessity for exposition, 
 96; characteristic openings, 
 97; necessity of honest 
 opening, 97; philosophical 
 opening, 99; Sire de Mali- 
 troii's Door, 100; Without 
 Benefit of Clergy, loi; Tak- 
 ing of the Redoubt, 102; 
 Heart of Darkness, 104; 
 Murders in the Rue Morgue, 
 108; Thrown Away, 109. 
 
 James, Henry: 115, 248; quo- 
 tations from Art of Fiction, 
 164, 290. 
 
 Kipling: time transitions in 
 Baa, Baa, Black Sheep, 50; 
 exposition in Without Bene- 
 fit of Clergy, 68, 77, 79, 8s; 
 introduction to same, loi; 
 introduction to Thrown 
 Away, 109; journalistic 
 method, 1 10; order of nar- 
 ration in Man Who Would 
 Be King, 112; personal de- 
 scription in, 145; descrip- 
 tion of setting in Without 
 Benefit of Clergy, 171; dia- 
 lect in Drums of the Fore 
 
 and Aft, 186; Man Who 
 Would Be King, action 
 story, 199; titles, 220; 
 names, 226; suggestion in 
 They, 23 1 ; devices for sug- 
 gestion, 240; story of super- 
 natural, 249; concealment 
 of artistry, 259. 
 
 Lady or the Tiger, The, 94. 
 
 La Grande Breteche, 112. 
 
 Lear of the Steppes, A, 124, 
 201, 216. 
 
 Leeby and Jamie, 185. 
 
 Life, departures from, in 
 stories. See Selection. 
 
 Ligeia, 223, 
 
 Literary classifications, anal- 
 ogy of, to gradations of 
 color, 2. 
 
 Literary power: dependent on 
 freshness of impression and 
 truth of insight, 286; train- 
 ing of observation, 287; 
 development of power of 
 thought, 288; what a story- 
 writer should read, 289; 
 sympathy and insight, 289; 
 the nature of experience, 
 290; limitation of endow- 
 ment, 292; example of 
 Stevenson, 292. 
 
 Little Minister, The, 26, 249, 
 251. 
 
 Lodging for the Night, A, 202. 
 
 Lorna Doone, 22. 
 
 Love of Romance, The, 7a 
 
 Macbeth, 235. 
 Man Who Was, the, 218. 
 Man Who Would Be King, 
 The, H2, 199. 
 
INDEX 
 
 317 
 
 Man without a Country, The, 
 209, 218. 
 
 Markheim: unity of action, 
 39; characterization in, 
 128, 132; dialogue to 
 further action, 176; char- 
 acter story, 202; economy 
 of style, 230. 
 
 Master of Ballantrae, The, 
 25, 148, 151. 
 
 Maupassant: time in Neck- 
 lace, 49; place in Piece of 
 String, 60; exposition in 
 Coward, 77; characteriza- 
 tion in Coward, 127; Cow- 
 ard, a character story, 202; 
 Necklace, a story of idea, 
 208; Moonlight, a story of 
 emotional effect, 212; 
 theme of Necklace, 220; 
 ending of Necklace, 229; 
 philosophical introduc- 
 tions, 240; stories of super- 
 natural, 249; training in 
 observation, 287. 
 
 Memory: part played in se- 
 lection, 7. 
 
 Meredith, George, 29, 167, 
 222. 
 
 M6rim6e, 103, 
 
 Merry Men, The : exposition 
 in, 65, 77; character anal- 
 ysis in, 129; theme of, 205; 
 title, 216. 
 
 Moonlight, 212. 
 
 Moonstone, The, 25. 
 
 Murders in the Rue Morgue, 
 The, 108. 
 
 Names of characters: openly 
 designating character, 222; 
 suggestive of character, 
 
 223; indicative of race and 
 class, 224; associations of 
 given names, 225; neutral 
 names, 226. 
 
 Narrative, the essentials of: 
 definition, 6; object of 
 autobiography, 7; diary, 
 8; story defined, 9; rela- 
 tion of incidents in story, 
 12-15; comparison with 
 incidents of biography, 14; 
 positive and negative 
 forces, 17; relation of story 
 to life, 19; narrative order, 
 III. 
 
 Narrative order. See Order. 
 
 Necklace, The: time covered, 
 49; purpose of, 208; title 
 of, 220; ending of, 229. 
 
 Nesbit, E., 70. 
 
 Ne Vinson, 261. 
 
 Next Corner, The, 88. 
 
 Old Curiosity Shop, The, 34. 
 
 Ordeal of Richard Feverel, 
 The, 250, 251. 
 
 Order of narration: deviation 
 from time order in novels, 
 iii; deviation from time 
 order in short stories, 112; 
 Man Who Would Be King, 
 112; effectiveness sole jus- 
 tification for deviation, 
 112; La Grande Breteche, 
 112; End of the Tether, 114. 
 
 Othello, s^, 130, 176. 
 
 Our Aromatic Uncle, 239. 
 
 Philosophy of Composition, 
 The, 266; quoted in Ap- 
 pendix, 295. 
 
 Piece of String, The, 60. 
 
3i8 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Pilgrim's Progress, 120. 
 
 Pit and the Pendulum, The, 
 
 55- 
 
 Place, names of, in story 
 titles, 215. 
 
 Place, unity of. See Unity. 
 
 Poe: forces in Cask of Amon- 
 tillado, 17; point of view 
 of participant in action, 
 22, 23; unity of action in 
 Gold Bug, 42; unity of 
 place in Purloined Letter, 
 54, in Pit and Pendulum, 
 55; flow of scene in Cask 
 of Amontillado , $6; exposi- 
 tion in same, 81, 85; char- 
 acter in same, 120; intro- 
 duction to Murders in Rue 
 Morgue, 108; theme in 
 Fall of the House of Usher, 
 204; method of work in 
 Raven, 210; Philosophy of 
 Composition quoted in Ap- 
 pendix, 295; method in 
 stories, 212; Ligeia, 223; 
 consciously artistic, 260, 
 
 Point of view: definition of, 
 21; of actor-narrator, 22; 
 composite narrative, 24; 
 of minor character, 25; a 
 convention, 26; of author, 
 27; of omniscient author, 
 28; of observant author, 
 28; limited omniscience, 
 31; relation to suggestion, 
 ^y, of obtrusive author, 
 33; necessity of maintain- 
 ing, 34; relation to centre 
 of interest, 36; determin- 
 ing initial exposition, 65, 
 68, 70; descriptive point of 
 view, 159, 174; relation of 
 
 point of view to tone, 
 
 257- 
 
 Preparation. See Exposition. 
 
 Psychology of story writing: 
 necessity for theme, 266; 
 sources of story ideas, 267; 
 action theme elaborated, 
 268; character themes, 
 269; themes derived from 
 place, 270; themes derived 
 from ideas, 270; theme of 
 emotional purpose elabo- 
 rated, 271; story growth, 
 278; conviction and sug- 
 gestion result of slow 
 growth, 279; technic a 
 guide to imagination, 280; 
 citation from George Eliot's 
 letters, 281; Stevenson's 
 method in Dr. Jekyll and 
 Mr. Hyde, 282; limitations 
 of analysis, 283. 
 
 Purloined Letter, The, 54. 
 
 Realism. See Selection. 
 Red Badge of Courage, The, 
 
 161. 
 Redemption, 165. 
 Restraint, 233. 
 Resurrection, 38. 
 Rise of Silas Lapham, The, 75. 
 Robinson Crusoe, 23, 160, 199. 
 Rodin, 227. 
 Romeo and Juliet, 85, 252. 
 
 Scarlet Letter, The, 32, 75, 220. 
 
 Schwob, Marcel, 252. 
 
 Scott, 79, 184, 246. 
 
 Selection: part played by 
 memory, 7; selection of in- 
 cident essential to story 
 structure, 9; of character 
 
INDEX 
 
 319 
 
 traits, 12, 118; in descrip- 
 tion, 146, 149, 155; effect of 
 mood on selection in de- 
 scription, 156; incongru- 
 ities of life necessitating 
 selection, 193; speech freed 
 from irrelevancies, 193; 
 part of selection in diction, 
 194, 196; selection in char- 
 acter stories, 201; sugges- 
 tion dependent upon selec- 
 tion, 228, 242; selection in 
 harmony with emotion 
 creates unity of tone, 245. 
 
 Shakespeare: tone in plays 
 and nature of preparation, 
 85, 89, 249, 252; charac- 
 terization, 130; dialogue, 
 176, 191; restraint, 234. 
 
 Short story: inaccuracy of 
 definition based on length, 
 i; uncertainty of defini- 
 tion based on peculiarity 
 of form, 2; analogy to 
 novel, 3; technic deter- 
 mined by analysis of ex- 
 periments in the form, 5; 
 defined chiefly in terms of 
 unity of tone and single- 
 ness of impression, 284. 
 
 Siege of Berlin, The, 236. 
 
 Simplification. See Selec- 
 tion. 
 
 Singers, The, 150, 
 
 Sire de Malitroit's Door, The, 
 48, 100. 
 
 Slum Stories of London, 261. 
 
 Somehow Good, 81. 
 
 Speech. See Dialogue. 
 
 Stevenson: point of view in 
 Treasure Island, 24, in 
 Master of BaUantrae, 25; 
 
 unity of action in Mark- 
 heim, 39; time in Sire de 
 MalHr oil's Door, 48; expo- 
 sition in Merry Men, 65, 
 77; comment on prepara- 
 tion in Guy Mannering, 79; 
 introduction to Sire de 
 Malitroit's Door, 100; char- 
 acterization in Treasure 
 Island, 116, in Merry Men, 
 129, in Markheim, 132; de- 
 scription of person in Mas- 
 ter of BaUantrae, 148, 151; 
 dialogue to advance action 
 in Markheim, 176; key of 
 dialogue, 190; tone in Ebb 
 Tide, 197, 257; character 
 stories, 202; Merry Men, 
 a story of place, 205; 
 stories of emotional effect, 
 212; stories of action, 246; 
 discussion of tone of Little 
 Minister and Richard Fev- 
 erel, 249; Schwob on im- 
 possible incidents in Ste- 
 venson, 252; artfulness not 
 always effective, 260; tone 
 in Will 0' the Mill, 263; 
 abstract origin of Jekyll and 
 Hyde, 282; limitations and 
 inspiration of S., 292. 
 
 Stockton, 94, 260. 
 
 Story: definition of, 9; essen- 
 tials of, see Narrative. 
 
 Story of the Physician and the 
 Saratoga Trunk, 126. 
 
 Suggestion: relation to point 
 of view, 33; defined, 228; 
 artful ending, 229; economy 
 of exposition, 230; as illus- 
 trated in They, 231; re- 
 straint as suggestion, 233; 
 
320 
 
 INDEX 
 
 enlargemaiit by suggestion, 
 235; Daudet's Siege of Ber- 
 lin, 236; incidents antece- 
 dent or auxiliary to story, 
 239; generalized or philo- 
 sophical introduction, 240; 
 necessity of creating more 
 than is put in story, 240; 
 Bourget's Another Gambler, 
 241; suggestion dependent 
 upon experience of reader, 
 242; power of realism in 
 suggestion, 242; difl&culty 
 of appreciating foreign lit- 
 erature, 243; suggestion de- 
 mands slow story growth, 
 279. 
 
 Suicide Club, The, 212, 218. 
 
 Supernatural, story of, 247, 
 258. 
 
 Surprise story, 92, 254. 
 
 Taking of the Redoubt, The, 
 102. 
 
 Tatydna Borisovna and Her 
 Nephew, 139. 
 
 Technic: guide to imagina- 
 tion, 280; necessity of, 285; 
 inadequacy of inspiration, 
 285, 293. 
 
 Thackeray, 33, 235. 
 
 Themes for stories. See 
 Types of story ideas. 
 
 They, 220, 231. 
 
 Thrown Away, 109. 
 
 Time order. See Order of 
 narration. 
 
 Time, unity of. See Unity. 
 
 Titles: drawn from name of 
 chief character, 214; char- 
 acter name and suggested 
 situation, 215; names of 
 
 place, 2 is; names of char- 
 acter and place, 216; liter- 
 ary and allusive titles, 217; 
 too explicit titles, 218; the 
 concrete title, 219; length 
 of title, 221; titles of fairy 
 tales, 221. 
 
 Tolstoy, 38, 243. 
 
 Tom Jones, S3, 38. 
 
 Tone: determining nature of 
 denouement, 85; necessity 
 of dialogue harmonizing 
 with, 192; unity of tone, 
 see Unity. 
 
 Treasure Island, 24, 116. 
 
 Turgenieff: point of view of 
 minor character, 26; method 
 of realizing character, 115; 
 characterization in A Lear of 
 the Steppes, 124; in Tatydna 
 Borisovna, 139; personal 
 description in The Singers, 
 150; method of work, 201; 
 use of philosophical gener- 
 alization for suggestion, 
 240; universality, 243. 
 
 Turn of the Screw, The, 249. 
 
 Twelfth Night, 252. 
 
 Types of story ideas: division 
 on basis of story inception 
 into five groups, 198; stories 
 of action, 198; method of 
 developing action theme, 
 199; character themes, 200; 
 development of character 
 theme, 201 ; story of setting, 
 202; development of story 
 from setting, 203; setting 
 in contrast with character 
 and action, 203, 204; stories 
 of setting cited, 204; stories 
 of idea, 204; Necklace as 
 
INDEX 
 
 321 
 
 tjT)e of idea story, 208; 
 idea stories cited, 209; 
 stories of emotional effect, 
 a 10; examples of emotion 
 stories, 312. 
 
 Unity of action: in character 
 themes, 38; in stories of 
 incident, 42; analysis of 
 Gold Bug, 42; a form of sim- 
 plicity, 44. 
 
 Unity of place: why desirable, 
 53; transition in Purloined 
 Letter, 54; analysis of Cask 
 of Amontillado , 56; likeness 
 of flow of scene to that of 
 time, 56; effect on reader 
 of transitions in time and 
 place, 58; lack of specific 
 setting, 60; repetition of 
 scenes, 60; analysis of 
 Piece of String, 60. 
 
 Unity of time: desirability of, 
 45; foreshortening, 46; limi- 
 tation imposed by experi- 
 ence, 47; analysis of Neck- 
 lace, 49; of Baa, Baa, Black 
 Sheep, so; Othello, 52. 
 
 Unity of tone: determining 
 nature of story's denoue- 
 ment, 85; necessity of dia- 
 logue harmonizing with, 
 192; definition, 244; emo- 
 tional intent in harmony 
 with theme, 245; rational- 
 
 ized story of supernatural, 
 247; maintenance of estab- 
 lished tone, 249; citation 
 from Stevenson on Little 
 Minister and Richard Fev- 
 er el, 249; tone in Shake- 
 speare's plays, 252; Schwob 
 on realism of Stevenson, 
 252; credibility the test of 
 action, 254; extravaganza, 
 254; relation of point of 
 view to tone {Ehh Tide), 
 256; setting in relation to 
 tone, 257; tone of seeming 
 artlessness, 259; Kipling's 
 journalistic tone, 260; con- 
 scious artistry of Poe and 
 Stevenson, 260; natural 
 tone of Nevinson's Slum 
 Stories of London, 261; tone 
 in Wm 0' the Mill, 263. 
 
 Vanity Fair, 235. 
 
 Wandering Willie^s Tale, 184. 
 
 Will 0' the Mill, 263. 
 
 Without Benefit of Clergy: 
 exposition and preparation 
 in, 68, 77, 79, 85; introduc- 
 tion to, loi; description of 
 place in, 171; title of, 220; 
 names of characters, 226. 
 
 Yonge, Charlotte M., 98. 
 Youth, 22, 171. 
 
RETURN CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT 
 TO^^- 202 Main Library 
 
 LOAN PERIOD 1 
 HOME USE 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 
 
 Renewals and Recharges may be made 4 days prior to the due date. 
 
 Books may be Renewed by calling 642-3405. 
 
 RECC I 
 
 9m 
 
 AS STAMPED BELOW 
 
 SEP 9 1995 
 
 CIRCULATION DEPT. 
 
 W 2 4 2001 
 
 M. 2 ^ ^0*^^ 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY 
 FORM NO. DD6 BERKELEY, CA 94720 
 
 UK 
 
Yb ''"' 
 
 l,!ii..S,f.S*<ELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 5-?5-9^(9 
 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CAUFORNIA LIBRARY