indigestion and nausea, forswears the magazine tale of to-day as food
unfit. The trouble with this reader lies partly in his having the world
too much with him, late and soon. He finds no recreation in reading
contemporary fictionists, or fiction about the present of which he
is integrally a part. He believes he laments the Stockton and Bunner
model; rather he laments the day of Stockton and Bunner. This nostalgia
for the dear, dead days that are no more demands a superfiction, a
glorification of the past. The demand is satisfied best by fictive
biography, which has never known a better season. Because the satiated
reader has no desire for short stories, he should condemn them all no
more than one who has eaten too many clams condemns all clams.
Yet too many stories of to-day are like O. Henry’s clam shells “from
which the succulent and vital inhabitants” have forever departed. A
critical reader finds himself saying, “This tale was made on order from
the editor,” or “So-and-so is writing under too great pressure; he is
tired.” A disturbing fact is the absence of humour, for humour is the
unfailing index to superabundance of vitality.
Among hopeful signs may be mentioned, first, a number of new writers
appearing in the better as well as the humbler magazines; several are
represented in this volume. Second, from what has been called the
incoherent left side and the technically correct right side, a new form
may be emerging; I suggest tentatively “The Mold,” by Clarice Blake
(_Century_, May), and “Sooth,” by Wilbur Daniel Steele (_Harper’s_,
August). Third, the war story is slowly developing out of that emotion
remembered in tranquillity which, on occasion, is as necessary to prose
as to poetry. The period of recollection has produced good results,
chiefly in the work of Thomas Beer, Thomas Boyd, Leonard Nason, and
James Warner Bellah. Finally, a number of veterans are creating with
undiminished vigour: Irvin S. Cobb, tales of the Tennessee River;
Harris Dickson, reminiscences of Mississippi River gambling days; Booth
Tarkington, adventures in the supernatural.
In the eight years of _O. Henry Memorial Prize Stories_, no reviewer of
the annual collection--so far as I have discovered--has ever suggested
a better story of a given year than those included between its covers.
The fact is either gratifying or amusing; gratifying if the reviewer
recognizes the selections as one of the best possible in the premises;
amusing if the reviewer damns the whole lot--unless, to be sure, he
damns all stories published in the period.
The Committee know what they demand in a story and read hundreds to
salvage the comparatively few which best meet the demand. The first
desideratum is a narrative constructed about characters in a struggle
or complication having a definite outcome expressed or implied. Every
story in this book satisfies this first test. In “Child of God” the
struggle is Willie’s against the social order; the order crushes him,
but by his death he wins; The Killers are out for their man and, though
they fail this time, ultimately they will not fail; the Scarlet Woman
is at odds with society; Jukes agonizes to escape from the sea--he
never will escape; “Fear” is nothing less at bottom than the conflict
in Paterson’s soul; on the surface it offers a display of spectacular
conflicts between enemy planes; “Night Club” hints at a half-dozen
conflicts (see page 84); “Singing Woman” relates the final stages in
a lifelong rivalry; “He Man” instances a struggle with the sea and
hunger; I have spoken of the struggle in “Done Got Over” as one between
superstition and enlightenment; of that in “Shades of George Sand!” as
one between the individual and environment; “With Glory and Honour”
implies pretty strongly that Hal Levering conquered himself before
he changed his ways; “Monkey Motions” reveals awkwardness and genius
working to final expression; “Four Dreams” relates four vain efforts
of Gram; Bulldog’s fights and his escape lead to his climactic rescue
of the judge; “The Little Girl” symbolizes the helplessness of all
childhood through the concrete instance of Patricia’s failure.
All writers and all critics are agreed upon other well-known
desiderata, which neither the author nor the critic needs consciously
to enumerate. Familiarity with the laws and limitations of the art is
as necessary to judging fiction as insistence upon them is deplorable
if such insistence means undervaluing a narrative that may smash all
laws and succeed, it may so happen, because of the fact. He who follows
an uncharted way may discover, or he may not discover, new lands.
That standards of reviewers differ may be illustrated by the following
quotations drawn from reviewers of _O. Henry Memorial Prize Stories_,
1926:
“Miss Williams’s introduction | “The introduction is, it
is of great interest, as it | must be said, an unpleasant
takes us behind the scenes | piece of work ... in a style
with the judges ... but still | whose lack of distinction is in
the collection itself remains | marked contrast to the stories
disappointing.”--Hartford | that follow.”--New York
_Courant_, January 23, 1927. | _Sun_, January 18, 1927.
|
“Miss Williams in her introduction | “It is at least refreshing
considers each | after the monotones of praise
story with critical seriousness, | to which introducing editors
and analyzes, and | have almost invariably
praises, and compares, till | treated us; and even though
one can’t help wondering | one may not always agree
what she would say of a | with the specific comment
Chekhov or a Maupassant.”--The | ... that fact need not detract
_Saturday Review of | from one’s approval of this
Literature_, May 28, 1927. | tempered, tentative editorial
| attitude as constituting a
| salutary and genuinely respectable
| criticism.”--New
| York _Herald-Tribune_, January
| 30, 1927.
|
“If Wilbur Daniel Steele | “All competent readers
had never written a better | will agree with the official
story than ‘Bubbles’ he | judges as to the wisdom of
would never have achieved | their first choice. ‘Bubbles’
the fame and popularity | is a profound, subtle, and
which he not unjustly | highly finished piece of
enjoys.”--Richmond (Va.) | work.”--New York _Sun_, January
_News Leader_, January 17, | 18, 1927.
1927. |
|
“To me the story [Bubbles] | “Mr. Steele’s really stupendous
is not convincing enough to | story, ‘Bubbles’--it
be really successful. Despite | is difficult not to overdo
deft craftsmanship the story | superlatives in writing of this
fails to become important, | appalling little masterpiece
and even its pattern is beautiful | ... is one of Mr. Steele’s
artifice rather than art.”--The | supreme achievements.”--Hartford
_Saturday Review of | _Courant_, January
Literature_, May 28, 1927. | 23, 1927.
|
“Sherwood Anderson wins | “Of the stories in this
the second prize with a story | book, that by Sherwood Anderson
called ‘Death in the Woods’ | [Death in the Woods]
in which he is at his | is the most important.”--New
worst.”--Richmond _News | York _World_, January
Leader_, January 17, 1927. | 19, 1927.
|
“‘Death in the Woods’ has | “Mr. Anderson’s story
the curious distinction no | strikes the authentic Anderson
story of Mr. Anderson’s could | note. He has seldom done
lack, but would have hardly | anything more powerful
made him the reputation he | within its limits and never
so magnificently deserves.” | anything more characteristic.”
--New York _Post_, February 5, | --New York _Sun_, January
1927. | 18, 1927.
|
The New York _Times_ reviewer | The order of the stories
(January 23, 1927) remarks, | (see the table of contents for
“The relegation of | the 1926 collection) is, after
Mary Heaton Vorse’s story | the three prize stories,
[The Madelaine] to the back | alphabetical by authors.
of the book makes the reader |
wonder if these authorities |
on the short story ... really |
know a story when they see |
it.” |
CHILD OF GOD
BY ROARK BRADFORD
From _Harper’s_
When Willie told the preacher that morning that “ev’ything is all O.K.,
Revund,” he meant it from the bottom of his heart. The hawking of the
rain crow from the limb of the dead cottonwood, sounded like the song
of a mocking bird. The monotonous patter of rain on the tin roof lulled
him into gentle restfulness. The damp, dirty stench that floated up
from the dark closeness of the cells below him was like a sedative.
Even the lyelike coffee served to remind him that the jailer was his
friend.
“Cap’m Archie tole me I could have ev’ything I wanted fer brekfus,”
he explained as he caught the minister sniffing and eyeing the scant
remains of the meal. “An’ I tole him I b’lieve I’d take some po’k chops
an’ cawfee, ef’n hit wuz all right. An’ hyar it is.”
“You mean dar hit wuz,” admonished the preacher. “Now yo’ flesh is fed,
Willie, whut ’bout yo’ soul?”
Willie beamed a broad, knowing smile. “My soul,” he said tolerantly,
“is all O.K. An’ Revund,” he continued jubilantly, “Cap’m Archie say he
gonter bring me a ten-cent cigar to go walkin’ up de gallows wid in my
mouf.” The minister’s face was a study in expression. “An’ I makes me a
speech up yonder”--jerking his arm toward the gallows high in the roof
of the jail--“an’ den----”
“Den which, son?” Preacher Moore was eager to find a point of contact
at which he could begin his prepared message of consolation.
“I’se Glory bound!” Willie declared with enthusiasm.
* * * * *
While the condemned man talked and the preacher listened, the Great
State of Louisiana prepared to exact its penalty in the form of the
life of Willie Malone because “he did feloniously, wilfully, and of
his deliberately premeditated malice aforethought, make an assault on
one Thurston Gibbs, and a certain gun which then and there was loaded
with gunpowder and buckshot and was by him, the said Willie Malone,
had and held in both hands, he, the said Willie Malone, did then and
there feloniously and of malice aforethought shoot off and discharge
at and upon the said Thurston Gibbs thereby, and by thus striking the
said Thurston Gibbs with the buckshots inflicting on and in the body
one mortal wound of which said mortal wound the said Thurston Gibbs
then and there instantly died. And so the said Willie Malone did in the
manner and form aforesaid, feloniously and of deliberately premeditated
malice aforethought, kill and murder the said Thurston Gibbs in the
Parish of Wilton aforesaid, against the peace and dignity of the Great
State of Louisiana.”
It all came out at the trial. Hogs had been running in Willie’s
cornfield. The hogs belonged to Mr. Gibbs. And when Willie asked him to
keep them home Mr. Gibbs had cursed him. Willie then bought a shotgun
and some buckshot. Everybody agreed upon that much of it. Willie said
he aimed to shoot the hogs and that when he heard something rustling
the long blades he fired, thinking it was a hog. The district attorney
pointed out that it was impossible to get a witness who could say what
was in a man’s mind and, therefore, he’d leave it to the jury as to
whether Willie was hog hunting or man hunting.
The jury was divided upon the point, but all agreed that no nigger had
any right to shoot a white man’s hogs, anyway, much less shoot a white
man. So they found him guilty as charged.
Willie had rather enjoyed his stay in jail. Two or three times his
lawyer came and talked to him in a low voice and had him make his cross
mark on many important-looking pieces of paper. It all gave him a
feeling of importance hitherto not experienced.
He liked “Cap’m Archie,” too--Cap’m Archie was always making jokes, and
didn’t make him do any work around the jail except a little sweeping.
And during the long cool spring evenings, when the stars twinkled in
the sky and the fiddling of the katydids out in the weed patch back
of the jail floated in between the long iron-barred windows, Cap’m
Archie would have one of the short-time prisoners drag his chair back
to Willie’s own private cage and Willie would sing for him.
Willie did like to sing--church songs, mostly. But sometimes when he
felt sad and lonesome he’d sing the one that began:
“Thirty days in jail,
Baby, don’t soun’ so long,
But de las’ frien’ I got in dis worl’,
Done shuck her laig an’ gone.”
There were many verses, and to these Willie had added a hundred others.
He was good at that. When they locked up that Caldonie for cutting her
husband because he stole one of her hens and a chicken brood and gave
it to another woman, Willie celebrated the occasion by adding:
“He might er stole yo’ chickens,
He might er stole yo’ cow,
Hit don’t make no diffunce what he stole,
You’s in de jail-house now.”
Cap’m Archie had laughed at that one and it made Willie happy.
Not long after that Cap’m Archie sent for him to come to the office.
Cap’m Archie looked sad that day, and it made Willie feel sad. So when
Cap’m Archie told him the Supreme Court had turned him down and that he
would have to hang Willie was much relieved.
“Shuh! Cap’m Archie,” Willie consoled, “dat ain’ nothin’ to go worryin’
’bout. I thought hit mought er been somethin’ wrong, de way you had yo’
face strung out. Shuh! Ain’ dat de same as de jedge done tole me?”
That afternoon Reverend Moore, Negro preacher, was ushered into
Willie’s cell, and under his exhortations Willie was converted. He had
been converted annually ever since he could remember but he always had
been too busy to follow it up. This time he had ample leisure in which
to contemplate Christianity and draw mental pictures of it. Willie was
keenly interested.
The preacher had spared no detail his imagination could supply as to
the glories of heaven, and these Willie supplemented with the colourful
pigments of his own imagination. Heaven was a wonderful place. Willie
wanted to go there.
“Hyar dey comes, son,” the preacher said kindly. “Git up off’n yo’
knees.”
Cap’m Archie unlocked the cage door with keys that rattled nervously
in his hand. Behind the jailer were half a dozen others--the doctor,
two brothers of the man he had killed, the editor of the _Wilton Parish
Gazette_, and a short, stubby, mean-looking man that Willie disliked
instinctively. He had never seen him before, and the pale-green, watery
eyes that squinted out at him through shaggy eyelashes made Willie feel
bad. “I loves him too,” Willie insisted under his breath. “Got ter
love him. ‘Makes me love ev’ybody--hit’s good ernuff fer me’”--Willie
recalled the words from the old song. “An’ I guess he is somebody. But
I be dog ef’n he looks like much, Ole Green Eyes.”
“Ready to go, Willie?” It was Cap’m Archie. His voice was kind and
filled with sorrow. Willie hated to see Cap’m Archie like that. But
when the jailer’s teeth clicked together and he said briskly, “Here,
slip your hands into these,” it did not sound so sad, and Willie obeyed
with alacrity.
“I bet you fergits my cigar, Cap’m Archie,” Willie countered as his
arms were being pinioned behind him.
“Cut out that damned foolishness! Come on here, nigger. I ain’t got all
day to fool.” It was the stubby little man who assumed charge.
“Makes me love ev’ybody,” Willie hummed desperately under his breath.
“Hit’s good ernuff for me.”
“Good ernuff fer anybody,” seconded the preacher loudly, happy that he
had found some place to enter into the ceremony with the dignity of his
calling. “Hit’s de ole time religion, and hit’s good ernuff fer me!”
As the party marched up the narrow steps to the gallows, the Negro
prisoners on the lower tier of cells caught up the refrain and the
brick walls of the little jail reverberated with:
“Gimme dat ole time religion,
Gimme dat ole time religion,
Gimme dat ole time religion, Lawd,
Hit’s good ernuff fer me.
“Hit will take you home to Glory,
Hit will take you home to Glory,
Hit will take you home to Glory, Lawd,
Hit’s good ernuff fer me.”
The climb to the gallows took a remarkably short time and Willie
noticed that as soon as they arrived there “Ole Green Eyes” rushed to
the rope that was lying handy and began making a loop in the end of it.
“Makes me love ev’ybody,” Willie insisted.
Everybody seemed nervous. Cap’m Archie couldn’t look at him. The
editor was talking with big words to the elder of the Gibbses and said
something about “dancing on the air.” Willie didn’t understand it but
he knew he wasn’t going to dance on anything. Dancing would send him
straight to hell. He had the preacher’s word for it.
He edged over toward Cap’m Archie.
“When does I make my speech, Cap’m Archie?” he asked.
The jailer did not look up. “In a minute,” he replied. “When you are
ready to--when they stand you over there.” He pointed to the trapdoor
with his foot.
“Come over here, nigger.” It was “Ole Green Eyes” again. Willie stood
on the trapdoor.
“Makes me love ev’ybody,” he kept repeating as the knot was being drawn
close to his ear. “Makes me love ev’ybody.”
When the knot was finished the little stubby man slipped a black hood
over Willie’s head and stepped back. A jaybird on a dead limb of the
cottonwood broke out in a scathing chatter of malediction at the crow.
A dog howled mournfully in the jail yard below. The katydids in the
weed patch opened with a wild symphony of fiddling. “Somethin’ ’bout to
happen,” Willie concluded. “I guess I better make my speech.”
He threw back his shoulders and raised his chin as though about to
address a large congregation.
“Folkses,” he began in a clear, strong voice, “I has a few words I
wants to say to y’all----”
“Too late now, nigger.” It was that stubby little man. And even as the
trap gave way under his feet Willie began:
“Makes me love ev’ybody.”
* * * * *
Willie did not finish that line, however. He was interrupted in the
midst of it by a long blast on a horn. It was a loud, thundering blast
and it startled him. He looked into the direction from which it came
and there, charging down the road, he saw four prancing horses drawing
a snow-white chariot. It was a beautiful sight. He had seen some such
rig the time when he went to the circus at Baton Rouge. But this rig
was even prettier than the circus carriages. Big white plumes bobbed
from the crown-pieces of the bridles, and the horses pranced and danced
along, raising a terrible dust.
“Great day!” he exclaimed. “Class sho’ is comin’ down de road to-day.”
In a minute the carriage was in front of him, and with much suddenness
it came to a halt, the horses falling back on their haunches to check
the momentum.
“Git up hyar, boy, an’ le’s git goin’,” the driver called down. “Us is
late, as it is or--else you is early.”
Willie scrambled to the seat beside the driver. As the horses raced
onward he enjoyed the thrill of the speedy ride, the wind rushing by
his ears, the sparkle of the gold and silver harness, the dexterity
with which the driver held the horses in the road with one hand and
cracked the whip over their heads with the other.
“You drives right well, boy,” he observed. “What’s yo’ name?”
“Jehu,” replied the driver.
“Jehu-which?”
“Jest Jehu,” replied the driver.
“Who dat boy wid de hawn in his han’?”
“Gab’l.”
The monosyllabic replies of his companion irritated Willie. He wanted
conversation and he intended to have it.
“How long you been----” he began, but suddenly Gabriel raised his
trumpet to his lips and blew a deafening blast which almost lifted
Willie from his seat.
“Hol’ tight,” cautioned Jehu, and the chariot stopped suddenly.
Willie saw an old man in a black slouch hat and cutaway coat, walking
very alertly toward the carriage. His face was cleanly shaven except
for a moustache and goatee which gave him a distinguished appearance.
Willie instinctively knew that this quality-gentleman was going to ride
on the plush seats inside, so he leaped down and opened the door of the
carriage. The old man halted a few paces from him and cast a surveying
glance at the horses.
“That checkrein is too tight on that off-lead horse,” he said. “It is
a pity that I have to ’tend to these trifles, but damn it all, I can’t
stand to see fine horseflesh suffer on account of triflin’ niggers.”
Willie quickly ran and lowered the checkrein and climbed back to his
seat.
“You oughter know better’n to check up dat hoss so high,” he admonished
Jehu with a proprietary air. “Us likes our hosses to have a heap er
room.”
Jehu did not reply. He held steadily to the reins, and the carriage
fairly flew through the misty haze. Willie wanted to ask for the reins
himself. He felt he could drive much more to his own satisfaction but,
withal, he admitted, Jehu was doing very well. A minute later, however,
when the lead horse bolted just as they approached a long bridge, and
Jehu prevented a crash by expert manœuvring of the reins, Willie was
glad he was not driving.
“Does dat ev’y time at the bridge,” Jehu volunteered as the team
settled down to a long gallop across the structure. “Lots er times us
misses an’ de folks in de chariot gits drownded tryin’ to cross Jurdan.”
“Dat de Jurdan, huh?” asked Willie. “I be dog,” and he gripped tightly
to the seat.
The chariot rolled off the bridge and up to the front of a white pearly
gate where it stopped. Willie dropped confidently to the ground, opened
the chariot door, and assisted the distinguished old passenger to
alight. St. Peter swung the big gate open.
“Welcome, Colonel,” he said. “It gives me great pleasure to greet you
personally after having known you indirectly for these many years.
She’s waiting for you under the crêpe myrtles. Cherub, escort the
Colonel to Miss Julia.”
Willie thought that was great, and he was thrilled almost to ecstasy
when the old gentleman gave him a curt nod in recognition of his
service.
As soon as the old man had disappeared behind the cherub, St. Peter
dropped his air of formality.
“Well, well,” he said, “if it ain’t that worthless Willie Malone.
Willie, how’d you git here, son?”
That was language Willie could understand and appreciate.
“St. Peter,” he replied, “I jes’ got on de chariot an’ rid up hyar.”
“Well,” said St. Peter, “I guess you better try on a pair of wings,
then. Here, Cherub. Bring out a pair of wings for old Willie Malone.”
St. Peter helped the cherub adjust the wings.
“Now you’re fixed, son,” he announced. “Fly away!”
And Willie flew. He flew among the golden clouds and down long narrow
golden streets. He flew over mansions of gold and sparkling rivers.
High into the air and close to the ground he flew. He tried a few fancy
turns, such as he had seen birds perform among the chinaberry trees. He
dived at the surface of the water and grabbed at the golden fish and
then climbed again by lusty flaps of his wings, as pelicans do. And he
did it perfectly.
“Doggone my hide,” he exclaimed, “dis is somethin’ like!”
After a few hours the novelty began to wear off. He was high in the
air, maybe a mile high, he estimated. So he pointed one wing at an
angle and began gliding down, making a huge spiral as he descended.
Halfway down, he reversed the cant of his wings and came down the rest
of the way, flying backwards.
He landed right in the midst of a group of other angels who were seated
around the Great Throne. Upon the throne sat the Great Lord God. Willie
recognized him instantly because of the distinction with which he sat
upon his throne and by the carefree tilt of his huge, bejewelled crown
almost hiding one eye and by the angle at which the ten-cent cigar
was cocked. Willie was a little frightened, and dazzled by the regal
splendour of it all, but he settled down noiselessly to the ground,
and was made to feel perfectly at home, by the informal greeting he
received.
“I bet you want to hear some music, don’t you, Willie?” asked the Great
Lord God and, without waiting for Willie’s reply, he continued, “Little
David, play on your harp.”
“What shall I play, Great Lord God?” asked Little David.
“Play something calm and low, Little David,” said the Great Lord God.
“Do not alarm my people.”
David struck a chord or two on his harp. It was beautiful. The mellow
music floated straight to Willie’s heart. One or two of the other
angels started humming with the music and, almost unconscious of where
he was, Willie added his low, rich bass to the chorus: