understood by the reader at the outset if he would follow the narrative
easily. These basic truths differ greatly in different stories, so that
it is difficult to give a complete list; but they are usually such
details as the time and scene of the story, the names, descriptions,
characteristics, and relationships of the different characters, and the
relation of events prior to the story that may influence its
development. You must make sure that the details which you select are
fundamental and that they do have a definite influence which requires
some knowledge of them. Any or all of these facts, however, may be
introduced later in the narrative when their need appears; or they may
be left in abeyance to enhance the element of suspense or mystery.
But because they are necessary these facts need not be listed and
ticketed like the _dramatis personae_ of a play bill. They should be
introduced so deftly that the reader will comprehend them involuntarily;
they must seem an intrinsic part of the warp and woof of the narrative.
In themselves they are commonplaces, tolerated only because they are
necessary; and if they cannot be made interesting they can at least be
made unobtrusive. To begin a story thus is to make a false start that
may prove fatal:
This happy family consisted of six; a father, mother, two sons,
and two daughters. Clara, the eldest, had completed a course at
college, and during the past few months had been completing one
in cooking, guided and instructed by her mother. Bessie, the
youngest, was five years old. She sat rocking Amanda, her new
doll, and was asking her all manner of questions. John and
Henry, aged respectively ten and fourteen years, were helping
their father.
Grandma and grandpa were expected to dinner; also Mr. Draco, or
"Harry," as every one called him. He was a friend of the
family's, and Clara's lover.
Note how Hawthorne handles a very similar family group in the initial
paragraph of "The Ambitious Guest." He inserts his details without
apparent effort; and yet he makes the persons individual and distinct.
He does not say:
This family was happy, and comprised father, mother,
grandmother, daughter of seventeen, and younger children.
but:
The faces of the father and mother had a sober gladness; the
children laughed. The eldest daughter was the image of Happiness
at seventeen, and the aged grandmother, who was knitting in the
warmest place, was the image of Happiness grown old.
Sometimes, in stories which consist largely of conversation, as so many
of our modern stories do, the author never directly states the situation
to the reader: it is made sufficiently plain either directly in the
conversation itself, or indirectly in the necessary comments and
descriptions. Or it may be presented as a retrospect indulged in by one
of the characters. On the stage this takes the form of a soliloquy; but
since few men in their right minds really think aloud, in the short
story it is better for the author to imagine such thoughts running
through the mind of the character, and to reproduce them as indirect
discourse. We are so used to consider the author as omniscient that we
experience no surprise or incredulity at such mind-reading. Such stories
approach very nearly to the pure _Dramatic Form_. These are at once the
most natural and the most artistic methods of introducing essential
facts, and they are methods which can be advantageously employed to some
extent in almost any story. With this method in mind read carefully any
one of Hope's "Dolly Dialogue" stories and note how cleverly the facts
are presented through the words and actions of the characters.
In the novel essential details are frequently held in suspense for
some time, in order that the opening pages may be made attractive by
the introduction of smart conversation or rapid action. A similar
method is often followed in the short story, and it cannot be
condemned offhand, for if used skillfully it is a clever and
legitimate device for immediately fixing the reader's attention; but
it holds danger for the uninitiated, for the amateur is liable to
postpone the introduction of the details until the story is
hopelessly obscure, or until he is reduced to dragging in those
essential facts in the baldest manner. Even if he is otherwise
successful, he runs the risk of destroying the proportion of his
story by practically beginning it in the middle and endeavoring to go
both ways at once. The conventions of the short story allow of little
space for the retrospection necessary to such an introduction; and
when the writer begins to say, "But first let me explain how all this
came about," the reader begins to yawn, and the charm of the opening
sentences is forgotten in the dreariness of the ensuing explanations.
This method is of the modern school of short story writers, but
Hawthorne, in "The Prophetic Pictures," gives us an excellent example
of how it may be used to advantage; and the following well
illustrates the absurd lengths to which it may be carried, and the
desperate means to which the writer must then resort to patch up the
broken thread of the narrative:
Joseph Johnson was a young man whose name appeared in the list
of the dead heroes who had fallen at Santiago.
When Mamie Williams read the startling fact, her eyes filled
with tears, as past history was unfolding itself in her mind,
presenting one event after another. She thought about their
early love, how she had clasped his hand and how his lips
lingered long upon hers when last they parted before he started
to the cruel war.
With a wounded heart and tear-stained eyes, she sank into a
chair, and with her hands over her face, many reflections of the
past chased each other through her mind.
She tried to console herself and smooth out the wrinkles in her
troubled mind with the thought that God knows and does all
things well. She was an intelligent girl, and reasoned farther
with herself, "As all hope for Joseph has fled, I ought to marry
some one else, and make most of what I have. There is Thomas
Malloy, who loves me almost as well; however, my affection for
him is not very great, but I think I shall unite my life with
his, and do my best to make myself and the world around me
happy."
Her mind, moved by an emotion of a noble heart, caused her to
make the last remark.
Soon they were married, but there was no happiness in life for
her; for the one she lived for was gone, and had carried off her
affection with him.
Returning to the war we find that Joseph was not killed in the
battle but was taken prisoner by the enemy.
There is a questionable sort of beginning, which might be called
dilatory, that consists in carrying the literary aspect of the essential
facts to the extreme, and making them occupy a deal more valuable space
than is rightly theirs. This is generally the method of a past school of
short story writers, or of the writers of to-day who are not yet well
versed in the technique of their art. Of this class Washington Irving is
a great example. In "Rip Van Winkle" and "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow"
he devotes to the introduction almost as much space as a writer to-day
would give to the whole tale. He is so skillful in gently urging the
narrative along, while he introduces new essentials and interpolates
literary but non-essential matter, that in neither story can one exactly
fix the bounds of the beginning; but in each a modern story teller would
combine the first ten paragraphs into one introductory paragraph. I do
not mean to say that this is a fault in Irving: if it is a fault at all
it belongs to his time; then, too, these tales were supposed to be
written by the garrulous antiquarian, Diedrich Knickerbocker; but their
discursive style is not in vogue to-day, and is therefore to be avoided.
As an awful example of the extent to which this dilly-dallying may be
carried, let me introduce the following:
The train rolled onward with a speed of twenty-five miles an
hour, the great iron engine puffing and screeching as if its
very sides would burst. In the rear car of the six coaches which
seemed to follow the monstrous iron horse with dizzy speed, sat
an aged man holding a pretty child of four summers, who was fast
asleep. The grandfather gazed on the sleeping face and deeply
sighed. His thoughts returned to the long ago when his only
child was the same age as the little one he held so fondly
clasped in his dear old arms. He thought how years ago he had
held his own darling thus; how happy and bright his home had
been in those sweet bygone days. He recalled how she had been
reared in a home of plenty, how she had everything which
constitutes the happiness of a young girl.
_The Story._
The time was a warm summer evening in August, the place one of
those quiet little towns west of the great Mississippi, and the
scene opens in a neat little parlor where a number of young
folks had gathered to tender a fitting reception to a newly
married couple. A few days previous a stranger had arrived in
the town to visit some former friends; these friends attended
the reception and were accompanied by their guest. The stranger
was formally introduced to the crowd of merry-makers as Elmer
Charleston. He was a tall, splendidly formed, intelligent
looking young man. Among the young women present was one Jennie
Shelby, who was but little more than twenty; she was a blonde,
of graceful figure, with a peculiarly animated expression of
countenance. Her complexion was beautiful, her dimples deep and
mischievous, her large blue eyes full of latent fire, and her
features would pass muster among sculptors. Suitors had she by
the score. At last she had met her fate. Elmer Charleston
accepted a position in the town and at once began to court the
only daughter of Squire Shelby.
It seems almost incredible that any writer, however inexperienced,
should begin his narrative in this fashion. The introductory paragraph
is of course entirely unnecessary--even the author had some inkling of
that fact, for he takes pains to specify when "the story" proper
actually begins; but even after he is supposed to be in the midst of his
narration, he stops to give us wholly gratuitous information concerning
the time of day, the state of the weather, and the occasion when Elmer
Charleston first met Jennie Shelby--all of which was apparently
introduced for the purpose of discouraging further interest: at least,
that is what it certainly accomplishes.
The short story has no space for the "glittering generalities" with
which young writers delight to preface their work. A tale which requires
a page or even a paragraph to elucidate its relation to life and things
in general is seldom worth the perusal, much less the writing. These
introductory remarks are usually in the nature of a moral, or a bit of
philosophizing; but if the story has any point it will be evident in the
narrative itself, and no preliminary explanation will atone for later
neglect to make it of human interest. There is no good reason, unless it
be the perversity of human nature, why you should begin a story by
making trite remarks about things in general, as this writer did:
Love is a very small word, but the feeling that it expresses
bears the richest and choicest fruit of any vine that curls its
clinging tendrils around the human heart. And a bosom without it
is a bosom without warmth; a life without it is like a
honeysuckle without its nectar; a heart that has never felt its
sweet emotions is like a rosebud that has never unfolded. But in
some people it remains latent for a number of years, like an
apple which remains green and hard for a time, but suddenly
ripens into softness, so when love flashes into the human
breast, the once hard heart is changed into mellowness.
Mary Green was just such a character as the one last described,
etc.
It would be wrong, however, to say that the prefatory introduction is
the sign of a poor story, for many good writers produce such stories,
and many critical editors accept and publish them. A large majority of
Poe's tales begins so; yet in nearly every case the beginning could have
been cut and the story improved. Kipling, too, has a liking for this
method of beginning; usually he states his abstract idea, as a preacher
announces his text, and then proceeds to make the practical application.
With these masters the transition from the general to the specific is
usually easy and gradual, but in the following example from Kipling's
"On the Strength of a Likeness" the line of demarcation is well defined:
Next to a requited attachment, one of the most convenient things
that a young man can carry about with him at the beginning of
his career is an unrequited attachment. It makes him feel
important and business-like, and _blasé_, and cynical; and
whenever he has a touch of liver, or suffers from want of
exercise, he can mourn over his lost love, and be very happy in
a tender, twilight fashion.
Hannasyde's affair of the heart had been a godsend to him. It
was four years old, etc.
There is no real abruptness here, and the author's observations are apt
and sound; but the fact remains that they are not essential and so a
strict observance of conventions requires their elimination.
"The background of a story should always be the last thing to be chosen,
but it is the first thing to consider when one comes to actual writing
out. A story is much like a painting.... In story writing it appears to
be simple portraits that need least background."[34] Scenes may play an
important part in a story by influencing the actors or by offering a
contrast to the events; in such cases they must be made specific, but
rather after the broad free manner of the impressionist. The employment
of the contrast or harmony of man and nature is one of the oldest
devices of story telling, but also one of the most artistic and
effective. It is not an artificial device, though it occasionally
appears so from its misuse: it is a fact that all of us must have
experienced in some degree, for we are all, though often unconsciously,
influenced by the weather or by our environments; and though our
emotions may be so intense as to counteract that influence, we are
sufficiently self-centered to think it strange that all nature should
not be in harmony with us.
You should, however, take care that the scene is important before you
attempt to present it. Unless it does influence the action of the story
or is necessary for the understanding of what is to come it has no place
in the narrative, no matter how great may be its beauties or how
artistic your description of them. Above all things, never clutter your
story with commonplaces and details which would serve to picture any one
of a hundred different places. "When a tale begins, 'The golden orb of
day was slowly sinking among the hills, shedding an effulgent glory over
the distant landscape,' the discerning reader, whether official or
volunteer, is apt to pause right there. He knows exactly what happens
when the orb of day finds it time to disappear, and he does not care for
your fine language unless it conveys a fact or an idea worth
noting."[35]
The best method of procedure is to suggest the scene, as you do the
character,[36] by the few specific features which distinguish it from
other similar scenes, and to permit the reader's imagination to fill in
the details. Hawthorne gives a very distinct idea of the setting of "The
Ambitious Guest;" and yet, from his description alone, no two persons
would draw the same picture. It suffices that they would all possess the
essential elements of loneliness, bleakness and haunting terror. At the
same time he effects a sharp contrast between the wildness and
discomforts of the night and the peace and cheer of the tavern.
In locating the story it is absurdly shiftless to designate the place by
a dash or a single letter, or a combination of the two. One of your
first objects is to make your story vivid, and you will not further that
end by the use of impossible or indefinite substitutes for names. If you
are relating a true story and desire to disguise it, adopt or invent
some appellation different enough to avoid detection; but never be so
foolish as to say:
The story I am about to relate occurred to my friend X., in the
little village of Z----, during the latter part of the year
18--.
It would be just as sensible to go through the rest of the story and
substitute blanks or hieroglyphics for the important words. Specificness
in minor details is a great aid to vividness, and you cannot afford to
miss that desirable quality through sheer laziness.
The safest way to begin a story is to begin at the beginning, state the
necessary facts as succinctly as possible, and lead the reader into the
quick of the action before he has had time to become weary. For it must
be remembered that the object of the short story is always to amuse, and
that even in the introductory paragraphs the reader must be interested.
If he is not he will very likely cast the story aside as dry and dull;
if he does read it through he will be prejudiced at the outset, so that
the result will be about the same.
In "The Ambitious Guest" the introduction occupies ¶ 1-4, or
one-eleventh of the entire story, measured by paragraphs. In that
space Hawthorne locates the scene, introduces and individualizes the
characters, determines the atmosphere of the tale, and recounts the
necessary preliminaries; and all this he does in the easiest way,
while skillfully leading up to the story proper. A writer of to-day
would probably condense these four paragraphs into one, without
neglecting any essentials; but he would hardly attain the literary
finish of Hawthorne's work.
To prove further that the beginning of a story does influence its
success, I would ask you to consider the following, which is typical
of the style of introduction most affected by the novice:
It was a bright, crisp, twilight evening, and two young girls
sat together in a richly furnished parlor of a splendid country
house.
One, tall and slender, with a richly moulded figure; handsome
brunette features, and raven tresses--Edith Laingsford, the
daughter of the house; the other, a girl of medium height, with
a figure perfectly rounded, and a fair Grecian face.
Her eyes were of a soft gray, and her hair a waving chestnut.
She was Marion Leland, a dependent cousin of Miss Laingsford's.
Now, frankly, do you care to read further? Surely there is nothing in
the glimpse of the plot here presented that encourages you to hope
that the tale may improve upon further perusal. From these three
paragraphs you can construct the whole story: you know that the
"dependent cousin" and the girl with the "handsome brunette features"
will be rivals for the affections of some "nice young man" of
corresponding conventionality, and that the poor relation will
finally win him--chiefly because it always happens so in stories and
seldom in real life. And you know from these specimen paragraphs that
there will be nothing in the handling of this poor old hackneyed plot
that will repay its perusal. Of course there is always a chance that
you may be mistaken in your surmises; but the chance is too slight,
and you cast the story aside with a yawn, even as the editor would
do. See to it, then, that your own stories do not deserve like
treatment.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 34: "How to Write Fiction." Published anonymously by Bellaires
& Co., London. Part I, Chapter VII.]
[Footnote 35: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It," by Frederick
M. Bird. _Lippincott's._ Nov., '94.]
[Footnote 36: See Chapter VI.]
IX
THE STORY PROPER
The correct short story possesses unity of form as well as unity of
plot. In the novel there may be wide gaps of time and scene between
adjacent chapters; but the short story allows of no such chasms of
thought, much less of chapters. Parts or chapters in a short story
are uncanonical. A short story is essentially a unit, and the
necessity of divisions indicates the use of a plot that belongs
to some larger form of literature; but the indicated "parts" or
"chapters" may be false divisions introduced through the influence
of the conventions of the novel.
The various divisional signs to be avoided are the separate entries or
letters of the diary or epistolary forms, the introduction of stars or
blank spaces to indicate a hiatus, and the division of the narrative
into parts or chapters. The evils of the diary and epistolary forms have
already been discussed and need no further comment. The use of stars or
spaces either is due to an improper plot, or is entirely unnecessary. In
the first instance the fault is radical, and the only remedy is complete
reconstruction; in the second case the difficulty resolves itself into
an ignorance or a disregard of rhetorical conventions. Often the story
is deliberately divided and forced to appear in several chapters when
its plot and treatment make its unity very evident; and solely because
the amateur has an idea, caught from his novel reading, that such
divisions are essential to a well told story. They are not necessary to
many novels, though they may be convenient; and they have no place in
the scheme of the short story. There are stories, "short" at least in
length, in which divisions are necessary to indicate breaks which do not
seriously interrupt the coherency of the narrative; they may be readable
stories, but they can never be models.
The ideal short story, from the point of unity, is one which requires
the passage of the least time and presents the fewest separate
incidents. It is the relation of a single isolated incident, which
occupies only the time required to tell it. "The Ambitious Guest"
impresses the reader as a single incident and would seem to approach
this perfection, but a careful analysis of it resolves it into a number
of minor incidents, so closely related and connected that at first
glance they appear to form a perfect whole. The component incidents of
the body of "The Ambitious Guest" (¶ 5-39) are:
¶ 5-7. The stranger praises the fire and reveals his
destination.
¶ 8, 9. A stone rolls down the mountain side. (Lapse of time
indicated here.)
¶ 10, 11. The characters are described, as they reveal
themselves through their conversation.
¶ 12-23. They converse rather frankly of their several
ambitions.
¶ 24-27. A wagon stops before the inn, but goes on when the
landlord does not immediately appear.
¶ 28-31. A touch of sentimental byplay between the stranger and
the maid.
¶ 32. A sadness creeps over the company, caused, perhaps, by the
wind wailing without.
¶ 33-39. The grandmother discusses her death and burial.
None of these incidents, except those containing the rolling stone and
the passing travelers, possess sufficient action or identity to be
called an incident, except for some such analytical purpose. They are
rather changes in the subject under discussion than separate happenings.
With the exception already noted, it may be said that there is no time
gap between these incidents, for each one begins at the expiration of
its predecessor. The connection and relation of the sub-incidents is not
always as close as this. In a longer story they could be more distinct
and definite and yet preserve the unity of the work; but they should
never disintegrate into minor climaxes,[37] nor into such a jerky
succession of disassociated scenes as the following:
On a fair sweet spring morning in the lovely month of May,
Squire Darley finishes an important letter. He reads it over the
second time to see that there is no mistake.
"There, that'll do, I think," he soliloquizes. "And that'll
fetch him, I think. Peculiar diseases require peculiar
remedies." And he chuckled to himself. Then with deliberate care
he addressed it to "Mr. H. C. Darley, New York City."
A few words to my reader, and we will then follow this important
letter. Five years before the time of which we write, Abner
Vanclief, a poor but honorable gentleman, had died, leaving his
motherless daughter to the sole care of his lifelong friend,
Horace Darley, a wealthy country gentleman, a widower, with only
one son.
Squire Darley was quite at a loss to know what to do with this,
his new charge. He did not think it fit and proper to take her
to Darley Dale, with only himself and servants as companions.
Then, too, she was sadly in need of schooling.