arranged between himself and a maiden sister, that resided in
Albany, that Violet was to remain with her, attend the best
college, pay strict attention to her studies and music, and when
her education should be completed, she, if she wished, was to
make Darley Dale her future home.
Four years passed swiftly by, and then "Dear Aunt Molly," as
Violet had learned to call her, was taken violently ill; and
before her brother came her sweet spirit had flown away and poor
Violet was again alone. But after she became fairly installed as
mistress at Darley Dale, she soon learned to love the place and
also to love the dear old man that had been to her so staunch a
friend.
As for his son Harley, she had heard his praises sung from
morning until night. She had never seen him, for at the time of
her father's death he was attending college, and before she
returned to Darley Dale he had hied himself off to New York
City, there to open a law office and declare that his future
home.
Many times the Squire had written him beseeching him to return,
but always met with a courteous refusal.
When Violet had been at Darley Dale a year she was surprised
beyond measure by an offer of marriage from Squire Darley.
He had enlarged upon the fact that his son was a most obstinate
young man, that he himself was growing old, and that he wished
to see her well cared for before he died.
She had assured him that she could work, and that she was
willing to work when the time came, but the old Squire proved
himself to be as obstinate as his wilful son. And at last
Violet, with a white drawn face, and dark frightened eyes,
consented to become his wife at some future time.
And the letter addressed to Mr. H. C. Darley contained the
announcement of the engagement of Squire Horace to Miss Violet
Vanclief.
It is seldom that even a model short story plot will be a perfect unit,
for in the story, as in the life which it pictures, some slight change
of scene and some little passage of time are inevitable. Thus in any
short story there is usually a slight hiatus of thought, due to these
causes, which must be bridged over. The tyro will span the chasm by
means of stars or some such arbitrary signs, but the master will calmly
ignore such gaps and preserve the unity of his narrative so deftly that
even the lines of the dovetailing will be scarcely visible. Thus in "The
Ambitious Guest" (¶ 9, 10) Hawthorne had need to indicate the passage of
some little time, during which the guest had his supper; but the breach
is passed in so matter-of-fact a manner that there is no jolt, and yet
the sense of time is secured:
Let us now suppose the stranger to have finished his supper of
bear's meat, and by his natural felicity of manner to have
placed himself on a footing of kindness with the whole family;
so that they talked as freely together as if he belonged to
their mountain-brood.
When the plot comprises a series of closely related episodes the story
should be located in the time of the most important one, and all
necessary preliminary matter should be introduced as briefly and
casually as possible in one of the several ways already given.[38]
Indeed, the whole difficulty is usually due to a poor beginning, and
properly belongs to the preceding chapter.
Next to the use of divisions comes the error, also caught from the
novel, of making the short story a carryall for divers bits of wisdom,
moralizing, description, and literary small talk, which have no part in
the narrative, but which the clever and self-appreciative author has not
the heart to withhold from the public. The art of omission is an
important branch of the art of authorship. It is seldom necessary to
tell the novice what to put in; but it is frequently necessary to tell
him--and oh! so hard to persuade him!--that to introduce an irrelevant
idea is worse than to omit a necessary detail. The young writer must
learn early and learn once for all the absolute necessity for the
exclusion of non-essentials. Selection of details plays an important
part in any literary work, but in the short story extreme care is
indispensable, for the short story has too little space to sacrifice any
to pretty but useless phrases. Such irrelevant matter is usually called
"padding," and its presence is a serious detriment to the success of any
story, however clever in conception.
One of the chief causes of padding is the desire for "local color"--a
term by which we characterize those details which are introduced to make
a story seem to smack of the soil. These details must be eminently local
and characteristic--possible of application to only the small community
to which they are ascribed--or they are mere padding. The need of local
color depends much upon the character of the story: it varies from a
doubtful addition to the story of ingenuity or adventure, to a necessary
part of the story portraying human life and character. "Without blindly
indulging in local color one must be accurate in indicating facts. A
work of art must not be crowded with so-called local color, but certain
facts must be known and used to give the effect of a true relation....
The atmosphere, the feeling and idiosyncrasy--a word or a phrase which
reveals character--are the only true local color, not passing phrases of
unkempt speech."[39] The stories of Miss Wilkins, Octave Thanet, Bret
Harte, and Joel Chandler Harris are full of excellent examples of local
color.
Every perfect short story will contain a strong argument for good,
through its subtle exposition of the earning of the "wages of sin," but
any attempt to make it a medium for the spreading of ethical and
spiritual truths will entail ridicule upon the writer and failure upon
his work. The only legitimate purpose of the short story is to amuse,
and didacticism in literature is always inartistic. "Novels with a
purpose" may find publishers and readers; but no one, except the author,
cares for "polemic stories--such as set forth the wickedness of Free
Trade or of Protection, the Wrongs of Labor and the Rights of Capital,
the advantages of one sect over another, the beauties of Deism,
Agnosticism, and other unestablished tenets.... Genius will triumph over
most obstacles, and art can sugar-coat an unwelcome pill; but in
nineteen cases out of twenty the story which covers an apology for one
doctrine or an attack upon the other has no more chance than if it were
made up of offensive personalities."[40] "Though ordinary dramatic short
stories do not have a moral which shows itself, still under the surface
in every story is something which corresponds to the moral, and which we
shall call _the soul of the story_."[41] The short story cannot properly
be a mere sermon, such as are so often penned under the caption of "The
Drunkard's Wife," "The Orphan's Prayer," "The Wages of Sin," and other
similar titles. It must teach its moral lesson in its own way--its
artistic presentation of the great contrast between the sort of men who
work deeds of nobility and of shame. If it be saddled with didacticism
or tailed with a moral, it ceases to be a story and becomes an argument;
when it no longer concerns us.
Indirectly, and perhaps unintentionally, the short story is a great
factor for good. The world is weary of the bald sermons of the Puritans,
and of their endeavor to "point a tale" by every ordinary occurrence;
it is rather inclined to a Pharisaical self-righteousness; and needs
to have its sins, and the practical benefits of goodness, cunningly
insinuated; but it can never fail to admire and strive to emulate the
noble deeds of noble men, whether creatures of flesh or phantoms of the
brain. To be sure, many of our best short stories deal with events so
slight and really unimportant that they might be said to have no moral
influence; yet, if they simply provide us with innocent amusement for an
idle hour, their ethical value must not be overlooked; and when they do
involve some great moral question or soul crisis their influence is
invariably on the right side.
The point is that religion is not literature. The mere fact that the
heroine of a story is a poor milk and water creature, full of bald
platitudes and conventional righteousness, does not make that narrative
correct or readable; indeed, it is very apt to make it neither, for the
platitudes will be irrelevant and the righteousness uninteresting. When
this old world of ours becomes really moral we may be content to read
so-called stories in which goody-good characters parade their own
virtues and interlard their ordinary speech with prayers and hymns
and scriptural quotations; but while a tithe of the present sin and
crime exists our fiction will reflect them with the other phases of
our daily life.
Now by this I do not at all mean that religion has no place in
literature. Such a ruling would not only be contrary to the practice
of our best writers, but would also deprive us of a recognized and
important element in human life. The religious influence is one of the
most powerful to which man is subject, and as it plays so great a part
in our lives it must necessarily figure largely in our stories. But it
must be treated there because of the manner in which it influences human
life and action, and not from the ethical standpoint: it must be made
literature and not religious dogmatism. That it can be so treated and
yet retain the full strength of its power for good is best illustrated
in the works of Miss Wilkins. Nearly every one of her stories possesses
a strong element of New England Puritanism, but there is no attempt to
preach or moralize.
The short story must be well proportioned: those parts which are
essential differ materially in their importance, and they must be valued
and handled in accordance with their influence upon the plot. No scene,
however cleverly done, must be allowed to monopolize the space of the
story, except in so far as it is necessary to an understanding of what
follows; and no incident which furthers the plot, however trivial or
ordinary it may seem to you, must be slighted. The preservation of the
balance of the story is not wholly a matter of the number of words
involved: often a page of idle chatter by the characters makes less
impression on the reader than a single terse direct sentence by the
author himself; but in general the practice is to value the various
parts of the story by the word space accorded them. This rule will
not, however, hold good in the case of the climax, which is estimated
both by its position and by the manner in which it is worked up to.
The story proper is really only the preparation for the climax. Most
stories depend for their interest upon the pleasure with which we follow
the principal characters through various trying episodes, and the great
desire which we all experience to know "how it all comes out." It is
this innate sense, which seems to be a phase of curiosity, that affords
the pleasure that the average reader derives from fiction. One seldom
stops to consider how a story is written, but judges it by its power to
keep him absorbed in the fortunes of its hero and heroine. This is the
element of suspense.
However, there finally comes a point when the suspense cannot be longer
continued, and the strained attention of the reader is on the verge of
collapsing into indifference, when the curiosity must be gratified by at
least a partial revelation; and so the element of surprise enters. Too
long a strain on the interest is invariably fatal, and the thing is to
know when to relieve the tension. Just when this relief should occur
depends upon the plot and the length of the story, so that the question
must be settled separately for each particular case. As has already been
said, the plot of a short story should not be involved; yet it may be
permitted some degree of complexity. In such a case it is probable that
there must be some preliminary relief of suspense before the final
relief which the climax offers. However, because of the usual simplicity
of the plot, the length of the story has greater influence in regulating
the relief of the suspense. In a story of 3,000 words or less there is
neither room nor necessity for any preliminary surprise, and the most
effective method is to withhold all hints at the outcome until the
actual climax, as Hawthorne did in "The Ambitious Guest." But when the
story approaches or exceeds 10,000 words it is probable that there must
be some lessening of the tension previous to the climax, as in Henry
James' "The Lesson of the Master." This story, which contains 25,000
words, is divided into six parts, each representing a separate scene in
the progress of the story; and yet, so skillful is James, there is no
hiatus between the parts, and the story as a whole has unity of
impression. At the end of each part the reader has made a definite
advance toward the point of the story, through the preliminary relief of
suspense afforded by that part, as a study of this brief outline will
show:
I
At the end Paul Overt first sees Henry St. George, and the
reader receives a definite picture of the great author, who has
hitherto been only a name.
II
At the end the two meet, and the picture is given life.
III
All through this division St. George reveals to Overt his real
character, so that when the end comes Overt has a less exalted
idea of the master than that which he had cherished.
IV
At the end Marion Fancourt tells Overt of St. George's declared
intention to cease visiting her. This relieves suspense by
making Overt's position toward her more definite, but also
involves matters because of St. George's failure to give any
good reason for his action.
V
At the end Overt, by the advice of St. George, sacrifices in the
cause of true art all his natural desires for love and domestic
joys.
VI
In the first part Overt learns of St. George's engagement to
Miss Fancourt.
At the end St. George tells Overt that he has given up writing
to enjoy those very things which he advised Overt to renounce.
A study of this outline will show you the necessity, in the case of
this story, of these preliminary reliefs of the suspense. It would
have been absurdly impossible to have tried to hold in abeyance until
the climax all these matters; nor does the solving of any of these
minor perplexities at all lessen the interest in the denouement. Each
bit of information comes out at the proper time as a matter of
course, just as it would come to our knowledge if we were observing a
similar drama in real life.
When the outcome of the writer's meanderings is finally revealed, it
should be a veritable surprise--_i. e._, be unexpected. This is a matter
that is rather easily managed, for it is a poor plot that does not
afford at least two settlements--either the heroine marries the hero, or
she marries the villain; and often there is a third possibility, that
she marries neither. If he has provided a proper plot, the author has
but little to do with making the surprise genuine, and that little is
rather negative. He opens the possibility of the hero doing any one of a
number of things, and he may even give rather broad hints, but he should
take care never to give a clue to the outcome of the story, unless he
purposely gives a misleading clue. The most artistic method is to make
these hints progressive and culminative, so that though each one adds to
the knowledge of the reader, it is only when they all culminate in the
climax that the mystery is completely solved.
This preparation for the climax is one of the most delicate tasks
required of the short story writer. The climax must seem the logical
result of events and personal characteristics already recited. If it is
too startling or unexpected it will be a strain on the credulity of the
reader, and will be dubbed "unnatural;" for though fiction allows great
license in the employment of strange people and situations, it demands
that they be used with some regard for plausibility. The ending must
appear inevitable--but its inevitableness must not be apparent until the
end has come. It is only after the story has been read that the reader
should be able to look back through the narrative and pick out the
preparatory touches. They must have influenced him when first he read
them and prepared him for what was to come, but without his being
conscious of their influence.
The novice usually prepares the way for his climax so carefully that he
gives it away long before he should. This he does either by means of
anticipatory side remarks, or by making the outcome of his story so
obvious at the start that he really has no story to tell, and a climax
or surprise is impossible. The first fault is much the easier to
correct: most of the side remarks can be cut out bodily without injury
to the story, and those which are really necessary can be so modified
and slurred over that they will prepare the way for the climax without
revealing it. The other fault is usually radical: it is the result of a
conventional plot treated in the conventional manner. It is beyond help
so far as concerns that particular story, for it requires a new plot
handled in an original manner; but its recurrence can be prevented if
the writer will be more exacting in his selection of plots, and more
individual in his methods. It can usually be detected in the beginning,
as in the case of the last example quoted in Chapter VIII.
In "The Ambitious Guest" the climax is led up to most skillfully by
Hawthorne; indeed, his preparation is so clever that it is not always
easy to trace. Throughout the story there are an air of gloom and a
strange turning to thoughts of death that seem to portend a catastrophe;
and I believe the following passages are intentional notes of warning:
1 ... a cold spot and a dangerous one.... stones would often
rumble down its sides and startle them at midnight.
2 ... the wind came through the Notch and seemed to pause before
their cottage, ... wailing and lamentation.... For a moment it
saddened them, though there was nothing unusual in the tones.
3 ... whose fate was linked with theirs.
8 (Entire.)
9 (Entire.)
10 ... a prophetic sympathy ... the kindred of a common
fate....
12 (Entire.)
14 "... a noble pedestal for a man's statue." (Doubtful.)
16 "... things that are pretty certain never to come to pass."
17 "... when he is a widower."
18 "When I think of your death, Esther, I think of mine too. But
I was wishing we had a good farm ... round the White Mountains,
but not where they could tumble on our heads.... I might die
happy enough in my bed.... A slate gravestone would suit me as
well as a marble one...."
20 "They say it's a sign of something when folk's minds go
a-wandering so."
22 "... go and take a drink out of the basin of the Flume."
(Doubtful; unless regarded as the result of some subtle warning
to fly the spot.)
26 ... though their music and mirth came back drearily from the
heart of the mountain.
28 ... a light cloud passed over the daughter's spirit....
32 ... it might blossom in Paradise, since it could not be
matured on earth ... the wind through the Notch took a
deeper and drearier sound.... There was a wail along the
road as if a funeral were passing.
36 (Entire.)
38 (Entire.)
39 (Entire.)
A novice writing the same story would hardly have refrained from
introducing some very bald hints concerning the fate of the ambitious
stranger; for the novice has a mistaken idea that wordy and flowery
exclamations make sad events all the sadder, forgetting that silent
grief is the keenest. Thus the novice would have interlarded his
narrative with such exclamations as:
¶ 12.
Ah! could the unfortunate stranger but have guessed the
culmination of his bright dreams, how would he have bewailed
his fate!
¶ 19.
Unhappy youth! _his_ grave was to be unmarked, his very death
in doubt!
¶ 28.
Poor girl! had she a premonition of her awful death?
Such interpolations are very exasperating to the reader, for he much
prefers to learn for himself the outcome of the tale; and they also
greatly offend against the rhetorical correctness of the story, for
they are always utterly irrelevant and obstructive.
The only stories which may properly anticipate their own denouements are
what might be called "stories of premonition," in which the interest
depends upon comparing actual events to the prophecy of dreams or some
other mystical agency. In such tales the real interest is usually in the
weirdness of the whole affair--though, to be sure, they do not always
turn out as they are expected to. For, after all, this introduction of
surprise into fiction is simply an imitation of nature, and "it is the
unexpected that always happens."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 37: See Chapter X.]
[Footnote 38: See Chapter VIII for the best methods of introducing
foundation facts.]
[Footnote 39: "The Art of Fiction." A lecture by Gilbert Parker. _The
Critic._ Dec., '98.]
[Footnote 40: "Magazine Fiction and How Not to Write It," by Frederick
M. Bird. _Lippincott's._ Nov., '94.]
[Footnote 41: "How to Write Fiction." Published anonymously by Bellaires
& Co., London. Part I, Chapter V.]
X
CLIMAX AND CONCLUSION
If the overworked editor, hastily skimming the heap of MSS. before
him, comes upon one which promises well in the opening paragraphs, he
will turn to its conclusion, to learn how well the author has kept
his promise; and if he finds there equal evidence of a good story, he
will put the MS. by for more careful reading and possible purchase.
Experience has taught him that the end of a story is second only to
the beginning as a practical test of the narrative; and therefore to
the author as well the conclusion is of extreme importance.
The end of a short story comprises the climax and the conclusion. The
climax is the chief surprise, the relief of the suspense, or the
greatest relief, if there is more than one; it is the apex of
interest and emotion; it is the point of the story; it is really
_the_ story. The conclusion is the solving of all problems, the
termination of the narrative itself, and the artistic severing of
all relations between narrator and reader.
The climax, in spite of its importance, is but a small part of the
story, so far as mere words are concerned. In a properly constructed
narrative its influence is felt throughout the whole story, which, as
already stated, is but one long preparation for it. But in itself the
climax is usually confined to a single paragraph of ordinary length; and
the climax proper, the real point of the story, is usually conveyed in a
half dozen words. For the climax, and particularly the climax proper, is
the story concentrated in a single phrase. It must have been prepared
for carefully and worked up to at some length; but when it does come it
must be expressed so directly and so forcefully that it will make the
reader jump mentally, if not physically. It is the desire to produce
this startling effect that leads some writers to endeavor to gain
artificial force by printing their climax proper in italics, or even in
capitals. In "The Ambitious Guest" we have an unusually strong and
perfect climax in ¶ 40, 41:
... a sound abroad in the night, rising like the roar of a
blast, had grown broad, deep and terrible before the fated group
were conscious of it. The house and all within it trembled; the
foundations of the earth seemed to be shaken, as if this awful
sound was the peal of the last trump. Young and old exchanged
one wild glance and remained an instant pale, affrighted,
without utterance or power to move. Then the same shriek burst
simultaneously from all their lips:
"The slide! The slide!"
while the climax proper--the climax of the climax--occurs in the four
words which compose ¶ 41.
"The slide! The slide!"