At a dinner given in honour of Mr. Frank R. Stockton by the Authors'
Club of New York, early in the year 1901, Mr. Richard Watson Gilder,
the editor of _The Century_, said: "A young man once came to me
and said he would like to contribute to the magazine every month. I
asked him what he wanted to write. 'Oh,' he said, 'I'd like to send
you each month a story like The Lady or the Tiger?'" Mr. Gilder said
at the end of his speech: "When I think of the immense amount of
pleasure Mr. Stockton brought into the life of Stevenson it seems to
me that alone would be to him a benediction forever."
The editor of _The Century_ thus happily illustrated the attitude of
the reading world toward Mr. Stockton: on one side is an eager desire
to emulate him, and on the other an equally eager desire to go to him
for pleasure or for comfort. There is a natural grace about his
stories which has often deceived the inexpert into an attempt to
rival him, while the sweet and simple comedy of the stories has for
more than a quarter of a century been the delight of young and old.
The young man who visited Mr. Gilder, and the brilliant novelist
solacing himself with the acquaintance of Pomona, Ardis Claverden,
Mrs. Null, and Chipperton, are types.
The object of this variety of admiration was born in Philadelphia on
April 5, 1834. On his father's side he is a descendant of the Richard
Stockton who signed the Declaration of Independence. His father was
notable chiefly for his religious zeal. He married twice, and his
second wife was the author's mother. She was a Virginian; and from her
side of the family tree was derived the name Ardis, found in "Ardis
Claverden." There is a Stocktonian touch in the familiar story that
the Christian name of Francis Richard was imposed upon Mr. Stockton
by one of his half-sisters, who borrowed half of it from Francis I.
of France and half from Richard Coeur de Lion. Some readers will
doubtless remember Louise Stockton, Francis's sister, who was given
the name of Napoleon's second wife.
It is remarkable, by the way, that with a sister so ready in the
choice of names the novelist should himself find denomination a
troublesome phase of his art. "The hardest work I have," he once said,
"is naming my characters. Many of them are completely made up, others
are suggested by something, others are but slightly changed from real
names. I seldom use a name that in itself is a description of the
character. That was Dickens's way, you remember. Nevertheless,
sometimes one of my names does describe the character. Take Tippengray
of 'The Squirrel Inn.' Tippengray was a man whose hair was slightly
tipped with gray. I always liked that name. Chipperton in 'A Jolly
Fellowship' is very descriptive also."
Francis Richard first went to a private school in West Philadelphia.
Later he attended the public school, and at the age of eighteen was
graduated from the Central High School with the degree of Bachelor of
Arts. It was noticed at school that his bent was literary. In fact,
this was obvious to his parents when he was only ten, for at that age
he began to scribble verses. In spite of this proclivity, however, the
boy, after leaving the high school, took up wood-carving as a
profession. Just one bond existed between himself and the world of
letters, and that was his membership in a high school organization
called the "Literary and Forensic Circle." Upon this slight basis has
been erected an exceptionally brilliant career, for it was to the
Circle that the Ting-a-Ling stories were first read. These stories
were collected for his first book. The Circle also heard "Kate" as
soon as it was written. This story and "The Story of Champaigne" were
published by the _Southern Messenger_; and it is sufficient to say
that they created a demand for more like them. Thereafter, until 1874,
Stockton wrote many short stories, his star all the time rising a
little higher above the horizon.
But in 1874 the star blazed forth wondrously with the appearance of
the first part of "Rudder Grange." From that day the author's place
among the famous American humorists has been secure. The primary
effect of the remarkable success of the first part of "Rudder Grange"
was to encourage the author to write a second part; its next effect
was to persuade him to abandon wood-carving for literature.
There was an extraordinary infantile tangle connected with the popular
story. In the original papers in _Scribner's_ there was no baby; in
the first edition of the book there was one baby; in the second
edition there were three babies; in the third edition there were two.
The author finally let Pomona's baby disappear, for it would have
embarrassed her trip abroad. The author tells a story about this baby.
"I had planned out the book of Pomona's travels," he says, "and was
about ready to write it. I was in Philadelphia at the time, and had a
business appointment with my dentist, an old friend. By the way, you
should never change your dentist any more than you should your
plumber. Both will want to take out the work of their predecessors,
swearing that it was done very badly. Well, while in the chair I got
to talking with this dentist friend about my new book. I told him I
had serious thoughts of killing the baby. He was very much interested.
We talked over the advisability of doing this, and, while he was not
convinced, he in the main agreed with me.
"I had been finished with, and clasping his hand went into the waiting
room on my way out. This waiting-room was filled with women. As I
passed through the door I heard him call:
"'Then you have positively decided to kill that baby?'
"'Positively,' I replied.
"You should have seen the women stare. It was not until I got well out
in the hallway that I realized what they must, of course, have
thought."
Pomona, the heroine, existed in real life. She was a charity girl whom
the Stocktons had taken into the family. She was incorrigibly careless,
however, and back to the charitable institution she was sent. She was
stage-struck, too, and for all we know--Mr. Stockton veils the matter,
half mysteriously,--she may have escaped from her guardians and won
bouquets for herself before the footlights. While we are on the subject
of characters real and imaginary we may add that Mrs. Lecks and Mrs.
Aleshine enjoyed actual existence under more common names. It has
always been a source of affected trouble to Stockton that some people
will persist in calling the former Mrs. Leeks and the latter Mrs.
Al-e-shi-ne, instead of Aleshine.
The author's success with these two characters recalls the criticism
that he was ignorant of the way in which young folks make love. "It is
much more to my liking," he says, "to write about middle-aged women
than young women. The older ones have more character; you can make
them do more amusing things."
But, to revert to the main line, "Rudder Grange" carved its writer's
name in the Hall of Fame. It is undoubtedly his most popular work, for
there is a call for it even at this late day. Some of his admirers
call it his masterpiece. It is no backhanded compliment to say that he
has never improved upon the profusion or the quaintness of its humor.
We have said that the success of "Rudder Grange" induced Stockton
to abandon everything but literature. He worked first for the
_Philadelphia Morning Post_; later he joined Edward Eggleston on
_Hearth and Home_; by and by he cast his lot with _Scribner's Monthly_,
and finally he settled down on the editorial staff of _St. Nicholas_.
In this position he remained until, in 1880, he gave up editorial work
altogether. Thereafter he devoted himself entirely to fiction.
Even more sensational than the luck of "Rudder Grange" was the luck of
"The Lady or the Tiger?" The story had a phenomenal sale--for those
days--in this country, and it has been translated into a few foreign
languages. "Perhaps the most interesting thing about 'The Lady or the
Tiger?'" says the humorist, "is its great popularity among the savage
races. It has been told again and again by the story-tellers of Burmah.
A missionary once told the story to a tribe of Karens up in the north
of Burmah. When she came back a year later the tribe surrounded her and
wanted to know if she had found out whether--
"I cannot answer the question, for I have no earthly idea myself. I
really have never been able to decide whether the Lady or the Tiger
came out of that door. Yet I must defend myself. People for years have
upbraided me for leaving it a mystery; some used to write me that I
had no right to impose upon the good nature of the public in that
manner. However, when I started in to write the story, I really
intended to finish it. But it would never let itself be finished. I
could not decide. And to this day, I have, I assure you, no more idea
than anyone else."
It used to be said that Mr. Stockton was a short-story writer and
nothing more, as if that were not the most difficult branch of fiction;
but he silenced these reckless critics with "The Late Mrs. Null,"
which, in the beginning, had the biggest circulation of all his books.
Since then book has followed book, regularly but not hurriedly. The
author of "Rudder Grange" does not follow the plan of Trollope; he does
not work so many hours a day, mood or no mood. Sometimes up to luncheon
time not a word has been put on paper.
He never writes; he dictates. In his early days he dictated to his wife,
but in recent years he has employed a stenographer. At any appointed
hour in the morning the young woman trips downstairs from the room at
the top of the house to which she and her noisy typewriter have been
banished, and if the author have his subject well in mind he delivers
one thousand five hundred words before the morning is over. From this
first draft the secretary makes the draft for the printer, which seldom
is revised. The fact is, Stockton shapes his delightful stories in his
mind as effectively as most other authors shape theirs on paper; and,
therefore, when a story has been dictated, he is done with it. Mrs.
Stockton, of whom we spoke as his first amanuensis, was Miss Marian E.
Tuttle of Amelia County, Virginia, visits to whose home gave the
novelist the impressions of negro life which he has described so
felicitously. At present the Stocktons live near Charlestown, West
Virginia. The estate, named Claymont, comprises one hundred and fifty
acres of a wide-spreading piece of land once owned by Washington. The
house is said to have been planned by the first President himself. At
any rate, it was built by the immortal patriot's grandnephew, and it
takes its name from the Washington homestead in England. Very
appropriately the edition of Mr. Stockton's works has been given the
title of Shenandoah.
Personally the fanciful story-teller is small, spare, and shy. His is
an elusive personality. "A personality more winsome and delightful,"
says one of his friends, "it would be difficult to find. It is a small
man that sits before you, a keen-eyed man, whose eyes you know miss
nothing, a man whose mustache is iron-gray and whose hair is almost
white. His photographs give no hint of the man; they do not even
mirror his personal appearance. Nothing save a talk with him gives you
that." Another friend has said: "The big dark eyes, full of patient,
weary expression, are luminous; the mouth close and discouraged,
expands into smiling curves, sweet and sympathetic; the whole soul is
in the face, and from head to foot, Frank Stockton is the genial
responsive man. It is like a brilliant burst of sunshine following a
cloud, suddenly and unexpectedly, and therefore more delicious in
surprise and beauty."
Everyone under this charmer's spell will, we are sure, say with Edmund
Clarence Stedman:
I have stayed at the Rudder Grange
Just after the wedding chime,
Though that jolliest lodge--how strange!--
Is of age at this very time;
I have roamed in the Squirrel Inn
(With my vouchers from Germantown);
To the House of Martha I've been,
And more than once have gone down
In the queerest of all queer wrecks,
And have argued and taken my tea
With Mesdames Aleshine and Lecks,
All up to our necks in the sea;
I have solved, with my private elf,
That Lady-and-Tiger riddle
That routed the Sphinx herself
And parted the world in the middle;
And all this fellowship jolly,
With a wizard that led me around
Through wonder and sweetest folly,
From first to last I have found
His fancy more passing rare
Than that of mask or mummer
Since Puck and Oberon wove the snare
In a night's dream of midsummer;
So I'll roam with him and his throng,
Wherever the course meander,
Though he frolic a century long.
And outlive by a year the sage vizier
Of the Two-Horned Alexander.
[Illustration: JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS.]