It is sometimes said that a “good subject” for a short story should
always be capable of being expanded into a novel.
The principle may be defendable in special cases; but it is certainly
a misleading one on which to build any general theory. Every “subject”
(in the novelist’s sense of the term) must necessarily contain within
itself its own dimensions; and one of the fiction-writer’s essential
gifts is that of discerning whether the subject which presents itself
to him, asking for incarnation, is suited to the proportions of a short
story or of a novel. If it appears to be adapted to both the chances
are that it is inadequate to either.
It would be as great a mistake, however, to try to base a hard-and-fast
theory on the denial of the rule as on its assertion. Instances of
short stories made out of subjects that could have been expanded into
a novel, and that are yet typical short stories and not mere stunted
novels, will occur to every one. General rules in art are useful
chiefly as a lamp in a mine, or a hand-rail down a black stairway;
they are necessary for the sake of the guidance they give, but it is a
mistake, once they are formulated, to be too much in awe of them.
There are at least two reasons why a subject should find expression in
novel-form rather than as a tale; but neither is based on the number
of what may be conveniently called incidents, or external happenings,
which the narrative contains. There are novels of action which might be
condensed into short stories without the loss of their distinguishing
qualities. The marks of the subject requiring a longer development are,
first, the gradual unfolding of the inner life of its characters, and
secondly the need of producing in the reader’s mind the sense of the
lapse of time. Outward events of the most varied and exciting nature
may without loss of probability be crowded into a few hours, but moral
dramas usually have their roots deep in the soul, their rise far back
in time; and the suddenest-seeming clash in which they culminate should
be led up to step by step if it is to explain and justify itself.
There are cases, indeed, when the short story may make use of the moral
drama at its culmination. If the incident dealt with be one which a
single retrospective flash sufficiently lights up, it is qualified
for use as a short story; but if the subject be so complex, and its
successive phases so interesting, as to justify elaboration, the lapse
of time must necessarily be suggested, and the novel-form becomes
appropriate.
The effect of compactness and instantaneity sought in the short
story is attained mainly by the observance of two “unities”--the old
traditional one of time, and that other, more modern and complex, which
requires that any rapidly enacted episode shall be seen through only
one pair of eyes.
It is fairly obvious that nothing is more retarding than the marking of
a time-interval long enough to suggest modification in the personages
of the tale or in their circumstances. The use of such an interval
inevitably turns the short story into a long tale unduly compressed,
the bald scenario of a novel. In the third chapter, where an attempt
will be made to examine the technique of the novel, it will be needful
to explore that central mystery--of which Tolstoy was perhaps the one
complete master--the art of creating in the reader’s mind this sense
of passing time. Meanwhile, it may be pointed out that a third, and
intermediate, form of tale--the _long_ short-story--is available for
any subject too spreading for conciseness yet too slight in texture to
be stretched into a novel.
The other unity, that of vision, will also be dealt with in considering
the novel, in respect of which it becomes a matter much more
complicated. Henry James, almost the only novelist who has formulated
his ideas about his art, was the first to lay down the principle,
though it had long (if intermittently) been observed by the masters of
fiction. It may have occurred to other novelists--presumably it has--to
ask themselves, as they sat down to write: Who saw this thing I am
going to tell about? By whom do I mean that it shall be reported? It
seems as though such a question must precede any study of the subject
chosen, since the subject is conditioned by the answer; but no critic
appears to have propounded it, and it was left to Henry James to do so
in one of those entangled prefaces to the Definitive Edition from which
the technical axioms ought some day to be piously detached.
It is clear that exactly the same thing never happens to any two
people, and that each witness of a given incident will report it
differently. Should some celestial task-master set the same theme to
Jane Austen and George Meredith the bewildered reader would probably
have some difficulty in discovering the common denominator. Henry
James, in pointing this out, also made the corollary suggestion that
the mind chosen by the author to mirror his given case should be so
situated, and so constituted, as to take the widest possible view of it.
One thing more is needful for the ultimate effect of probability;
and that is, never to let the character who serves as reflector
record anything not naturally within his register. It should be the
story-teller’s first care to choose this reflecting mind deliberately,
as one would choose a building-site, or decide upon the orientation of
one’s house, and when this is done, to live inside the mind chosen,
trying to feel, see and react exactly as the latter would, no more,
no less, and, above all, no otherwise. Only thus can the writer avoid
attributing incongruities of thought and metaphor to his chosen
interpreter.