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 The 
 
 Art and the Business of 
 
 Story Writing 
 
^^^^ 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 NEW YOR-K • BOSTON • CJUCAGO 
 ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 tJC»IDON • BOMBAY CALCUTTA 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LiBb 
 
 TORONTO 
 
The 
 
 Art and the Business of 
 Story Writing 
 
 BY 
 
 WALTER B. PITKIN 
 
 Associate Professor of Philosophy in the Pchool of Journalism 
 of Columbia University. 
 
 0f 
 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1922 
 

 COPTRIQHT, 1912, 
 
 Bt the macmillan company 
 
 Set up and electrotyped. Published November. 1912 
 

 TO THE TEACHER 
 
 This book is an outgrowth of the behef that fiction has a, 
 technique no less definite, though much less rigid, than 
 the technique of perspective drawing or of harmony and 
 counterpoint in music. Such a conviction is not easily 
 reached, for the laws of story construction elude their many 
 searchers with a persistence most exasperating. The 
 long-discouraged investigator naturally falls into the 
 thought that pure anarchy reigns in the domain of fantasy; 
 and he disguises the absurdity of this thought under the 
 hypothesis that a story is the free creation of mind, 
 spontaneous in origin and in manner of outworking. 
 Unfortunately for the development of fictional technique, 
 the half-truth of the hypothesis helps to conceal the flaw 
 in his argument. There is no doubt that, in some sense, 
 a story is a free creation and spontaneous; and freedom 
 seems to connote a certain emancipation from law: 
 hence the plausibility of saying that the fiction writer 
 works without rule or principle, following only the caprice 
 of his imagination. The inference, however, is only 
 plausible. There is no soundness in it; and, were we here 
 discussing ethics or metaphysics, we might demonstrate 
 this assertion by pointing out that free creation and spon- 
 taneity do not involve unpatterned behavior nor blind, 
 impulsive fashioning. If chaos lurks anywhere in the 
 whole performance, it lurks only in the primitive uprush 
 of fleeting, disjointed imageries which precede, suggest, 
 and inspire the work of art. The work of art, as Poe and 
 many another have said, is a piece of cunning and calcula- 
 tion no less deliberate than the selling-price of umbrellas; 
 and, once more like this computation, the artistry of the 
 fiction writer is regulated by two elemental factors, his 
 own purposes and his material. If he has not discovered 
 the principles in these which direct his choice, it is because 
 they are prodigiously intricate. 
 
 The technique of pictorial composition was early dis- 
 
 586476 
 
vi TO THE TEACHER "— '^ 
 
 covered, not because painters are cleverer than novelists, 
 but because the painter's material is comparatively 
 simple. His purpose is to depict Things as They Are 
 Seen. Now, these arrange themselves in space according 
 to a few easily detectable mathematical laws, namely the 
 laws of perspective, while their colors and the harmonies of 
 them reduce to a dozen relations most of which even the 
 untrained eye partially discerns. So too with the stuff of 
 music, which, as the philosopher Pythagoras discovered 
 twenty-five centuries ago, orders itself according to a few 
 elementary ratios which, in symphony and opera, assume 
 a bewildering complexity quite unlike their pure nature. 
 It is not alone the simplicity of musical and pictorial 
 principles that has brought them so speedily to light. 
 They are obvious by virtue of two other peculiarities: 
 first, the physical stabiUty and definiteness of their ma- 
 terials; and, secondly, the kinship of all the materials 
 they relate. Space forms, colors, and sounds are physical 
 things which may be produced at will, isolated for scru- 
 tiny, arranged and analyzed by the aid of mechanical in- 
 struments. Thus through sheer accessibility, they aid 
 their investigator. And, in the second place, the signifi- 
 cant relations within each of the arts which deal with such 
 materials are relations among homogeneous things. 
 That is to say, harmony is a relation between tone and 
 tone, perspective is a relation between mass and mass in 
 space, and color laws are relations between hue and hue. 
 Broadly speaking, we may say that all such relations are 
 much clearer than those which obtain between hetero- 
 geneous things. In evidence of this fact, we have only to 
 observe the peculiarly difficult material of the story 
 writer. 
 
 His objects are what Aristotle saw them to be, "men in 
 action." It is human nature, as it manifests itself in be- 
 havior, that he manipulates imaginatively, endows with 
 strangely beautiful forms, and sometimes copies. But 
 what is this human nature? Nobody toiows. The most 
 we can say of it is that it embraces a curious horde of con- 
 trary impulses, likes and dislikes, retrospects and fore- 
 sights, all more or less organized for the furtherance of 
 life and the mastery of affairs physical. These warring 
 factors bear, in many instances, not the remotest likeness 
 
TO THE TEACHER vii 
 
 one to another. So different are they in flavor, power, 
 and direction that some persons deny their relationship 
 altogether, saying with Paul that they belong to two men, 
 or saying with modern psychiatry that they belong to a 
 multiple personality. Hunger and an eye for beauty are 
 alien capacities; yet both enter into life, qualifying its 
 configurations. Your sense of justice and your day- 
 dreams are infinitely more different than are the bass drum 
 and the violin which Wagner brings into harmony; yet 
 somehow they combine in your character and contribute 
 to it. Finally — crassest heterogeneity of all — there come 
 together in every incident of human life those two effi- 
 ciencies commonly called the psychical and the physical, 
 mind and matter, soul and body. All conduct, actual and 
 prospective, matter-of-fact and fantastic, thoughtless and 
 reasoned, is inextricably bound up with the stuff of which 
 temples and turnips are made. No man can do anything, 
 however trivial, without doing it to something or for the 
 sake of something. His nature, we might better say, is 
 neither fulfilled nor expressed save insofar as he changes 
 his environment, or at least actually perpetuates its 
 status quo. He is known, not by his faith but only by his 
 works. Indeed, we must say even more. His beliefs, 
 his most unworldly thoughts are, as revelations and tests 
 of his character, utterly meaningless except they refer to 
 the furniture and lodgers of the world visible. Strip a 
 man of the gold toward which avarice drives him, of the 
 fleshpots he craves, of the enemies he loathes, of the shout- 
 ing in the marketplace which ambition sighs for, and of 
 every other substance of his appetites and antipathies; 
 and there will remain of him a formless and unnamable 
 nothing, so far as any human vision or insight reaches. 
 Literally, all these things give body to his soul. Only by 
 their aid does his character take on solidity and contour. 
 In this state of affairs, it seems to me, is the ancient 
 obstacle of a sound literary technique; and here too 
 whispers the hint of its removal. The fiction writer 
 would depict human character, in some of its phases; the 
 laws of its present presentation must be found in the 
 material of human character; this material includes a 
 great variety of alien, discordant elements mental and 
 physical; only certain combinations of these are possible 
 
viii TO THE TEACHER 
 
 and a much smaller number is pleasing; and so the writer's 
 first task is to discover such. But what does this under- 
 taking entail, if not an analysis of those very elements? 
 He must proceed exactly as painter and musical composer 
 do. They find the major laws of their techniques in the 
 qualities and relations of their raw material, namely in 
 space forms and colors, in tones and rhythm forms. 
 Mastery of these is an indispensable forerunner of every 
 good picture and melody. So too with good fiction; it is 
 impossible without a thorough, though perhaps very much 
 restricted, knowledge of the mind's workings and of the 
 world it works over. 
 
 If this is true, then the laws of fiction are not to be 
 sought in rhetoric, which is the science of conveying 
 ideas effectively and not at all the art of shaping the sub- 
 ject matter conveyed. Neither are they to be found 
 through the study of literary styles; for style proves to be 
 either the more refined, more personal way of conveying 
 thoughts or else an inexact name for the pecuHar objects 
 which a given artist is fond of reporting to us. No, the 
 novelist's and the story writer's constructive principles 
 lie in no such direction; they lie wholly in the realms of 
 psychology and worldly wisdom. The patterns of life 
 are revealed only in life; and life is composed of people and 
 affairs. 
 
 The following introduction to fictional technique at- 
 tempts to give the learner a few hints about the broadest 
 characteristics of human conduct, especially those which 
 fix the dramatic relation of man to his environment. 
 My approach to this topic has been set in advance by 
 modern psychology, especially by the writings of John 
 Dewey; but in every other respect my analysis owes most 
 to modern stories and their masters. It is, indeed, pri- 
 marily an empirical research, not a detached theory; its 
 findings have been drawn from those same stories, or at 
 least verified in them. Like every other investigation of 
 human nature, it has encountered depths and entangle- 
 ments which refuse to be cleared up in a pretty epigram 
 or to be evaded with a loose generalization. Wherever 
 that has happened, I have chosen the less pleasant path. 
 I have described several problems in language which may 
 well bewilder those students who know little of coii- 
 
TO THE TEACHER ix 
 
 temporary psychology, and may even persuade them 
 that, if all this be j&ctional technique, then they will never 
 manage to write stories. This danger prompts me to 
 address the teacher here. 
 
 It is the teacher's business to say what a brief text-book 
 must leave unsaid, to furnish details where it can only 
 throw out suggestions, and to correct its erroneous or 
 misleading statements. In fictional technique these 
 duties become peculiarly arduous, for they require him 
 to pursue psychological analyses and to discourse upon all 
 the everyday affairs which figure in dramatic situations. 
 He becomes perforce a Professor of Things in General. 
 And I believe he will succeed in the measure that he 
 frankly accepts this title and leads his classes to scrutinize 
 mankind as the draughtsman scrutinizes masses, outlines, 
 and distances. How he shall accomplish this in detail 
 he alone can discover; for his method depends intimately 
 upon his fund of information, his philosophy of life, and 
 his instinctive manner of dealing with people. But there 
 are at least three general rules which should bind him: 
 he should forget rhetoric, he should preach no imitation of 
 masterpieces, and he should compel students to write 
 much. The last rule requires no comment. As for the 
 first,, the student who has difficulty in choosing the right 
 word or ending a sentence must not be allowed to air 
 such troubles before a class in story technique, which is 
 concerned with wholly different problems. It is hard 
 enough, at best, to hold fictional structure and rhetoric 
 apart in the average beginner's mind; rather than increase 
 the difficulty, it is advisable to tolerate a moderate 
 amount of bad writing. As for the imitation of master- 
 pieces, it is harmful chiefly because it turns the writer from 
 his proper subject-matter and so postpones his hour of 
 insight. A great story is a picture of human nature, 
 it is not human nature itself. Being a picture, it lights 
 up some one little spot of life and presents this in mag-^.. ^ 
 nificent isolation. Always it presents an individual, a V— 
 pecuHar dramatic situation, and a somewhat unique-^ 
 solution. But this very triumph of art tends to hide from 
 the student of technique what he most passionately 
 seeks, which is the laws and not the instances of life. 
 To ape the appropriate language of Plato, the concrete 
 
X ■ TO THE TEACHER 
 
 individual blurs and distorts the 'pure forms' of human 
 nature; and this too in spite of the fact that these 'forms' 
 are all the principles peculiar to individual life. The 
 heroes and heroines of the hundred best stories tell us too 
 little about life, precisely as the hundred best paintings 
 fall far short of revealing the laws of color and composi- 
 tion. They produce a vi\ad impression, but not under- 
 standing. 
 
 The final test of every technique is its usefulness in 
 practice. So judged, the following studies seem to pos- 
 sess a certain- value. They have been employed during 
 the past three years in teaching about two hundred stu- 
 dents, of whom nearly, fifty have been journalists and 
 unattached professional writers. Stories prepared merely 
 as class exercises in that period have been sold to all types 
 of periodicals, including The Atlantic Monthly, Every- 
 body's, The American, The Outlook, and many others 
 equally prominent. Incomplete records show, for these 
 same school-room products, the students have received 
 nearly five thousand dollars. Most of the MSS., though 
 not the best of them, came from previously unsuccessful 
 pens. 
 
TO THE STUDENT 
 
 This book will not aid you in the use of English, It is 
 a study of the story writer's subject-matter and, some- 
 what incidentally, of his commercial problems and pros- 
 pects. It presupposes in you an easy command of simple 
 narrative writing. 
 
 Many important points in the text will not appear 
 unless you read in advance the stories there cited to illus- 
 trate them. You should run through each of these stories 
 twice; once naturally and without analysis or criticism, 
 and once again in a technical mood, after having studied 
 the text. 
 
 The majority of citations are drawn from the following 
 works: 
 
 Balzac, Honore de — Little French Masterpieces, vol. 4 
 
 (Putnam, 1909). 
 Copp^e, Frangois — Tales (Harper's, 1890). 
 Daudet, Alphonse — Little French MasterpieceSy vol. 5 
 
 (Putnam, 1909). 
 Deland, Margaret— 0?^ Chester Tales (Harper's, 1898). 
 Galsworthy, John — A Motley (Scribner's, 1910). 
 0. Kenry—The Four Million (Doubleday, Page, 1909). 
 
 — Strictly Business (Doubleday, Page, 1909). 
 
 — Whirligigs (Doubleday, Page). 
 Howells, W. D. — A Pair of Patient Lovers (Harper's, 1901). 
 James, Henry — The Wheel of Time (Harper's, 1893). 
 Kipling, Rudyard — Under the Deodars, etc. (Doubleday, 
 
 Page). 
 London, Jack — Love of Life (Macmillan, 1907). 
 Maupassant, Guy de — Little French Masterpieces, vol. 6 
 
 (Putnam, 1909). 
 Moore, George — The Untilled Field (Lippincott, 1903). 
 Morris, Gouverneur — It (Scribner's, 1912). 
 Poe, E. A. — Tales of Mystery and Imagination. In Every- 
 man's Library (Dutton). 
 
 xi 
 
xii TO THE STUDENT 
 
 White, Wm. Allen— 7n Our Town (The Macmillan 
 
 Company, 1909). 
 Wilkins, Mary E. (Mrs. Freeman)— A Humble Romance 
 
 (Harper's, 1887). 
 
 Perhaps it is not foolish to say here that not all of these 
 stories are models of fictional art. They are chosen for 
 analysis because they present certain striking virtues or 
 certain equally conspicuous defects, and also because 
 they represent the extremes of taste, style, and intellec- 
 tuality. It is in its apphcations to such widely divergent 
 types of fiction that a theory of technique is put to its 
 severest test. 
 
 The exercises at the ends of chapters are very impor- 
 tant. However distasteful some of th^ may be, you 
 should complete them conscientiously. They cannot be 
 dashed off. A swift writer may finish them all in about 
 two thousand hours, but most students will consume three 
 thousand or more. 
 
 Do not be frightened if, after several months of hard 
 work, you find your writings stiffer and clumsier than ever. 
 This deterioration commonly accompanies the early stages 
 of technical study in all the arts and it does not dis- 
 appear until the principles of technique have become 
 established habits and, as it were, apply themselves in all i 
 the writer's thmking. For this reason, half-masl^ryi-^^ 
 technique is slavery. Whoever begins the work should 
 make earnest with it and conquer it, though he labor 
 -fijjgyeaiia*-^ 
 
 TEe best things written on story technique lie scattered 
 thinly up and down the long shelves of our libraries. Here a 
 paragraph in an essay, there a newspaper interview with 
 some author lies buried in the files and archives; and be- 
 yond these there is little. Three books there are, though, 
 which the serious student may profitably consult on 
 many points. The first is Clayton Hamilton's The 
 Materials and Methods of Fiction (Baker & Taylor, 1908). 
 Though chiefly concerned with the technique of the 
 novel — and in its generalities rather than in its details — 
 the volume cannot fail to stimulate and enlighten the 
 student, in spite of the fact that Mr. Hamilton's point of 
 view and several of his most fundamental distinctions 
 
TO THE STUDENT xiii 
 
 are, in my opinion, incorrect. The second work to be 
 recommended is Bliss Perry's A Study of Prose Fiction 
 (Houghton Mifflin). In common repute, this deals with 
 fictional technique; in truth, though, it does so but 
 slightly. It is rather a survey and estimate of authors 
 and their ideals. It bears the same relation to genuine 
 technique that, say, an appreciation of Chopin's musical 
 manner does to Jadassohn's Manual of Harmony. Never- 
 theless, as in every clearsighted study of masterpieces, so 
 here; there are developed not a few principles and ideals 
 vital to one's understanding of literary craftsmanship. 
 The third book is J. B. Esenwein's Writing the Short 
 Story (Hinds & Noble, 1908). As its title-page indicates, 
 this is 'a practical handbook'; and it possesses all the 
 virtues and all the defects of such. As an analysis of 
 technique, it is almost worthless and often ludicrous. It 
 affords the reader no more insight into the basic laws of 
 dramatic action and expression than Baedeker's Guide to 
 Paris does into French character. But as a collection of 
 adages, quotations from celebrities, story specimens, 
 references, and commercial advices, it earns a place on 
 the young writer's table. 
 
 There are, of course, many other books on the short 
 story; but those which are good are either h istory or 
 critifiism and hence not shaped to the purposes of the 
 would-be writer. So they are not mentioned here. 
 
 1 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 Why write fiction? 1. The four ends of writing fic- 
 tion, 2. Writing for pleasure, 2. Writing for self-cul- 
 ture, 4. Writing for profit, 9. Writing for social service, 
 10. The relative difficulty of these aims, 12. Shall it be the 
 novel or the short story? 13. The purpose of this book, 17. 
 
 PART I: THE ART 
 
 Chapter I: What is a Short Story? 21. The double 
 ideal, 21. What the single effect is, 21. What dramatic 
 narrative is, 23. What a plot is, 24. What the single 
 effect involves, 28. Thematic development, 28. Com- 
 parison of thematic with didactic stories, 31. Emphatic 
 development, 33. Fundamental types of short story, 34. 
 Classification of these types, 37. How other forms of 
 brief fiction differ from the short story, 37. The short 
 story indefinable in terms of its material and outward 
 form, 42. Criticism of alleged characteristics of the 
 genre, 42. Exercises, 49. 
 
 Chapter II: What Shall You Write About? 50. 
 . The importance of this question, 50. Limitations of 
 , theme, 50. Limits set by the story form, 50. Necessity 
 ' of a plot, 50. The 8,000-word limit, 53. Limits of in- 
 tricacy, staging and interpretation, 53. Limit set by the 
 writer's knowledge and beliefs, 58. Only dramatic 
 knowledge is necessary, 58. Sympathy, not belief, re- 
 quired, 60. The theme as limited by the reader, 62. 
 Available story material, 62. ^ Human interest'; what it 
 is, 63. What provokes thought? 64. The thought-pro- 
 voking situation is a problem, 65. Three varieties of 
 
 XV 
 
xvi TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 situations, 66. The third type fulfills only one story 
 ideal, 67. The ascending effect required, 68. The single 
 effect produced by depicting a conflict, 72. The two pos- 
 sible solutions of this conflict, 72. The uniquely char- 
 acteristic act, 72. The consistent act of violation, 73. 
 The three levels of conflict, 74. Man and the physical 
 world, 74. Man and man, 75. One force with another 
 in the same man, 76. Exercises, 78. 
 
 Chapter III: What Shall You Say About It? 82. 
 General principles, 82. First tell the story, 82. The six 
 essential facts to cover, 84. The material included in the 
 simple report, 85. The form of presentation, 86. Inte- 
 gration; what it is not, 88. Integration; what it is, 89. 
 Integration specifically determined by the particular 
 single effect chosen, 91. Integrative intensifiers, 92. 
 What is intensity? 92. The general rule for intensifica- 
 tion, 95. The five story elements which intensify the 
 single effect, 95. 
 
 Sub-chapter A: The Dominant Character, 97. The 
 lour rules for handling the dominant character, 97. Ex- 
 planation of first rule, 97. Explanation of second rule, 98. 
 Explanation of third rule, 98. Explanation of fourth 
 rule, 103. The mark of human nature, 103. Analysis of 
 character, 104. The three stages of rational behavior, 
 105. The source of differences in character, 110. Where 
 the proof of character is found, 112. The error of the 
 so-called psychological story, 112. Mark of the genume 
 psychological story, 116. 
 
 Exercises, 121. 
 
 Sub-chapter B: The Plot Action, 126. Directness, 
 126. Two indirections, 127. The use of direct and in- 
 direct action, 128. The two typical errors in plot action, 
 131. Irrelevancy, 131. Over-intensification, 132. The 
 formaUst fallacy, 133. Dramatic necessity, 135. 
 
 Exercises, 138. 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS xvii 
 
 Sub-chapter C: The Order of Events, 141. What 
 order accomplishes, 142. First general law of order, 142. 
 The special problems of order, 143. The opening event, 
 143. Ten types of opening events, 145. Illustrations of 
 these types, 146. 
 
 Exercises, 158. 
 
 The closing event, 159. The direct denouement, 159. 
 The significant aftermath, 162. Interpretative comment, 
 163. The distribution of events throughout the plot 
 action, 166. Rules of this distribution, 167. Illustrations 
 of these rules, 168. 
 
 Sub-chapter D: The Point of View, 174. The confu- 
 sion on this subject, 174. Two meanings of 'point of 
 view', 174. The angle of narration; its three types, 176. 
 The objective, 176. The angle of the inactive witness, 
 180. The angle of a participant, 185. Angle of narra- 
 tion and grammatical form, 186. 
 
 Exercises, 188. 
 
 The artist's attitude, 190. Attitude and style, 191. 
 
 Sub-chapter E: Atmosphere, 193. What atmosphere 
 is, 193. Atmosphere as the single effect, 195. Why the 
 atmosphere story is difficult, 196. The narrow range of 
 atmospheric effects, 197. A lack of harmony between 
 two types of feelings, 199. The natural theme of the 
 atmosphere story, 204. Atmosphere as an intensifier, 
 207. How the intensifying effect is conveyed by atmos- 
 phere, 207. How intensifying atmosphere is integrated, 
 213. . The law of frequency, 215. The point of view in 
 depicting the setting, 216. 
 
 Exercises, 217. 
 
xviii TABLE OF CONTENTS 
 
 PART II: THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT 
 STORY 
 
 The many reading publics, 230. The difference be- 
 tween the novel's field and the story's, 233. Nature 
 of the modern magazine, 233. Three undesired types of 
 story, 235. The so-called 'serious story,' 238. The aim 
 of the magazine story, 241. Modern literary speciaUza- 
 tion, 244. Its rules of procedure, 245. Imaginative ex- 
 perimenting, 246. The story writer's prospects, 248. 
 Aids in selling fiction, 251. Some elementary rules and 
 warnings, 253. 
 
THE ART AND THE BUSINESS 
 OF STORY WRITING 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 The Purposes 
 
 1. Why write fiction? This question may seem im- 
 pertinent, at the beginning of a book which will be read ' 
 chiefly by persons who have resolved to write fiction. 
 But it is not. It leads us into a problem that must be 
 squarely faced and cleanly solved by each man for him- 
 self, before he enters seriously upon literary work. That 
 problem has to do with the piirposes of such an under- 
 taking. 
 
 Purposes shape one's conduct in literature no less 
 than in war, love, and politics. Whether the author 
 knows it or not, every plot he invents and every turn 
 he gives to its telling are quahfied by the use he hopes to 
 make of the finished product. It matters not whether 
 he writes according to some editor's order or to establish 
 a creed or simply to delight himself; the influence of the 
 aim is ever present, subtle and pervasive. So deep is it 
 that many a story theme takes on a very different form 
 with each new purpose of the writer's. Again, some 
 themes and modes of treatment are wonderfully adapted 
 to certain ends and impossible for others. Thus, the 
 severe and swift art of which Maupassant was so fond 
 is peculiarly the weapon of a writer who is more interested 
 in conveying an impression than in interpreting human 
 
 1 
 
2 SnOax. STORY WRITING 
 
 nature or affairs. Other technical devices have their 
 own exclusive utility, which we shall inspect in other 
 chapters. Hardly any material of fiction or any narra- 
 tive principle can be employed without regard to" the aim 
 of the particular piece of writing attempted. 
 
 If this is true, it must be evident that whoever writes 
 fiction aimlessly, never surveying the various advantages 
 of the work nor choosing one advantage as the end to be 
 sought, foredooms himself to much grief. He may win 
 out, in the long run; but his victory will be dearly won. 
 He will probably spend years writing for the public 
 stories which please only himself, and he may wreck his 
 natural style by trying to make it serve an end which it 
 cannot attain. This becomes clear the moment we 
 consider the legitimate purposes of WTiting fiction. 
 
 2. The four ends of writing fiction. There are four 
 obvious rational desires which might, singly or collectively, 
 urge a man to compose a story. First, he might wish for 
 the private gratification of expressing his own fancies. 
 Secondly, he might hope to acquire, through practice, an 
 intimate knowledge of literary values which would 
 heighten his appreciation of books and men. In the 
 third place, he might seek a livelihood by entertaining 
 a large circle of readers. Or, finally, he might aspire to 
 expose some sham, to crush some public infamy, to raise 
 some all but forgotten ideal, or otherwise to better the 
 world. Private pleasure, self-culture, profit, and social 
 service; these are the prospects which may allure. And 
 now a word about each. 
 
 a. Writing for -pleasure. People differ astonishingly in 
 the immediate satisfaction they gain from imagina ive 
 writing. Many who are gifted compose without joy or 
 even with antipathy; and many who are not sweep into 
 raptures at every inconsequential motion of their mediocre 
 wits. It is important to observe this fact here, because 
 
INTRODUCTION 3 
 
 of the prevalent instinctive superstition that whoever 
 has a strong impulse to write and finds much pleasure in 
 yielding to it is endowed with those talents which pub- 
 lishers are eager to engage. That this is a superstition 
 and nothing more, every experienced writer and critic 
 knows. There is only the most tenuous connection be- 
 tween the market value of a tale and the fun one gets 
 from producing it. 
 
 Consider two opposite modern instances, Edna Ferber 
 and Gellet Burgess. If newspaper interviews are to be 
 trusted. Miss Ferber drags herself gloomily to her faithful 
 typewriter, for the composing of an Emma McChesney 
 story. Nevertheless, her output is the very highest grade 
 of ephemeral writing, immensely popular and correspond- 
 ingly profitable. How different Burgess and his Lady 
 Mechante! In the confessional introduction to this weird 
 volume, he admits that he is out for a lark and that he is 
 having a glorious time compiling these Precious Episodes 
 in the Life of a Naughty Nonpareille, You can fairly 
 hear him chuckling behind every sentence. But what 
 is the material outcome of this hilarity? * Helter-skelter 
 rigmarole,^ Burgess calls the book; and nobody will 
 challenge the opinion. It reeks with jests comprehensible 
 only to the few who happen to have thought about some 
 things precisely as the author has. Its satire is such as 
 can be sensed from only one point of view, and this 
 point of view cannot be attained save by following Burgess 
 through life and seeing the world through Burgess' eyes. 
 If you have done this, you may scream over some chapters 
 of Lady Mechante. If you haven't, you will fling the 
 book into the waste basket before you have finished the 
 first page. 
 
 Now, the moral of this contrast is clear. Story writing 
 may serve as a merely private entertainment, almost as 
 private as the child's game of making faces at himself in a 
 
4 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 mirror. If you write only for this purpose, do not expect 
 the world to enjoy your inventions. Probably it will 
 not; and the chances of its doing so dwindle in the same 
 measure that your personal experiences, temperament, 
 and interests deviate from those of the ordinary man. 
 Whether it is worth while to write stories that no public 
 will read is a question which each man must answer for 
 himself. It lies beyond the jurisdiction of critic and 
 editor. That not a few persons do write — and write 
 well— in secret, neither hoping nor wishing to reach a 
 public, is pretty certain. I know two such authors in 
 New York City; they have produced stories worthy of the 
 best magazines, but they will not sell them. They write 
 tales as they play the piano, 'just for fun.' Being rich, 
 they are not tempted by the market's rewards. Being 
 cultured, the alleged fame of the fictionist does not dazzle 
 them. And I doubt not that there are many otheis like 
 them. 
 
 b. Writing for self-culture. I suppose nooody save a 
 handful of literary critics deliberately writes fiction in 
 order to acquire fresh insight into the thoughts of great 
 writers, their style, and the technique of the art. In our 
 schools and colleges almost every other literary form is 
 extensively practiced, but especially by the essay. Stu- 
 dents are requested to write essays and essays: essays on 
 Burke, essays on In Memoriam, essays on The Right and 
 The Wrong, essays on Wagner's Idtmotive, essays on Kip- 
 ling's Things as They Are, and Heaven knows what else. 
 Now, I doubt whether such a program cultivates self- 
 expression and critical sensitivity as well as half the 
 amount of drill in imaginative narrative would. It is 
 notorious that the essay is one of the most difficult of all 
 enterprises with the pen; some would say the stubbornest. 
 There are more excellent fictionists than moderately 
 competent essayists, and over against every five master 
 
, INTRODUCTION 5 
 
 novelists stands not more than one master of the essay. 
 This is no accident; it is due chiefly to the intrinsic reaUsm 
 and philosophical bias^f the essay. Xbi_f^b£^^ ^^ every 
 essay must be fact, ^ts author must have something to^ 
 say about some state of affairs in the world. He may have 
 misunderstood these affairs, or he may be grossly preju- 
 diced toward them, or he may perceive them in a com- 
 monplace way; but he cannot write effectively unless he 
 holds a clear opinion about them and can defend it with 
 arguments. This is an inflexible rule, applying not only 
 to the smooth solemnities of a Macaulay but also to 
 the genial essay, which Dr. Crothers has lately revived 
 with such success. Even in its most whimsical flights, 
 the essayist's pen is ever pressing hard against Circum- 
 stance. It is Circumstance and nothing else that provokes 
 him to write, and it is about Circumstance that he speaks. 
 The unfitness of essay writing as a means to acquiring 
 skill in self-expression now appears. No man can write 
 well on matters about which he has no sharp opinion. 
 Hence it is that the essay is exclusively the instrument of a 
 mature mind (mature at least with respect to the particular 
 subject matter) . But the imdergraduate — and the learner 
 generally — is not mature. He studies composition to 
 attain maturity. ' And his embarrassment as an essayist is 
 mightily aggravated by the fact that it is much harder 
 to discourse lucidly on things today than in earlier 
 generations. The world about which he must say some- 
 thing is immeasurably more complicated and vaster 
 than the toy cosmos which Addison and Lamb knew. 
 Things are now hopelessly entangled with one another. 
 One could scarcely discourse on Roast Pig at this hour, 
 without commenting learnedly upon carbohydrates, 
 trichinosis, and the Meat Trust. Worse yet, the old 
 ideals of life are all under suspicion, and the new are as 
 vague as images on ruffled water; so that the young 
 
6 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 writer has no philosophy, no point of view — or else — 
 worse luck! — ^he has one shamelessly stolen from an- 
 tiquity and badly damaged in transit. 
 
 In view of all this, the learner would advance much 
 more swiftly, were he to describe only those affairs and 
 people which he knows absolutely. In doing that, he 
 would at least begin at the right place. But with what 
 is he so marvelously intimate? Only with events which 
 he has witnessed or conjured up in his ot\ti imagination. 
 Only with the appearance and flow of them, be it added, 
 and not with their import. Let him describe them as he 
 witnesses them, interpreting them not at all. Let him 
 report, but not explain. Then he will be at his best.^ 
 
 I shall venture to say, then, that, from the points of 
 view of educator and learner, this, the most neglected 
 purpose, is the most important one. Writing fiction 
 for the sake of the skill and the knowledge it brmgs 
 would probably improve almost every educated man and 
 
 lit is idle to urge, against this opinion, that college fiction is 
 immature. This oft-repeated censure is usually founded upon 
 two unfair comparisons; first, the comparison of undergraduate 
 works with those of veteran authors; and, secondly, a comparison 
 of what the undergraduate has to say with what he has learned. 
 The former contrast is fooHsh. The latter rests upon the 
 mistaken assumption that the quantity of a person's information 
 is a just measure of the number and vigor of the opinions he ought 
 to have. So far is this notion removed from the truth that the 
 opposite is often correct: the greater the mass of facts that are 
 being crammed into one's head, the fewer one's thoughts, during 
 the cramming. Undergraduate essays ought to be inferior, on 
 the whole. As for fiction, the equitable critic will set the learner's 
 narratives over against his essays. And he will discover the con- 
 spicuous superiority of the former. In freshness, ease, sincerity 
 and finish, the stories appearing in the undergraduate magazines 
 of the leading American colleges assuredly outrank the essays. 
 This becomes doubly significant when we recall that their authors 
 have been drilled in the composing of essays, but little or not at all 
 in story writing. 
 
INTRODUCTION 7 
 
 woman. It would give new insight into literary structure. 
 This, to be sure, is the least of its benefits; but it is not 
 to be despised. To read a novel with new eyes; to per- 
 ceive in a story something more than off-hand chatter, — 
 surely this power is worth many times the efforts its 
 acquisition will cost. But the advantage does not end 
 here. With it come a quickened sense of artistic values, 
 a more supple style, and an enlivening of the imagination. 
 This last is, by all odds, the supreme gain. Imagination 
 is the first and indispensable activity of thought, be it 
 scientific or practical or artistic. While it lacks the dig- 
 nity which the reasoning power enjoys in common repute, 
 it really stands not a degree below the latter. In the 
 affairs of life it stands one in good stead more frequently 
 than the sterner intellectual skill does. Assign to almost 
 any task requiring thought an imaginative man with scant 
 logic and an unimaginative logician; nine times out of ten 
 the former will handle it more successfully. And any 
 psychologist can tell you why. Would it not seem wise 
 then to train young men and women in the exercise of 
 fancy? 
 
 Against this suggestion arises the cry that such a course 
 leads to frivolity and flightiness. Matter-of-fact folks 
 will assure you that people are full enough of fancies, with- 
 out any encouragement from academic authorities. They 
 will prove that only demonstrated truths enter into a 
 soimd education. But both of these propositions are 
 fatally wrong. The first rests upon a subtle equivoca- 
 tion in the word 'fancy', which is identified with 'imagi- 
 nation' and then lends its invidious connotation to the 
 latter term. In this sense, 'imagining' comes to mean 
 idle dreaming or, worse yet, wild belief. Now, beyond 
 doubt, there is altogether too much of that abroad. But 
 it is not genuine imagining. On the contrary, it is unimag- 
 inativeness. Sometimes we call it stupidity. Some- 
 
8 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 times it is superstition. Sometimes it is gullibility. 
 Sometimes it is 'the artistic temperament'. But always 
 it is one and only one thing at bottom ; to wit, the absence 
 of quick, variegated, appropriate, connected imagery. 
 The man in whom such imagery wells up richly is the 
 sane man, the well-balanced thinker. It supplies him 
 with doubts, cautions, and leads. And these are the very 
 things which the unbalanced thinker and the 'artistic 
 temperament ' lack. 
 
 In one of the soundest of his queer essays Chesterton 
 makes an observation which bears upon this matter. 
 
 The artistic temperament is a disease that afflicts 
 amateurs. It is a disease which arises from men not 
 having sufficient power of expression to utter and get rid 
 of the element of art in their being. It is healthful to 
 every sane man to utter the art within him ; it is essential 
 to every sane man to get rid of the art within him at all 
 costs. Artists of a large and wholesome vitality get rid 
 of their art easily, as they breathe easily or perspire easily. 
 But in artists of less force the thing becomes a pressure, 
 and produces a definite pain, which is called the artistic 
 temperament. Thus, very great artists are able to be 
 ordinary men — men like Shakespeare or Browning. . . . 
 
 It need hardly be said that this is the real explanation 
 of the thing which has puzzled so many dilettante critics, 
 the problem of the extreme ordinariness of the behavior 
 of so many great geniuses. . . . Their behavior was so 
 ordinary that it was not recorded. . . . The modern 
 artistic temperament cannot understand how a man who 
 could write such lyrics as Shakespeare wrote could be as 
 keen as Shakespeare was on business transactions in a 
 little town in Warwickshire.^ 
 
 How is it that amateurs lack this power to express the 
 art that is in them? Have they no ideas? Indeed, the}'- 
 have them aplenty; they can state them readily as pure 
 propositions, but not in full artistic narrative. Are they 
 
 * Heretics. Essay on the Wit of Whistler. 
 
INTRODUCTION 9 
 
 ignorant of words? Rarely. Can they not reason? Well 
 enough for the purposes of art. Where then can their 
 difficulty lie, if not in the paucity or sluggishness of their 
 imagination? It must be that they sit hour after hour, 
 waiting for the right word to pop up, as poor Flaubert 
 did. And to catch up the loose threads of a plot, they 
 have to weave and unravel almost as long as Penelope dido 
 
 The very same thing might be said of the superstitious 
 man, the mystic and the dupe. It is the unimaginative 
 savage who confuses his dreams with realities. It is the 
 dull Bedouin who thinks the stalking pillar of sand that 
 marches in the desert whirlwind is a living jinn. And 
 it is the thick-witted peasant who believes in ghosts and 
 patriotism and politician's promises. In the arsenal of 
 such minds there is neither powder nor shot with which to 
 combat any idea. They cannot see why the dead may not 
 return in dreams, or why a thing that moves without visi- 
 ble impetus is not alive, or why an alderman who gives 
 Christmas turkeys to the poor and takes off his hat to 
 the Stars and Stripes is not a high-minded statesman. 
 
 This defect is, in large measure, an evil endowment. 
 So too is a copious fancy a gift from some good fairy. 
 Nevertheless, deliberate training can improve the weaker 
 and release fresh energies of the stronger imagination. 
 This is why the writing of fiction for self-culture is the 
 most important of the four purposes we are here discuss- 
 ing. 
 
 c. Writing for profit. This is the commonest, the most 
 obvious, and the most speculative of the four aims. 
 Unlike the two purposes just considered, it imposes a 
 variety of restrictions which some authors find exceedingly 
 irksome and others do not. These restrictions are vital 
 to commercial success and difficult to define. iMany 
 experienced editors are unable to phrase them intelligibly. 
 The writer who senses them and reckons with them sue- 
 
10 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 cessfully will make money, which is a desirable thing. 
 But, if he remains blind to them, nothing short of genius 
 will save him. What the restrictions are will be later dis- 
 cussed. At present I wish only to insist upon the much 
 challenged fact that writing for profit is a distinct ideal, 
 not at all incidental to some other supposedly finer 
 one. It sets its own course and encounters its own 
 problems. 
 
 d. Writing for social service. Concerning the pro- 
 priety of this aim artists differ irreconcilably. Some of 
 them insist that the only legitimate aim of painting or 
 singing or writing is to delight somebody. Others say 
 that the highest art is glorified preaching, and that the 
 beauties of it are only means to the finer moral end. 
 This latter position has been brilliantly defended by the 
 versatile Chesterton, whom we may again quote. 
 
 Now of all, or nearly all, the able modern writers whom 
 I have briefly studied in this book this is especially and 
 pleasingly true, that they do each of them have a con- 
 structive and affirmative view, and that they do take it 
 seriously and ask us to take it seriously. ... In 
 the fin de siecle atmosphere every one was crying out 
 that literature should be free from all causes and ethical 
 creeds. Art was to produce only exquisite workman- 
 ship, and it was especially the note of those days to de- 
 mand brilliant plays and brilliant short stories. And 
 when they got them, they got them from a couple of 
 moralists. The best short stories were written by a man 
 trying to preach Imperialism. The best plays were 
 written by a man trying to preach Socialism. All the 
 art of the artists looked tiny and tedious beside the art 
 which was a by-product of propaganda. 
 
 The reason, indeed, is very simple. A man canriot 
 be wise enough to be a great artist without being wise 
 enough to wish to be a philosopher. A man cannot have 
 the energy to produce good art without having the 
 energy to wish to pass beyond it When we 
 
INTRODUCTION 11 
 
 *want any art tolerably brisk and bold, we have to go to 
 the doctrinaires.^ 
 
 This is a happy exaggeration, which Chesterton would 
 have some trouble in defending. Not every 'tolerably 
 brisk and bold' work of art has come from a doctrinaire. 
 Macbeth is surely as 'brisk and bold' as any of Mr. Shaw's 
 polemical plays; but Shakespeare never tried to preach. 
 Indeed, Tolstoi, Shaw, and others would have us believe 
 that he never had an idea of his own, nor so much as a 
 genuine, gripping conviction on any subject whatever. 
 And all of Professor Moulton's ingenious attempts to 
 discover in his plays a complete and lofty philosophy are 
 but so much straw against the fire of Tolstoi's attack. 
 Again, Poe's tales certainly ward off slumber as well as 
 Chesterton's stories about Father Brown; yet Poe had no 
 propaganda, and precious little moral earnestness. And 
 so we might prolong the list of glittering exceptions. 
 
 Nevertheless, the greater truth is on Chesterton's 
 side. More than ever before, fiction today is the moralist's 
 weapon. More than ever before, preachers of every 
 stripe, from Kipling to Henry Van Dyke, use it success- 
 fully. And this advance is due in no slight degree to the 
 clearing up of fictional technique since Poe and Mau- 
 passant. It is not so very long ago that didactic novels 
 and stories were insufferable. The moral sat behind 
 you and whispered noisily into your ear, while you strove 
 to follow the players and the play. This was quite the 
 style in eighteenth-century writings, especially the French; 
 and it was taken up by Maria Edgeworth, in whose 
 hands it became ludicrous. As late as 1880, American 
 magazines were still publishing stuff rankly reminiscent 
 of that manner. But now it survives nowhere in literar 
 
 ^Heretics, 288, etc. 
 
j2 short story writing 
 
 ture; to find it you must turn to Sunday School weeklies 
 and the Ladies^ Home Journal. Writers have outgrown 
 it, and so has the cultured public. Curiously enough, 
 though, its disappearance has not decreased the preacher's 
 opportunities. Rather has it widened them. It has 
 done so, however, by increasing the technical difficul- 
 ties. No longer may he insert a moral disquisition in 
 the midst of a love scene. He must write straight 
 drama, weaving his thesis into it so deftly that he in- 
 seminates your mind without your knowing it. If he 
 cannot accomplish this, he fails altogether. But if he 
 can, even imperfectly, his influence will exceed by a 
 hundred-fold that of the old-school author-preacher. 
 
 No, the preacher's opportunities have not lessened. 
 But the number of preachers who can seize them has. 
 Many a high school graduate of the rising generation 
 could grind out stories of the Maria Edgeworth stamp, 
 but only a skilled and facile mind could produce a fiction- 
 sermon which a good modern magazine would publish. 
 And this brings us to a moral which will soon be dinned 
 tediously into the learner's ears: if your purpose in writing 
 fiction is this one, you must master the art. For the didac- 
 tic story, more than any other, must sustain its dramatic 
 interests perfectly. Ordinary art conceals itself; but the 
 sermon-story must hide not only its art but also its moral. 
 It calls for double magic. 
 
 3. The relative difficulty of these aims. The order in 
 which we have discussed these four purposes is the order 
 of their ease. To write merely for one's own pleasure is 
 very simple. You may give yourself free rein. No 
 style is too exotic, no character too weird, no plot too 
 improbable, no theme too abstruse or too trivial to em- 
 ploy, if you like it. Many become impossible, however, 
 as soon as you set out to write for self-culture. A thor- 
 ough knowledge of good art is not to be achieved unless 
 
INTRODUCTION 13 
 
 you master its practices. Like the mastery of painting or 
 music, it involves many little drudgeries, not the least 
 irritating of which is the dissecting of famous techniques. 
 When he becomes a professional story teller, the author's 
 trials increase again. He must hold aloof from many fas- 
 cinating themes and eschew styles, turns, and effects dear 
 to an artist and trained critic but invisible or abhorrent to 
 the multitude. Also he must shape his program with an 
 eye to what other authors are doing and what the wide 
 world is talking about. For instance, at the present 
 moment, some editors are casting about eagerly for good 
 stories that have to do with woman's suffrage; while others 
 seek comedies and tragedies of the High Cost of Living. A 
 fair piece of work on one of these themes will, by virtue of 
 its timeliness, be preferred above a much finer story about 
 the men and griefs of yesterday. Hence the professional 
 author must write with his ear to the ground — which is 
 an awkward position and not always dignified. It is 
 neither dishonorable nor debasing; at worst, it calls for the 
 shrewdness of a shopkeeper and for a limber mind. Most 
 difficult of all is the didactic aim. Why it is has been 
 indicated at the close of Section 2 and will be demonstrated 
 elsewhere. 
 
 And now let the opening question be repeated. Why 
 write fiction? Well, the answer rests with you; but you 
 must choose from among these four purposes. And 
 you must bear in mind, from first to last, that each of 
 them sets up a distinct enterprise whose standards, 
 methods, and limitations must be studied apart from 
 those of the other three. Also you must know that, 
 while the enterprises are not incompatible, success in 
 one does not necessarily entail success in another. 
 
 4. Shall it he the novel or the short story f Suppose you 
 have resolved to write fiction. The question then arises: 
 which of the two leading prose forms shall you employ? 
 
14 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 (For reasons soon to be sho^Ti, we need not consider the 
 minor forms, such as the novelette, the tale, the fable, 
 etc.) Now, the answer can be deduced from the purpose 
 you have chosen. 
 
 a. // you write for pleasure, choose whichever form you 
 
 like. 
 
 b. // you write for self-culture, choose the short story. 
 
 c. // you write for profit, choose the short story, at least 
 until your skill and reputation are established. 
 
 d. If ijou write for reform, choose only the novel. 
 
 a. This rule is perfectly obvious. 
 
 b. For the writer desiring to understand literary values 
 intimately, the short story affords opportunities vastly 
 richer than those of the novel. And the reasons are 
 three: (1) The student can experiment more rapidly 
 with the short story, because of its brevity. He can 
 write twenty stories in the time required for one novel. 
 This repetition of the entire technique hastens learning. 
 (2) The short story contains every artistic device em- 
 ployed in the novel, except high comphcation (such as 
 sub-plots). Hence, in mastering story technique, the 
 student masters the virtues of the novel. (3) The finer 
 types of story demand many artistic qualities which the 
 novel does not. These qualities derive chiefly from the 
 formal restrictions that are placed upon the theme, the 
 length, and the intricacy of the story. Brander Matthews 
 has pointed out some requirements and effects peculiar 
 to the highest, most difficult of short story forms, namely 
 the pure dramatic story. What he has to say about them 
 holds of the commoner story forms much less rigorously, 
 but broadly enough to illustrate our present point. 
 
 First, as to the theme: 
 
 " The Short-story, far more than the Novel even, de- 
 mands a subject. The Short-story is nothing if there is 
 no story to tell; — one might almost say that a Short- 
 
INTRODUCTION 15 
 
 story is nothing if it has no plot, — except that "plot" 
 may suggest to some readers a complication and an 
 elaboration which are not really needful. 
 
 Second, as to the structure: 
 
 The Short-story fulfils the three false unities of the 
 French classic drama: it shows one action, in one place, on 
 one day. A Short-story deals with a single character, a 
 single event, a single emotion or the series of emotions 
 called forth by a single situation. 
 
 Third, as to the artistic skill required: 
 
 No one has ever succeeded as a writer of Short-stories 
 who had not ingenuity, originality, and compression; 
 and most of those who have succeeded in this line had 
 also the touch of fantasy. But there are not a few 
 successful novelists lacking, not only in fantasy and com- 
 pression, but also in ingenuity and originality; they had 
 other qualities, no doubt, but these they had not. If an 
 example must be given, the name of Anthony Trollope 
 will occur to all. Fantasy was a thing he abhorred; 
 compression he knew not; and originality and ingenuity 
 can be conceded to him only by a strong stretch of the 
 ordinary meaning of the words. Other qualities he had 
 in plenty, but not these. And, not having them, h« 
 was not a writer of Short-stories. Judging from his 
 essay on Hawthorne, one may even go so far as to say 
 that Trollope did not know a good Short-story when he 
 saw it.^ 
 
 The short story is indeed 'a high and difficult depart- 
 ment of fiction.' And, as Canby says, 'In its capacity 
 for perfection of structure, for nice discrimination in means 
 and for a satisfying exposition of the full power of words, 
 it is much superior to the novel, and can rank only below 
 the poem.' It will teach the student much more than 
 the novel can about the deep virtues of restraint, clarity, 
 directness and action. Indeed, it has come to be 
 
 * The Philosophy of the Short-story, 32, 16, 23, etc. 
 
 { 
 
16 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 recognized as the natural approach to the novehst's 
 craft. And history confirms this judgment, for nearly all 
 great fictionists since the mid-nmeteenth century have 
 begun as story writers. 
 
 c. The short story can be turned to profit much more 
 promptly and surely than the novel. A person who can 
 write at all can finish a score of stories in the time required 
 for one novel, and the chances of selling half of the 
 twenty are much better than those of selling the novel. 
 Furthermore, the stories will be paid for upon acceptance, 
 or soon afterward; whereas the returns from the novel 
 will come mostly in the form of royalties spread over a 
 period of years. Finally, the story market is better than 
 the novel market. Ten mediocre tales will yield more 
 than one fair novel (unless the latter is sold first to a 
 magazine for serial publication). And five good stories 
 will pay more than a novel of fairly high merit may be 
 
 expected to. ^' -. e 
 
 d. Brunetiere has laid his finger upon a pecuharity ol 
 the short story which unfits it for sermonizing. He says 
 —and correctly— that it does not deal with social prob- 
 lems. Its canvas is too small; or, to change the figure, 
 it moves so rapidly that it touches only the high spots. 
 But every problem worth preaching about must sound 
 the deeps. It is a problem because there are two or more 
 sides to it, because it demands hard thinking, and because 
 many people have not thought it out. Now the author 
 who wishes to persuade his readers, say, that socialism 
 is the wisest course, or that divorce should be unrestricted, 
 must develop his entire argument in dramatic form. 
 But for this the short story has no space. At best, it 
 can give a picture which will suggest the author's view. 
 Van Dyke's recent Half-Told Tale entitled Stronghold' 
 does this very prettily. It deals with the most intricate 
 1 iScri&ner's, April, 1912. 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 17 
 
 and obscure of questions, the question as to the wisdom 
 of social violence. It moves you, it rings true, yet 
 it does not quite convince; and no fiction short of a thick 
 book could, having that problem to wrestle with. Just 
 because the short story presents no more than one little 
 scene, one idea, one pro or contra, it is an ill weapon for 
 a man with a mission, which calls into play the heavy 
 artillery of argument and long-drawn-out history. 
 
 5. The purpose of this hook. Those students who write 
 for culture should do so with the highest ideals of fictional 
 art before them; and those who write for profit should 
 know, in addition, all the tricks of the trade. Therefore 
 this volume falls into two parts. Its first and more im- 
 portant aim is to describe the perfect story and the devices 
 for attaining perfection. In arraying these I am well 
 aware that not one student in a thousand can manage all 
 of them. Even a master often fails with some. But 
 they are, none the less, the ideals and guiding principles. 
 In the short second half of the book the commercial aspect 
 of authorship is considered. There we shall take exception 
 to some of those artistic laws, but only because the reading 
 public is less interested in perfect art than in simple enter- 
 tainment. In recognizing this fact, we do not fall into any 
 contradiction. Nor do we alter the ideals of fiction. We 
 only admit the indisputable fact that purposes shape 
 ideals, and that the purpose of the artist is not identical 
 with the purpose of the entertainer. All pure art is enter- 
 taining, but not all entertaining is pure art. The demands 
 of entertainment are broader and looser than those of 
 flawless fiction. 
 
PART I: THE ART 
 
CHAPTER I— WHAT IS A SHORT STORY 
 
 1. The double ideal. In loose popular usage, every 
 story that is short is a short story, and a story is any narra- 
 tive. Allegory, anecdote, report and tale are regarded as 
 so many varieties of short story. But among artists and 
 critics there prevails a narrower conception which is amply 
 justified by the history of modern fiction. According to 
 them, the short story is the most highly specialized 
 brand of narrative, if not of prose generally. Now, 
 what quahty peculiarizes it so? Its double ideal. 
 
 The short story ideal is a fusion of two artistic ideals, the 
 one American, the other French. Poe best expressed the 
 former, and Maupassant the latter. The American ideal is 
 'The Single Effect.' The French ideal is the Dramatic Effect. 
 The Short Story is ther efore a nar rative ^ drama v 
 with a single effect. 
 
 - — ^rWhmiM'm?ngle effect is. In his essay on Hawthorne's 
 tales, Poe points out that the 'brief tale' is not a work of 
 art unless it produces a unified impression upon the reader. 
 
 A skilful Hterary artist has constructed a tale. IfV 
 wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate '^ 
 his incidents; but having conceived, with deliberate 
 care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, 
 he then invents such incidents — he then combines such 
 events as may best aid him in establishing this precon- 
 ceived effect. If his very initial sentence tend not to the 
 out-bringing of this effect, then he has failed in his first 
 step. In the whole composition there should be no word 
 written of which the tendency, direct or indirect, is not 
 to the one pre-established design. As by such means, 
 with such care and skill, a picture is at length painted 
 
 21 
 
22 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 which leaves in the mind of him who contemplates it 
 with a kindred art a sense of the fullest satisfaction. The 
 idea of the tale has been presented unblemished, because 
 undisturbed; and this is an end unattainable by the 
 novel. Undue brevity is just as exceptionable here as 
 in the poem, but undue length is yet more to be avoided, i 
 
 This ideal was first attained by Poe. His stories 
 bear Httle or no resemblance to the tales of earlier writers. 
 Compare, if you will, The Fall of the House of Usher 
 with any of the stories in The Arabian Nights, and you 
 will instantly discern the novelty of the American writer. 
 Charming the tales of Scheherazade are, but in a dif- 
 ferent way. Whatever they do, they do not produce a 
 single emotional effect. Within each tale the reader is 
 transported, as on the magic carpet of Prince Houssain, 
 from grim tragedy to farce, from farce to tedious the- 
 ological disquisitions on some sura of the Koran, and 
 thence to a page of puns or something else. He is watch- 
 ing literary vaudeville, and the spectacle has all the 
 merits and defects of the theatrical article. This variega- 
 tion is, of course, much more pronounced in medieval 
 fiction than in modern; but it pervades the latter down 
 to the second quarter of the nineteenth century. Before 
 then, it is only in rare specimens that we find anything 
 like the unity of impression which Poe produces. 
 / Insofar as technique is concerned, the single effect j^ 
 yf /more fundamental than "the dramatic effect. It detet-- 
 /mines much more profoundly the structure of the short 
 / story. Furthermore, it is, one might say, an absolute 
 1 ideal, whereas the dramatic is relative to the particular 
 ) material of each plot. For instance, a weak dramatic 
 ( quality will not ruin a story, provided some one emotion 
 I or some one idea is vividly played upon; but, conversely, 
 \there is no hope for a story, however dramatic, if it leaves 
 ^Graham's Magazine, May, 1835. 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 23 
 
 you with either no definite imwession at all or else with |/ 
 several in conflict or unrelated/ The majority of current 
 productions well illustrate this rule*. Few indeed are the 
 strong dramatic stories, but there are many others — 
 mostly character sketches, mystery tales, and surprises — 
 which give the reader something to laugh at, something 
 to cry over, something to rage at, or something to think 
 about. In short, they affect him in a distinct and single 
 manner; and it is just this unity of impression which en- 
 ables them to run the editorial gantlet. There is a pretty 
 clear reason for this, and it will appear slowly in the course 
 of the technical analysis upon which we shall soon be 
 launched. 
 
 3. What dramatic narrative is. The second constit- 
 uent ideal, the French, is much less easily defined. The 
 trouble with it is that the dramatic quality to which 
 it- aspires is somewhat nebulous. An over-simplified 
 statement of it appears in Matthews' remark, cited 
 above, that the short story fulfils the three false unities 
 of the French classic drama: "It shows one action, in 
 one place, on one day. A Short story deals with a single 
 character, a single event, a single emotion, or the series 
 of emotions called forth by a single situation." Were 
 we to take this literally, we should find scarcely a story 
 even approximating the standard. Look, for instance, 
 at the more familiar works of the chief exponent of the 
 dramatic story, Maupassant. The Horla has two char- 
 acters dominant and two emotions, mystery and horror. 
 There is no one event, though there is a single compHca- 
 tion. The Necklace, one of the flawless contes, covers a 
 period of ten years and depends absolutely upon the inter- 
 play of two emotions, false pride and honor, the former 
 controlling the wife and the latter the husband. In like 
 manner Vain Beauty scorns the false dramatic unities; 
 and so too does every other superior conte with the possible 
 
*24 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 exception of Moonlight, and A Coward, Were we to 
 inspect the stories of other authors, we should find a 
 still less pious observance of the alleged rule. 
 
 Nevertheless, nearly all story writers since Poe show 
 unmistakable signs of following some dramatic ideal. 
 And the most conspicuous evidence of this is that their 
 stories have plots. Herein they differ sharply from Poe's 
 tales, few of which exhibit more than a shred of that sort 
 of compHcation. If, now, we can describe the essence 
 of a plot, we shall understand the ideal of drama. This 
 description must now be attempted. 
 , A plot is a climactic series of events each of which both 
 y determines and is determined hy the characters involved. 
 The student will please observe that the determination 
 here spoken of is reciprocal. This fact is the significant 
 one. If the determination is one-sided, there results no 
 plot, in the strict dramatic sense. 
 
 Thus, suppose the events shaped the destiny of the char- 
 acter but were not themselves directed by him; the hero 
 would then be little more than the passive victim of cir- 
 cumstances, and the story would take on the loose vesture 
 of flowing adventure, like the yams of Sinbad, the Sailor. 
 Sinbad, you remember, set forth on his first voyage to 
 repair his squandered fortunes. This initial act was 'in 
 character', for it was specifically determined by the great 
 traveler's repentance and new desires. His plight, his 
 bitter thoughts of prodigalities past, and his resolve to lead 
 a saner life directly precipitated his embarking. Here 
 then is genuine drama. But there is no more of it. All 
 that befell him afterward was not of his making. It was 
 pure chance that his ship came upon a dead calm near a 
 • pleasant little island, and that he went ashore. It was 
 pure chance that the island turned out to be the back of a 
 leviathan, and that the monster dove to the bottom of the 
 sea, ere his visitors regained their sloop. It was pure 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 25 
 
 chance that Sinbad, afloat on a fragment of wreckage, 
 was driven by a rising gale to an island, and that the 
 grooms of the maharajah, who rescued him, were still 
 near by, pasturing the royal stud. And so forever his 
 haps and mishaps ran on, beyond the control of his 
 wishes and skill, indifferent to his virtues. 
 
 Now, a skilful writer might weave such adventures 
 so deftly that they would hang together like a well- 
 fashioned garment. But mere coherence would not 
 elevate them to the texture of a drama. At best, it 
 could only achieve that other virtue of the story, namely 
 the single effect. To Poe this result seemed quite enough. 
 Indeed, he believed it constituted a plot. In his essay 
 on American drama he says: 
 
 A mere succession of incidents, even the most spirited, 
 will no more constitute a plot than a multiplication of 
 zeros, even the most infinite, will result in the production 
 of a unit. This all will admit — but few trouble them- 
 selves to think further. The common notion seems to 
 be in favor of mere complexity; but a plot, properly under- 
 stood, is perfect only inasmuch as we shall find ourselves 
 unable to detach from it or disarrange any single incident 
 involved, without destruction to the mass. This we 
 say is the point of perfection — a point never yet attained, 
 but not on that account unattainable. Practically, 
 we may consider a plot as of high excellence when no one 
 of its component parts shall be susceptible of removal 
 without detriment to the whole. 
 
 NoWj this describes a feature of the perfect drama; 
 but the 'trouble is that it does the same for the mystery 
 story like The Gold Bug and for the well-constructed 
 allegory and, in general, for any narrative which aims to 
 bring out one idea or to lead up to one important scene. 
 Indeed, what Poe here touches is not the natxire of a plot 
 but a virtue of well-knit discourse. His remarks apply 
 
 15 
 
26 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 perfectly to the 'plot' of a geometrical demonstration 
 or any other deductive argument. 
 
 Let us now make the opposite supposition; namely, 
 that we have a plot when we have fashioned a series of 
 events that grow entirely out of the central character. 
 This is W. D. Howells' belief. About it we may ask 
 several questions. First, do many writers accept it as a 
 dramatic ideal? Secondly, do they hve up to it in their 
 own writings? Thirdly, does it help define the class of 
 existent fiction which critics recognize to be short stories? 
 And, if not, why not? 
 
 The first query finds an affirmative answer. Mau- 
 passant, Howells, Henry James, Edith Wharton and 
 many others strive to compose stories in which the 
 heroes and heroines make everything happen out of their 
 own inner natures. But — touching now the second 
 question — these authors constantly allow their char^ 
 acters to be moulded by circumstances. Assuredly 
 their men and women grow, shift, decay, and take on 
 new forms under the stress of chance. If they are selfish 
 at the outset, they end generously. If they begin honest, 
 they finish as hypocrites. 
 
 In Howells' The Magic of a Voice, for example, the entire 
 plot turns upon Langboume's lucky discovery of the circu- 
 lar letter and the still luckier presence of Barbara's home 
 address on the envelope. How then can Howells here de- 
 fend his own dictum that in a true plot "the man does not 
 result from the things he does, but the things he does result 
 from the man"? It might be said that Langboume's 
 going into the girl's room at the hotel after she had vacated 
 it grew out of his character; and, as he found the letter 
 on the floor of the room, this latter event sprang from his 
 character. But this reasoning is sophistical. It is a 
 variety of the 'fallacy of accident', as logicians say. 
 For it was not Langbourne's wish to find the lost article 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 27 
 
 that set the story going; it was the actual discovery of 
 it. Now, the wish and the ensuing act came from his 
 character, no doubt. But the presence of the circular 
 did not. It was as accidental as the direction of the wind 
 outside the hotel. So far as his passionate curiosity about 
 the girl was concerned, he might have found nothing in 
 her room. 
 
 But we need not insist too zealously upon this distinc- 
 tion. For the issue does not turn upon anybody's 
 notion of what a plot is, but rather upon what is dramatic 
 in a plot. What we vaguely call plot and discern jnjhp 
 modern short story is the draniatic 'quality^ and it is 
 only because we hope to discover it in plots that we 
 analyze the latter. Now Howells may be right insofar 
 as he means that the reader's interest always centres 
 upon the hero's ingenuity and daring in getting the better 
 of circumstances, or upon his cowardice or villainy or 
 dulness or, in general, upon his way of managing affairs. 
 But this managing is only one of two indispensable factors 
 in drama. Pure, abstract character, however triumphant 
 and glorious, cannot spin drama out of itself. A mer- 
 chant dictating a business letter to a docile and competent 
 stenographer is making things happen according to his 
 own will and nature. But the act is not dramatic. A 
 citizen refusing to buy a red cravat because his wife dis- 
 likes the hue is displaying character. But the deed, 
 unqualified by certain unforeseen, uncontrolled complica- 
 tions and consequences, is not dramatic. It could not 
 be told approprig(!tely in a short story unless it drove the 
 uxorious hero into a fatal quarrel with a haberdashing 
 desperado, or led his wife to despise him for his softness 
 and to /run ^away from him. In other words, there 
 must be a climax, an event remarkable in some respect; 
 and something must happen to the character as a 
 result of something which he has done; and, as 
 
28 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 IIuwulls wiohes, the character must express himself in 
 the episodes. 
 
 In other words,\every story whose excellence is gen- 
 erally admitted is more than a picture of character, 
 more than a good complication, more than a fragment of 
 biography, and more than^an exciting episode. It is all 
 these together, and in it they are so arranged that the 
 reader is surprised by what happens to the hero, and 
 thrilled by what the hero does to each situation. This 
 thrill is the thrill of drama, only if the hero^omehow 
 exhibits his human nature hy conduct in a crisis] There 
 may be as many dramatic qualities as there are traits of 
 human nature and typical crises; between the blackest, 
 unrelieved tragedy and the frothiest farce the spectrum 
 is long. But all the shades in it have this common 
 characteristic, namely, conduct in a crisis. And this is 
 the second constituent ideal of the modem short story, 
 the ideal fostered in France and now generally accepted. 
 We shall soon have much to say about its pecuUarities. 
 
 4. What the single effect involves. 
 
 We have now to ask whether the first ideal demands 
 any special structure or material. It does not. It may be 
 gained ma variety of ways, the two basic types of which are: 
 
 a. Building the story around a theme. 
 
 b. Emphasizing one or more of the three factors in the 
 dramatic narrative. 
 
 a. Thematic development. The theme can best be 
 described in contrast with the plot and the setting, with 
 which it blends so deftly in the finished work that the 
 casual reader seldom distinguishes them. The term 
 Hheme', is widely employed in two senses. Its com- 
 moner meaning is 'a topic, a subject of discourse'. So 
 used, it leads us to say, for example, that the fatal panic 
 of Viscount de Signoles is the theme of Maupassant's 
 little masterpiece, A Coward; and that the softening of 
 
I 
 
 <0 
 
 WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 29 
 
 the Abbe Mar? gnat's heart toward beauty and love is the 
 theme of Moontight Over against this connotation 
 stands the more technical one, which is the 'miderlying 
 idea\ The looser first meaning is little more than a 
 rough indication of the dramatic narrative as a whole; 
 it tells what happens. But the second meaning is the 
 import of what happens. It is the idea of which the 
 narrative is the dramatic expression. It bears the same 
 relation to the narrative that the first four notes of 
 Beethoven's Fifth Sjnnphony bear to the world of 
 melody which follows them. Out of this short motif 
 the entire symphony grows; it expresses the full esthetic 
 value of the simple combination. So too with the 
 thematic story; it dramatically amplifies a proposition. 
 Often it really is, and always it has at least the air of be- 
 ing, an empirical proof of the proposition. The writer's 
 interest centres upon the law or other truth, not upon 
 the persons or episodes of the story. He tells the 
 story for the sake of the truth it drives home, rather 
 than for the poignancy or humor or sweetness of its 
 happenings. 
 
 Consider O. Henry's powerful, somewhat freakishly 
 constructed romance, A Municipal Report. 0. Henry 
 undertakes to show that Frank Norris didn't know what 
 he was talking about when he wrote: "Fancy a novel 
 about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville, Tennes- 
 see! There are just three big cities in the United States 
 which are * story cities' — New York, of course. New 
 Orleans, and, best of all, San Francisco." O. Henry knew 
 this was libellous nonsense. He knew the world too well 
 to be deceived into thinking that times and places give 
 life and color to the deeds of mankind. "It is a rash one", 
 he protested, "who will lay his finger on the map and 
 say: 'In this town there can be no romance — what could 
 happen here?'" And by way of proof he wrote about 
 
30 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Azalea Adair, of eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street, Nash- 
 ville; and he demolished Norris' juvenile dictum. 
 
 The theme of A Municipal Report is: 'Romance is the 
 slave of neither times nor places/ The plot is the 
 dramatic instance illustrating this proposition. It is 
 the climactic series of happening which exhibits the gen- 
 eral law asserted in the theme. Now, just as in a natural 
 science, so too in the fictionist's domain; any one of an 
 infinite multitude of events suffices to demonstrate a law. 
 Any star in the sky, any pebble under foot, any falling 
 apple establishes the principle of gravitation. Like- 
 wise, to have affirmed his theme, O. Henry might have 
 cited the strange adventures of Amy Smith, of Scranton, 
 Pa.; or what befell Count Vaurien, the spy of Napoleon; 
 or the trouble that descended upon Herr Spitz, collector 
 of the port of Munich; or the deeds of Uk-Tuk, chief of 
 the Mu-ri, in the forgotten days of the Stone Hammer. 
 Again, to prove that Romance laughs at geographers, he 
 might have played upon innumerable complications, 
 now of French folly, now of big business in Bolivia, now 
 of racial rows in Russia, now of rate wars in ancient 
 Rome. And with this theme, so with nearly all others. 
 Each may be adequately exhibited in any one of an 
 innumerable host of plots. And this fact marks one of 
 the differences between theme and plot. 
 
 A similar contrast may be drawn between plot and 
 setting. Given one set of people displaying opinions 
 and desires which bring about the dramatic complica- 
 tiou; and you may vary the geographical details with 
 considerable freedom. Not every change in these brings 
 with it a modification of the dramatic quality, still less 
 of the theme. A brave fireman will rescue a cripple from 
 a burning building, be the building a soap factory or a 
 Methodist church, be it in Shanghai or Kalamazoo. 
 There are thus two degrees of elasticity in the handling 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 31 
 
 of a theme: first, the theme may be depicted in many 
 plots; and, secondly, each plot may be developed in many 
 settings.^ 
 
 It must now be evident that the thematic story re- 
 sembles the didactic. And we must designate their rela- 
 tion closely. 
 
 The thematic story differs from the didactic, not in the 
 nature of its theme nor in the clearness of the dramatic 
 proof of the theme, hut in the single effect produced. 
 
 In the thematic story the dramatic narrative is stronger 
 than the pure theme. In the didactic story the pure theme 
 is stronger than the dramatic narrative. 
 
 The adjective, 'stronger', here means 'stronger in 
 effect\ It does not mean more significant or more moral; 
 it refers only to the superior intensity of the reader's 
 impression. Were a critic to classify stories exclusivelv 
 with respect to their material, he could discern no de- 
 ference between the types we have just distinguished. 
 Exactly the same themes and the identical characters, 
 compHcations, and setting may be made to yield either 
 variety. 
 
 Suppose you were to write about the sinking of the 
 Titanic and wished to show that heroism is not a rare and 
 difficult act which only a few men of tremendous will 
 power and lofty ideals can perform, but is, on the con- 
 trary, a common, natural, and easy deed. You might 
 tell the whole story without mentioning this theme, 
 even indirectly. There might be no more than a pic- 
 ture of the little bell boys, puffing cigarettes in the dining 
 room, while the stricken vessel slowly tilted on end; or of 
 
 ^ The contrast between plot and setting may suggest that these 
 factors are generically different. This would be a serious confusion. 
 The setting is a part of the plot: It is, however, a peculiar part 
 in that it is essential and yet not very influential in coloring the 
 dramatic factors. 
 
32 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 the stokers standing knee-deep in icy water; or of the 
 travelers playing poker in the smoking room until the 
 cards slipped off the tipping table. And yet the reader 
 would carry away the theme as surely as if you had 
 bellowed it text-wise into his ears; and the story would 
 be thematic. On the other hand, you might begin with 
 the remark that men are wont to think of heroes as 
 towering, solitary figures, but that this is false. Then 
 you might tell your story, arranging the incidents solely 
 with an eye to the proof. In so doing, you would perhaps 
 suppress much that might have heightened the dramatic 
 effect. You might drop into colorless reporting, with 
 the result that, through it all, your reader would not be 
 absorbed in the episodes but would be thinking of what 
 you sought to establish. Or else the story might run 
 along smoothly without this effect up to the very close; 
 and there its climax might be so weak that the reader 
 would slip instantly from it to the theme. In this case 
 your story would be didactic. 
 
 Many stories, namely, those whose themes are not 
 perceptibly stronger nor weaker than their dramatic 
 development, cannot be classified under either head, ex- 
 cept by some arbitrary ruling. There is little doubt 
 that Hawthorne intended The Birthmark to be didactic, 
 yet, to many readers, the moral goes lost behind the 
 tragedy of Aylmer and Georgiana. Poe, on the other 
 hand, probably had no desire to preach when he wrote 
 William Wilson; but this story may readily be experi- 
 enced as a fictional sermon; for the drama in it is not 
 terrific, while the theme is crystal-clear. Again, 0. Henry's 
 stories frequently purport to be didactic, in a light- 
 hearted way, but almost always the whimsical drama 
 gets the better of the preacher; and the reader is left 
 wondering whether the yarn was spun for the sake of the 
 moral, or the moral for the yarn. 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 33 
 
 The single effect of the didactic story is likely to be 
 sharp but not emotional. Its natural quality is in- 
 tellectual. It is therefore a difficult species, and most 
 attempts at it fail miserably. The stories which succeed 
 in influencing the public most strongly are not the didactic 
 but most often the thematic. And anybody who has 
 . tried to write both kinds knows why this is so; it is be- 
 cause dramatic narrative is most easily managed when 
 one's attention is concentrated upon the drama itself, 
 and further because most well told tales display their own 
 moral unaided. The more you try to help a story preach, 
 the more help it needs. 
 
 b. Emphatic development. Every narrative contains ^ 
 three-basitj factors which enter, in widely varying degrees, i/ 
 into the structure and qualify the total impression. 
 They are: 
 
 i. Character. 
 
 ii. Complication. 
 
 iii. Setting. 
 i. Character. There cannot be a dramatic situation 
 without human beings. The only apparent exception is - 
 the story with an animal hero. But even here it is a 
 human trait which is read into the creature and made to 
 sustain the narrative. 
 
 ii. Complication. This includes the entanglements of 
 persons and circumstances which make the plot. The 
 villain's designs against the poor working girl, the old 
 man's discovery that his son has betrayed him, the love of 
 two men for the same girl, the rumor of hidden treasure 
 that sends buccaneers racing across the brine, — these 
 are meagre samples of the limitless congregation of 
 complicating factors. 
 
 iii. Setting. Broadly speaking, the place where the 
 plot unfolds is the story's setting; and all the furniture ^ 
 of the place belongs thereunto. The hilltop on which 
 
34 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 the beacon fires are lighted, the vale where the con- 
 spirators meet at midnight, the battered oaken chest that 
 holds the ciphered will of the dead duke— of such stuff, 
 ^yr geographical and otherwise, are settings made. 
 
 Now, each 'story germ' (that is, the vague outlme of 
 the central complication) may assume a variety of forms, 
 each the outgrowth of some shght change in the action or 
 characters or situation. Furthermore, one variation 
 demands a peculiarly rich development of some character 
 trait, while another stresses the mystery or the horror or 
 the charm of the plot, and a third comes to its own only 
 if the environment is minutely drawn. 
 
 These three directions of emphasis result in three funda- 
 mental types of story. The single effect is produced, now 
 in character drawing, now in the dramatic intensity of the 
 plot, and 710W in the sensuous quality of the setting. And 
 the resulting types are comrnonly called, respectively, 
 
 1. The character story. 
 
 2. The complication story. 
 
 3. The atmosphere story. 
 
 These are the fundamental types, but not the only 
 ones. Some plots not only allow but even necessitate 
 the intensification of some two of the three factors, and 
 some few call for the almost equal development of all 
 three. Hence four more types, all compound, are 
 
 possible: 
 
 4. The character-complication story. 
 ^. The character-atmosphere story. 
 
 6. The complication-atmosphere story. 
 
 7. The three-phase story. 
 
 Two warnings must at once be issued to the student. 
 The first is that he must not suppose intensification of 
 one factor to involve the total suppression of the others^ 
 A character story is by no means one-witbout plot and 
 atmosphere; that would be no genuine story at all, but 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 36 
 
 only a character sketch or an anecdote. You will find 
 these two types illustrated in Galsworthy's volume, 
 A Motley; the bitter little draught of life called Once 
 More is a model character story, while A Portrait is a 
 character sketch. And now the second warning: the 
 seven types above are not so many ideals toward which 
 any given theme or plot might be driven, as the writer 
 chooses. They are different forms which particular 
 themes and plots impose upon the well modelled story. 
 You cannot shape a complete plot or theme, now into 
 the mold of a character story, now into that of an at- 
 mosphere story, as your fancy pleases. The mature cast 
 of a story lies largely predestined in the plot or theme. 
 There is, to be sure, a considerable elasticity of detail 
 in its outworking and on rare occasions enough to make 
 it eligible to either of two forms. Atmosphere, for 
 example, can often be intensified to suit one's taste. 
 Nevertheless, the rule holds broadly, as the student will 
 learn by analyzing two extreme specimens, such as 
 Henry James' The Turn of the Screw and G. Henry's 
 The Furnished Room. 
 
 Here are two ghost stories as far apart as the poles in 
 every detail and in every essential, except that both 
 touch the cold hem of the supernatural. The Turn of 
 the Screw is a three-phase story. The governess's loyalty, 
 daring and love shape the course of events dramatically — 
 and there you have a character story. The mysterious 
 power which the two evil spirits exercise over the un- 
 happy children, and the strange trickeries of the children, 
 and the incomprehensible deaths of former employees at 
 Bly all make it a story of terrific complication. And, 
 finally, the awful spectres, the face at the window, the 
 visions across the lake, the encounters on the stairs — 
 all these are as sudden gusts out of a deep, black cave, 
 freezing cold; they sweep through the whole story — and 
 
36 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 there you have the intensely sensuous development of the 
 setting which makes an atmosphere story. The Fur- 
 nished Room, on the other hand, is a simple complica- 
 tion 9tory, enriched with many a touch of atmosphere, 
 but not deriving its strength from such. The ghost 
 is very different from the unspeakable Quint in James' 
 story. Only a whiff of perfume, nothing more! Such 
 a very sweet, insubstantial spectre, and so shy withal, 
 that you quite forget her in the midst of the simple 
 pathos of the complication. 
 
 Now let the student try to think of James developing 
 his plot as a simple comphcation story with the strong 
 but accessory tinges of atmosphere such as The Fur- 
 nished Room exhibits. The utter impossibility appears 
 in a minute. James would have to throw away half his 
 idea, to do that. The vital part played by the governess 
 would go by the board; and with it would go the soul 
 of the story, for the whole tragedy is born of her stubborn 
 will. And now reverse the problem; attempt to expand 
 the other story into a three-phase one. It cannot be ac- 
 complished, inasmuch as there is nothing for either lover 
 to do, by force of character; no crisis to fight through, 
 no enemies to overcome, no moral issue to settle, but only 
 the pathetic little coincidence of the boy's chancing upon 
 the very room where his lost sweetheart had just died, 
 and then the unearthly whiff of mignonette. That 
 is the story !^ 
 
 5. Final classification of story types. The foregoing 
 analysis discloses two species of stories, each of which is 
 iThis whole question has nothing to do with that of an author's 
 style. We are not asking whether O . Henry could have written Henry 
 James' story, and James contrived O. Henry's. Nor are we asking 
 whether James would have changed O. Henry's plot, had he chosen 
 it. Our question has to do with structural possibilities of the 
 story material These are much deeper than individual tastes 
 and styles. 
 
The Short Story 
 
 WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 37 
 
 distinguished by the direction in which its single effect 
 arises. The following scheme orders them and their 
 minor varieties: 
 
 Thematic 
 Variation: Didactic, 
 
 Emphatic: 
 
 3 pure sub-types: 
 Character. 
 Complication. 
 Atmosphere. 
 
 4 complex variations: 
 combinations of the above S, 
 
 These distinctions, of course, are much clearer in this 
 table than in real life. The two main species especially 
 often blur before the reader's eyes; but this is due to a 
 peculiarity of the human mind, not to a flaw in our 
 analysis. The difference between the thematic and 
 the emphatic story is as great as the difference between 
 proving that all men are liars and saying so vehemently. 
 But it is no greater. Genuine in reason, it often dwindles 
 to the vanishing point in practice, thanks to the fact that 
 most people cannot easily hold proof apart from emphasis. 
 You may persuade them occasionally with rigorous dem- 
 onstration, but most often by uttering your point many, 
 many times with polite fervor and a pleasing variety of 
 phrase. This is the device of old-fashioned politics, new- 
 fashioned advertising, agreeable conversation, and much 
 excellent instructive fiction. The vivid picture becomes 
 the proved theme. Hence the well written emphatic 
 story is with difficulty marked off from the genuine the- 
 matic story. But this fact does not reduce the two types 
 to one; it only hides their profound difference. 
 
 6. How other forms of brief fiction differ from the short 
 story. Our definition demarcates the short story quite 
 
38 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 sharply, and yet without Hmiting the type mechanically, 
 as all other definitions of it do. (1) The anecdote, 
 episode, report, sketch, and tale need not be dramatic 
 and need not produce a single effect. Thus they are 
 doubly distinguished from the short story. (2) The 
 novelette is better, if dramatic; but it is under no com- 
 pulsion to be so. And likewise with its unity of im- 
 pression. (3) The allegory, the fable, and the puzzle 
 story need not be dramatic, but they must produce the 
 single effect. For the purpose of the allegory is to 
 depict an analogy, and so the analogical effect must be 
 supreme and undisturbed. The aim of the fable is to 
 point a moral. And the ideal of the puzzle story (such 
 as Poe's Gold Bug or the ordinary detective story) is, 
 forsooth, to puzzle you; and it would fail were it to 
 turn you from the mystery to the beauty of the charac- 
 ters, to some doctrinal issue or to the charm of the 
 diction. (4) The one-act play must, of course, be dra- 
 matic; and it is more successful, if it produces a single 
 effect. But it is not narrative; and so, even when it 
 produces a single effect, the latter is not literary but 
 theatrical and demands staging and acting to bring out 
 its proper values. Nevertheless, the one-act play is the 
 next of kin to the short story; for it differs from the latter 
 less in its ideals and purposes than in its medium of ex- 
 pression. 
 
 Illustrations. (1) Washington Irving's Rip Van Winkle 
 is commonly counted with the short stories. But this is 
 a mistake. It possesses no quality of the species, but only 
 some external, mechanical, and largely accidental features. 
 It has one central character, it turns around one pre- 
 dominating incident, it is fantastic, and the number of 
 its words falls within the orthodox limit set by the business 
 managers of our magazines. But with these non-essen- 
 tials its likeness to the type ends. There is not a trace of 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 39 
 
 dramatic action in it, though the opportunities for it are 
 many. The tale falls into three parts; the first depicting 
 Rip's character and his family troubles; the second 
 telling of his encounter with Hendrick Hudson and his 
 crew; and the third recounting the adventures that fol- 
 lowed Rip's long sleep. Now, in none of these is it the 
 amiable old loafer's character (or lack of character, if you 
 will) that shapes the course of events. The nearest 
 approach to such dramatic knitting is made in that 
 moment when Rip, smarting under the tongue-lashings 
 of Dame Van Winkle, slunk off with dog and gun into 
 the peace of the woods. But did he resolve to wander 
 far, or to lose himself, or to stay away until after night- 
 fall? No. He ''imconsciously scrambled to one of the 
 highest parts of the Kaatskill mountains." Unconsciously! 
 With that word the very thought of drama vanishes. 
 Rip simply blundered forth upon an adventure, as Sinbad 
 the Sailor did. And so forth to the end, always a care- 
 free victim of circumstances. 
 
 Look now to the impression created. Can you say 
 that it is single? I, for one, cannot. On the contrary 
 one of the most precious charms of the tale is its exquisite 
 modulation. Few specimens of brief fiction can match 
 the almost Tuusical quality of its transitions from one 
 emotional key to another. It melts from pastoral to 
 comic, from comic to weird, from weird to pathetic, 
 from pathetic to placid, always with grace and smooth- 
 ness. And when the last word has been read, one listener 
 may dwell upon Dame Van Winkle's temper, another 
 may linger over the ghostlj^ bowlers, a third laugh at 
 Rip, and a fourth marvel at the twenty-year slumber. 
 Ask for the one idea, the single sentiment which the 
 tale embodies, and none can say. In this uncertainty 
 we find the final proof that it is a tale and not a short 
 story. 
 
40 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 (2) The Aspern Papers, by Henry James, is a tj^jical 
 novelette. It verges toward the novel in length, in the 
 multiplicity of its -wa^rests, and in the fulness of its 
 delineations. As we shall soon see, the short story 
 cannot develop more than one character trait, without 
 marring its single effect (either by becoming too long 
 or else arousing interest in several conflicting sides of the 
 hero's nature). But, in The Aspern Papers, at least 
 five character traits are quite elaborately pictured 
 and these reside not in one person, but in three, each 
 of whom alternately claims our full interest, if not our 
 sympathies. In short, the situation resembles real life 
 much more than that of any short story can hope to. 
 It is intricate, and we, its spectators, are not held by 
 some single theme or interest so much as by the battle 
 of many natures and aspirations. Loyalty to a long- 
 dead lover, hatred of publicity in private matters, a 
 belated affection, family pride, and the collector's mania 
 struggle, now desperately, now comically, with one an- 
 other; and the reader sees the minutest details of their 
 encounters. All of which is plainly impossible in a 
 short story. 
 
 (3) The allegory, the fable, and the puzzle story are 
 so obviously unrestricted by dramatic considerations 
 that no analysis of specimens is called for here. The 
 first two types commonly do nothing more than dress 
 up a single incident, regardless of character and com- 
 plication. Only that much is developed which is de- 
 manded for illustrating the moral or sharpening the 
 simile. Read any of ^Esop's fables or the parables of 
 the New Testament; and you will find this true. 
 
 The puzzle story is frequently overlaid with at least 
 the semblance of dramatic action; and, when it is, it is 
 not easily held apart from the genuine short story. Not 
 a few excellent detective stories present this difficulty. 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 41 
 
 The Purloined Letter, by Poe, does so; the court intrigue 
 out of which the theft grows is thoroughly dramatic, 
 and Poe plays on it cleverly throughout the opening 
 
 movement. The minister D , ambitious to gain 
 
 control over an illustrious personage, chances to see a 
 compromising letter on the illustrious personage's table, 
 and steals it. Here is a situation which might naturally 
 work out through the characters in it. The casual 
 reader, sensing this, may fancy he has a dramatic story 
 before him. But he has not. For this potentially dra- 
 matic situation has nothing to do with Dupin's discovery 
 of the letter. It is the minister's diabolical ingenuity 
 that generates the mystery; he hides the letter where 
 the shrewdest detectives cannot find it. It is not his 
 ambition, still less his dramatic relation to the illustrious 
 personage, that counts in the central problem of the 
 story. 
 
 But The Purloined Letter — and with it many mystery 
 stories — does fulfil the American ideal pretty well. It 
 produces a single effect. As this was all that Poe sought, 
 it would be absurd to say the work is imperfect. One 
 might as well say that a street sign is imperfect because 
 it does not possess the qualities of a public oration. 
 
 (4) KipMng, Howells and Anthony Hope show us 
 how close the one-act play is to the short story. The Dolly 
 Dialogues often teave you in doubt as to whether you 
 are reading drama or story. The Hill of Illusion, by 
 Kipling, on the other hand, though neither drama nor 
 story, is a thing between. And many curtain raisers might 
 be put straight over into prose and sold to magazines. 
 All of which shows that the only decisive difference be- 
 tween the species is in the form of presentation. The 
 one-act play must be all action, all obvious, and all 
 visible to the dullest eye. But not so with the short 
 story; it may be full of contemplations, talk, and mean- 
 
42 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 ings that hide between the Unes. Hence^ while every 
 one-act play may be translated into a story without 
 mutilation, not every story can be dramatized without 
 important changes of detail. 
 
 7. The short story cannot he defined in terms of its specific 
 material nor by its mechanical form. Many attempts 
 have been made to designate the constituent stuff and 
 the irreducible pattern of the short story. But all of 
 them come to grief. For the short story, as we have 
 seen, is intrinsically an effect; and, being such, that 
 which produces it is infinitely various, even as with all 
 other effects. If you wish to produce a bright red light 
 you may do so with this or that chemical; or you may use 
 electricity; or you may generate a white light and sur- 
 round it with red glass or red celluloid or any of a thousand 
 other things. It happens, of course, that some of these 
 devices are much cheaper and simpler than others; 
 and so, using them exclusively, we come to regard them 
 as the only ones in existence. But this belief is a prag- 
 matic fiction. So too is the usual recipe for the short 
 story. 
 
 One of the most accurate of this sort is Esenwein's,^ 
 which sums up all previous formulas. The short story, 
 according to him, ''is marked by seven characteristics: 
 1. A single predominating character; 2. a single pre- 
 eminent incident; 3. imagination; 4. plot; 5. compression; 
 6. organization; and 7. unity of impression." Now, 
 the first three of these designate the content of the story 
 (imagination here means fantasy). And it is not diffi- 
 cult to observe that none of them is absolutely needed. 
 Not even in stories which aim exclusively at the single 
 effect do we regularly find either the single predominant 
 character or the single preeminent incident. To recur 
 to the ever-illuminating Poe, William Wilson has two 
 
 1 Wnting the Short Story, 30. 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 43 
 
 equally important characters and no central incident. 
 The Pit and the Pendulum has the single character, 
 but again there is no one event that stands out above 
 all others — unless you call the whole series of tortures in 
 the pit one happening! (Once permit that trick of 
 counting, however, and all distinctions evaporate.) 
 Turn now to dramatic stories. Kipling's Beyond the 
 Pale contains two lovers, of whom one might say, only 
 after much sharp reasoning, that the poor little Bisesa 
 is dramatically the more important. There is a climax — 
 and a terrible one — but is it the 'predominating incident' 
 or is Trejago's mad love-making that? 
 
 As for imagination, there is not the slightest reason 
 why a perfect story might not be fashioned from pure 
 facts. Perhaps things never happened as Kipling nar- 
 rates in Beyond the Pale, or in that masterpiece. Without 
 Benefit of Clergy; but they might have, even down to the 
 minutest item. And, because they might have, we must 
 say that imagination is not essential. At most, it is 
 commonly invoked. Some authors, however, pride them- 
 selves upon using nothing but facts or the essence of 
 fact; and in their stories you will find seldom a trace of 
 fancy. There is none of it in Howells' The Pursuit of the 
 Piano. There is none of it in James' penetrating char- 
 acter-drama. The Liar. And there is none of it in Mrs. 
 Wharton's marvelous horror, Ethan Frame. Indeed, 
 few good stories of recent years reveal complications and 
 turns of character that might not have been foimd in 
 some morning's newspaper. 
 
 Most good short stories have, to be sure, only one cen- 
 tral character, one crucial incident, and at least a light 
 touch of fancy. It is not strange, therefore, that these 
 are usually thought to be intrinsic structures. Neverthe- 
 less they are not. They are only common consequences 
 of the double ideal. Other things being equal, a short 
 
44 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 story is no finer for having them. But usually it is 
 easier to create a fine story by so limiting your material 
 and by drawing upon your fantasies. Recall the double 
 ideal, a narrative drama with single effect. Now, the 
 drama calls for characters and incidents; but to produce 
 with these a single effect, you must often reduce them 
 to their lowest terms. As we shall see more fully in 
 another chapter, human nature in its real forms presents 
 so many opposing tendencies and shifts so complexly 
 from moment to moment that you will seldom be al- 
 lowed to depict it in its natural fulness and plasticity. 
 The single effect comes not from it, but rather from 
 each of its single constituent appetites, impulses, prej- 
 udices, and habits. Hence your story will tend to 
 portray not a character but a trait. Likewise with 
 events. They, too, are likely to be intricate, and the 
 impression they set up manifold and mixed. This is 
 true of each episode individually, and doubly true of a 
 series. In real life the number of unequivocal happen- 
 ings is astoundingly small. Even a woodshed afire will 
 fill one spectator with dread, another with the joy of ex- 
 citement, and a third with pity for the owner; and it 
 may even send one spectator around the circuit of these 
 three emotions. If the reader will once more reflect 
 upon Rip Van Winkle, he will see how episodes may 
 hang together pleasantly and still induce a variety of 
 moods. He will learn, too, why the story whose aim is 
 to produce only one effect is prone to play around only 
 one incident. And, finally, he will see why the writer 
 must so frequently draw upon his imagination. The 
 materials of real life must often be extensively tampered 
 with; some of them cast out altogether, and pure inven- 
 tions inserted, to the end that the whole may work but one 
 witchery. Nevertheless, the single character, the single 
 episode, and the touch of fancy are only incidental re- 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 45 
 
 straints. Their inevitability in some stories does not 
 make them vital to the genre. 
 
 There remain two alleged characteristics which must 
 be discarded. These are compression and organization. 
 The former is only one phase of the unity of impression; 
 the latter is indistinguishable from the plot. As Poe 
 pointed out, when contrasting the tale with the novel, 
 *' simple cessation in reading would, of itself, be sufficient 
 to destroy the true unity of impression".^ Hence the 
 well modelled short story must admit of being read easily 
 at a single sitting. Now, if the plot is intrinsically simple 
 and swift, no compression is demanded. The story may 
 be fully told in well under ten thousand words. To 
 say that it is compressed simply because it is short in 
 comparison with Vanity Fair would be about as sensible 
 as to say that a man is compressed into a body much 
 smaller than an elephant^s. If the word means anything, 
 compressing means packing something into less space 
 than it naturally occupies. But the natural telling of 
 any plot suited to the short story will not exceed the 
 proper bounds. 
 
 I should not insist upon this verbal nicety, had the 
 laxer usage not misled many young writers into stripping 
 their stories of every word which did not help to convey 
 the bald meaning of the plot. Many high authorities 
 have taught the writer to strike from his pages every 
 phrase which is not absolutely indispensable to conveying 
 his idea. It is quite in style to hold up the parables of 
 the New Testament — and Biblical narrative generally — 
 as models for the short story writer, and not even writers 
 on story technique have raised voice against the custom. 
 But protests must be made, for all such advice is deadly. 
 It rests upon the fatal, all too easy confusion of rhetorical 
 compression with the suppression of irrelevant matter, 
 
 ^Loc. cit 
 
46 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 The difference between these two operations may be 
 illumined by a homely analogy. Consider a farmer 
 baling hay. Now, in what does his act consist, if not 
 simply in making a dozen wisps lie where only one lay? 
 The hay he does not change at all, save in bulk. Baled, 
 it is still the same tunothy as before in the far-flung wind- 
 rows. Still, too, is it peppered, perhaps, with burrs and 
 thistles. But now let us suppose that the farmer, instead 
 of baling for market, wishes to keep his hay in the mow 
 for his own cattle, which love not at all the burr and the 
 thistle. He picks out these weeds, for they do not fit 
 in with either his idea or his cows' idea of pure 1 ^od. They 
 are, in short, quite irrelevant to all the purposes of normal 
 bovine digestion. Therefore, to suit these purposes, the 
 farmer alters the hay. He casts out his weeds. 
 
 So with the story writer. Having penned an episode, 
 he may endeavor to pack it into smaller compass, not by 
 casting out anything of the plot, the setting, the char- 
 acter, or the interpretation; but solely by reducing the 
 verbal bulk. Thus, instead of 'the golden orb of day', he 
 writes 'the sun'; and he cancels a score of relative pro- 
 nouns and definite articles. On the other hand, he may 
 discern something in the story idea and its outworking 
 which the ideals of dramatic narrative do not demand or 
 cannot tolerate. And now he does not condense; he trans- 
 forms. He does not pack the old plot into smaller space 
 nor sketch the hero with fewer strokes. He removes 
 dramatic factors, inserts others, clarifies the depicted traits 
 of human nature, intensifies the climax, and so on. And 
 all this, I msist pedantically, is not compression at all, 
 but rather suppression. And failure to hold the two 
 operations clearly apart has precipitated many a begin- 
 ning writer into disastrous errors. 
 
 The gravest of these errors I have alluded to; it is that 
 of supposing that fine dramatic effects are to be produced 
 
WHAT IS A SHORT STORY? 47 
 
 by paring one's narrative language down until it becomes 
 the baldest possible report of the story facts. If only I 
 could use as few words as there are in the parable of the 
 prodigal son— so thinks the beginner — how swift and how 
 intense my dramatic action would be! Driven by this 
 thought, he often abbreviates the expression of his idea 
 or else cuts out minor descriptive touches. The outcome 
 is a meagre report, excellent newspaper writing perhaps, 
 but not dramatic narrative with a single effect. Like its 
 false models, the Scriptural fables, it may score a point 
 vividly, it may state an incident with fine accuracy, and 
 yet be as far removed from the short story as the sonnet 
 is. And the reason, more formally worded, is simply 
 this: compression is a purely rhetorical operation, affecting 
 only the way the story is communicated to the reader; 
 but the story which is communicated is no more affected 
 by that operation than it is by being translated from 
 English to French. Its dramatic value and the single 
 effect would remain virtually constant throughout a 
 thousand widely different phrasings of the narrative. To 
 produce that supreme effect of swift straightforwardness 
 which most of us find in Maupassant and a score of later 
 authors, you must manipulate, not words, but the people 
 and the events about which you are writing. Character 
 traits must be sharply isolated, circumstances ridden of 
 obscurity and elaboration, and the compUcation rushed 
 to its dramatic finish. In short, the matter of the story 
 must be simple; and, being simple, it need not be com- 
 pressed at all. 
 
 When a story needs compression, you may be sure of 
 one of two things: either the writer has not been telling 
 his story, but has been ambling far afield; or else his 
 plot is not a story plot, but of a complexity that calls for 
 treatment in the form of a novelette or novel. Of course, 
 if you choose to count such mistakes as short stories, then 
 
< 
 
 48 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 you may say that many short stories demand compression. 
 But that would be queer logic. Compression, in this 
 sense, is not a characteristic of the short story, but an 
 improvement of a botched specimen. 
 
 As for the other alleged characteristic, namely, organiza- 
 tion, what is it if not the relation of person to person 
 and of event to event in just that manner which generates 
 a dramatic comphcation and leads to a climax? But 
 all this is what we mean by the plot. The more closely 
 we study the latter, the clearer does it become that 
 even the minor arrangements of dramatic material are all 
 fixed hy it and by the exigencies of the single effect. Whether 
 the lady shall enter before or after her lover has finished 
 reading the fatal letter; whether the wicked millionaire 
 shall trust his valet or not; whether the queen shall be 
 eating bread and honey in the parlor or in the kitchen — 
 all such questions have to do solely with the dramatic 
 entanglement and the unified impression. Apart from 
 them there is no organizing to be done. 
 
 JUi^jgonclusion^-then, contrary to all the literary formal- 
 ists, a short story may have as many characters in action 
 as the writer can handle, while producing his single 
 effect. It may involve as many events as he is disposed 
 to incorporate, provided only he lives up to the double 
 ideal. And there is no style forbidden him, so long as 
 he uses it to aid rather than to thwart that same ideal. 
 In spite of this freedom, he will generally deal with 
 one only trait and one episode. But let him not mistake 
 these common formal limits for his ideal. Such a con- 
 fusion is fatal, wherever ideals are involved. In morals, 
 it leads to conventionaUty. And it reduces art to crass 
 mechanics. 
 
EXERCISES 49 
 
 Exercises 
 
 Which of the following works are (1) dramatic but 
 without a unity of impression, (2) undramatic but with 
 the single effect, (3) both dramatic and with the single 
 effect, and (4) lacking both qualities? Indicate, as 
 precisely as you can, the central idea and the emotional 
 quahty of each story. 
 
 Poe, E. v.— Hop Frog. 
 Balzac, Honore — A Seashore Drama. 
 — La Grande Breteche. 
 Maupassant, Guy de — The Piece of String, 
 
 — Little Soldier. 
 Coppee, Francois — The Substitute. 
 
 — My Friend Meurtrier. 
 Daudet, Alphonse — The Siege of Berlin. 
 Stevenson, R. L. — Ollala. 
 
 — Markheim. 
 Kipling, Rudyard — At the End of the Passage. 
 
 —They. 
 Wharton, Edith—The Bolted Door. 
 Dyar, Muriel C. — The Crime in Jedidiah Peehle's House 
 {Harper's, March, 1912). 
 
 Stockley, Cynthia — The Road to Tuli {McClure's, April, 
 1912). 
 
 Norris, Kathleen — Bridging the Years {American 
 Magazine, May, 1912). 
 
 White, William Allen — A Kansas "Childe Roland^' 
 (in the volume entitled In Our Town, Doubleday, Page, 
 1909). 
 
CHAPTER II.— WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE 
 ABOUT? 
 
 1. The importance of this question. The beginner 
 instinctively pays little heed to his story themes. He 
 feels that he may follow his own inclination, inasmuch 
 as the range and variety of subjects successfully dealt 
 with by story writers seem limitless. This impression, 
 however, is dangerously misleading. Whether viewed 
 as a work of art or as a piece of merchandise for the 
 magazine market, the genre is definitely restricted in 
 more respects than any other form of fiction. Whoever 
 exceeds its. bounds is almost certainly foredoomed to 
 produce a story that is either ineffective or unsalable or 
 both. 
 
 2. The theme is limited in three directions. There are 
 many restraints upon the theme. The most important 
 of these may be classified under three heads: 
 
 a. Those set hy the story form. 
 
 b. Those set by the writer's knowledge and beliefs. 
 
 c. Those set by his audience. 
 
 • Not a few restraints are merely commercial; and these 
 we shall consider in the last chapter of this book. 
 
 a. Limits set by the story form. Recall what the short 
 story is: a dramatic narrative with a single effect. Two 
 ideals are to be reahzed in one form, and each of them 
 is to give its own peculiar determination to this form. 
 
 i. The theme must yield s^plot. Human conduct with- 
 out the developing crisis will not turn the trick, and the 
 most terrific crisis without the struggling, controlling 
 
 50. 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 51 
 
 force of human nature at work in it will also fail. To 
 be persuaded of this, study that wonderfully accurate and 
 sympathetic medley of middle Western sketches by 
 William Allen White, entitled In Our Town} The 
 majority of these are not short stories, either in form or by 
 intent; but some of them are, notably the one entitled 
 By the Rod of His Wrath. This is a terrific picture of the 
 silent, crushing power of righteous public opinion. Here 
 stands John Markley, who defied the decencies by putting 
 aside his wife in middle age for a brazen office girl. And 
 here stand John Markley's old friends, facing the moral 
 crisis of having to be loyal either to him or to his out- 
 raged wife (and through her to their own professed 
 ethics). The story tells how they decided and 
 lived up to their decision. Loose in its informality of 
 narrative, it is none the less a genuine short storj^, fli9.w- 
 less except for an insufficient dramatic emphasis u])on 
 some one of the many intense episodes in it. Now con- 
 trast with it The Young Prince, in the same collection. 
 This, you will instantly find, is only a swift little biography 
 of a cub reporter. There lurks in it no complication, 
 tragic or comic, wherein the Prince's loyalty, his pride, 
 his sense of humor, his courage, or any other moral trait 
 works out its own salvation. The picture is true; amd 
 there is some action, but not the sort that makes dranaa. 
 
 ii. The theme, in order to produce a single effect, m\ist 
 be one which can be adequately handled within the span 
 of a single perusal. It was Poe who pointed out this 
 peculiar limitation. Lacking it, the novel ^'depri\es 
 itself, of course, of the immense force derivable from 
 totality. Worldly interests intervening during the pauses 
 of perusal modify, annul or contract . . the 
 
 impressions of the book. But simply cessation in read- 
 ing would, of itself, be sufficient to destroy the true 
 
 iDoubleday, Page, 1909. 
 
52 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 unity/' This psj^chological fact quite sharply defines 
 the pure external magnitude of the short story, though 
 not nearly so much as one might imagine from a survey 
 of the magazines. For reasons discussed elsewhere, 
 editors have limited the story to an ordinary maximum 
 of 8,000 words (in England about 6,000) and they 
 sometimes deceive themselves into beheving that this 
 measures the natural or proper size. As a matter of fact, 
 it bears only a remote relation to the artistic (the psy- 
 chological) maximum, which is fixed entirely by the 
 particular theme and the particular reader. The single 
 effect can be perfectly attained in a narrative of 40,000 
 words, if only the theme is sufficiently obvious and simple, 
 and the reader is exceptionally intelligent. Henry 
 James' ghost story, The Turn of the Screw, is of that 
 length, and certainly a person of concentration will 
 derive from it a unity of impression no less pronounced 
 than that which he gains from Poe's very brief Morella. 
 No doubt, the gum-chewmg stenographer who devours 
 the literary offspring of Mr. Robert W. Chambers might 
 have her difficulties with James' work. But this is 
 only another way of my saying that the permissible 
 length of a story depends upon the number of ideas and 
 effects which its reader can easily carry in mind at once; 
 and this, of course, varies with the reader's mental 
 equipment. If he happens to be an AustraHan bush- 
 man, he reaches his limit at the twentieth monosyllable. 
 And if he is an eminent mathematician, he may read a 
 hundred full-grown modern novels in quick succession 
 and get from the whole group only a single effect, namely 
 that of tedium. 
 
 This individual difference is reckoned with roughly by 
 magazines which cater to widely different classes of 
 readers. A pretty accurate index of the pubhc an 
 editor seeks is given in the length of stories he favors. 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 53 
 
 If he prefers 2,500-word varieties, he is certainly appealing 
 to a shallower type of mind than his colleague up the 
 street does who handles 5,000-word goods. It is the 
 average length, of course, that is significant; and varia- 
 tions of a few hundred words are wholly meaningless. 
 But, with some innocuous exaggeration, we might speak 
 of the 2,000-word reader, the 4,000-word reader, the 
 8,000-word reader, and the 15,000-word reader. Now, 
 it is the likings and capacities of the first three species 
 which define the practical limits of most contemporary 
 stories. 
 
 ii. This 8,000-word limit sets three restrictions upon 
 the theme. It excludes all subjects which involve: 
 
 a. An intricate plot, 
 
 p. Elaborate staging, and- 
 
 y. Detailed interpretation. 
 
 a. Intricacy. No theme can be used whose plot con- 
 tains more features and complications than can be clearly 
 presented and worked through within the space limit 
 above mentioned. And conversely, what can be adequately 
 depicted in less than 2,000 words is almost certain to be 
 no dramatic narrative, and hence no short story. For 
 a dramatic narrative involves a large number of factors, 
 the baldest account of which generally consumes more 
 than that number of words. 
 
 p. Staging. This is the least important and most 
 plastic of the restrictions. By the staging is meant that 
 much of the total setting which is actually presented in 
 detail to the reader. Often the setting is much fuller than 
 the staging; just as in the early drama, where the setting, 
 say a forest in Warwickshire, was represented in the 
 staging by a single plucked bough, and a silent character 
 on the scene symbolized by a cloak flung over a stick 
 propped uplin a corner. As with plays^ so with short 
 
X, 
 
 54 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 stories. Some of them demand very little explicit develop- 
 ment of the scenic circumstances under which their 
 plots grow, while others, lik^'^WurMmh, owe their very 
 life to the vivid fulness of the environing conditions. 
 Now, it is only with reference to these latter themes that 
 staging becomes a serious problem; and, as they are not 
 very common, the student need not pay much attention 
 to the difficulty they raise. Let him learn only the 
 two general rules by which they are rejected: 
 
 A. A theme is unfit for a short story if its plot calls for a 
 aging so elaborate that there remains for the development 
 
 of the dramatic narrative not space enough within the as- 
 signed limits of the story's total length. 
 
 B. A theme is unfit also if its plot calls for the extensive 
 staging of situations which interrupt the dramatic narrative. 
 
 For further comment on this topic see the chapter on 
 integrative intensifiers. 
 
 y. Interpretation. The equivocation in this term must 
 be cleared away before we can discuss the point here to 
 be made. By 'interpretation' artists frequently mean 
 their own personal rendering of an idea or a scene or a 
 play. When, for instance, an actor gives his interpreta- 
 tion of Hamlet, he represents the dismal Dane, not as 
 Hamlet himself may have been, nor yet as Shakespeare 
 may have conceived him, but as the player himself be- 
 lieves the character is most truly or most dramatically 
 exhibited. Again, a writer is said to interpret New York 
 when he gives you a picture of the town as he sees it. 
 Thus, in The Claws of the Tiger, Gouverneur Morris offers 
 a powerful interpretation of the life-wrecking power and 
 unspeakable vice of Tammany Hall. 
 
 Now this meaning of 'interpretation' ought to be dis- 
 carded; and for the excellent reason that, as soon as you 
 apply it consistently, you strip it of significance. Any 
 and every account becomes an interpretation. A private 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 55 
 
 letter sketching the ravages of mumps in the family is 
 an interpretation. A morsel of gossip about the rector's 
 cook eloping with the ice man is interpretation. For 
 does not the reporter give you a picture of affairs as he 
 perceives them? And does he not present them in the 
 form he thinks best? He assuredly does. But in so doing 
 he does not rise above the artistic level of a camera; for 
 the camera too renders the landscape as it appears from 
 its own private point of view and as sensed by a film of 
 peculiar chemical make-up. Therefore, to speak of 
 interpreting a story theme, in this loose sense, is to 
 speak of nothing special. You do not graze any technical 
 problem of artistic expression. 
 
 The word has, however, another and a deeper meaning. 
 To discern the significance of something, to clarify that 
 which is obscure, to construe something which one's 
 audience is in doubt about; all that is genuine interpreta- 
 tion. It is a deliberate intellectual enterprise. Its 
 purpose may not be the preacher's; it may be more akin 
 to the scientist's. To finish with a Q. E. D., like Euclid, 
 and to let the reader use the inference as he will, may 
 be the author's one desire. And, when it is, the story 
 gains mightily. There are few specimens of truly great 
 stories which are wholly devoid of this quasi-scientific 
 demonstration. Markheim conspicuously proves that 
 there is always a way of checking a wicked habit, albeit 
 a desperate way. Moonlight proves dramatically that, 
 to sympathize with an emotion, one must experience it or 
 something like it. Howells' A Circle in the Water proves 
 in its own style that love alone arrests the consequences 
 of wrong. And so on, with only occasional exceptions, 
 unless we take into account simple love and adventure 
 stories. It is pretty clear that, though interpretation is 
 not essential to the short story, it elevates and glorifies the 
 form as nothing else can. 
 
56 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 So defined, the limitations under which interpretation 
 suffers in the short story form are apparent. And the first 
 of these is the one which Brunetiere had in mind when he 
 wrote that the theme of the short story must be 'socially 
 insignificant'. This phrase is inexact and needlessly damn- 
 ing, but it does point toward a profound distinction be- 
 tween short story and novel. There are many human 
 truths which resemble Euclid's first theorems in that 
 they are simple, fundamental, and proved in a few 
 words. But there are many more which can be compared 
 only with the propositions of integral calculus; for they 
 are accessible only through a labyrinth of details. It 
 is a simple truth that public opinion can, without force 
 or fury, crush even a rich and powerful man who flouts 
 it. It is a very obscure and intricate proposition that 
 will tell the whole truth about the rights of a man to 
 divorce a wife he is weary of. Some very intelligent 
 people will say, in great heat, that the man has no right; 
 and other no less intelligent people will assert vehemently 
 that it is criminal to compel anybody to remain wedded 
 against his or her wish. All of which proves that there 
 are two sides to the question, and maybe twenty, and 
 that nobody quite understands them all. Now the 
 former truth, about the still power of the public, can be 
 comprehended within the compass of a few thousand 
 words; hence it is suited to the story form, and White has 
 successfully employed it thus in By the Rod of His Wrath. 
 But the second truth has not yet been demonstrated 
 conclusively even in the longest novel; and it may never 
 be, so multitudinous are the human interests which 
 play into the problem of divorce, and so delicate is their 
 weighing. Reason enough, then, for forbidding it to the 
 story writer! And so, though it is raised in the reader's 
 mind by White's story. White does not develop it at 
 all. 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 57 
 
 The defect in Brunetiere's verdict now appears. It is 
 not the social insignificance of John Markley's fate that 
 led White to depict it in a short story instead of in a 
 novel. Surely, few crises are of deeper importance to 
 the individual and of wider consequence -to the world 
 than that which the village faced when Markley cast off 
 his wife. What is there anywhere in Balzac or Thackeray 
 that more deeply concerns society? Would the author 
 have given us a false notion of its importance, had he 
 expanded the story of it into a novel? By no means. 
 Well then, why did he not make a novel of it? Simply 
 because it could be perfectly demonstrated in a short 
 story. When all is said and done, it is the very same 
 reason that dissuaded Euclid from expanding his famous 
 proposition about the angles of a triangle into a 100,000- 
 word volume. A hundred and odd words did the business 
 to perfection; and Euclid was too wise to exceed perfec- 
 tion. He was not influenced by the fact that the truth 
 about the triangle is of prodigious social importance. 
 Had he done so; had he made the telling of the story 
 commensurate with the value of the truth in it, forty 
 thick tomes would not have contained it. 
 
 But, happily for the human race, the value of what men 
 have to say has not the slightest connection with the 
 fulness of its recounting. A truth, whether of geometry 
 or of constitutional law or of every-day human nature, 
 whether syllogistically or dramatically phrased, whether 
 precious or trivial, fixes its own number of words pretty 
 definitely. If it is intricate, it will demand a great array 
 of language; if simple, one sentence may make it as clear 
 as the sun in a cloudless sky. Here is, at bottom, no 
 mystery of art or logic; it is only the primitive virtue of 
 straightforward speech. 
 
 This virtue imposes a restraint upon the interpretations 
 which the short story writer may indulge in; a restraint, 
 
58 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 by the way, which few beginners heed or, heeding, endure 
 with patience. It is this: 
 
 Do not attempt to interpret any matter which society 
 finds problematic today 
 
 If the human race has not yet found a clear answer to a 
 question of social consequence, it is because the question 
 is entangled and dark, or at least two-sided. And what- 
 ever is so cannot be presented in such a manner as to 
 produce that single effect which is the inalienable charm 
 and right of the short story. 
 
 b. The theme as limited by the writer^s knowledge and 
 beliefs. Before dipping into this matter, the reader wall 
 kindly call to mind that we are now considering the 
 artistic ideals of the short story, not the commercial 
 possibilities. Were he to overlook this fact, he would be 
 perplexed by the two rules now to be framed, the first of 
 which is: 
 
 i. The writer must possess genuine knowledge of the matter 
 actually employed in the dramatic narrative; but need not 
 know any more. 
 
 This rule meets with scant reverence. A horde of 
 stories favored by editors exhibit appalling ignorance, 
 not only of elementary facts about human nature but even 
 about the habits and customs of the times, places, and 
 social castes about whom the authors fabulate.^ And a 
 much larger multitude of stories give evidence that their 
 authors, after taking pen in hand, have asked some Public 
 Library assistant about the flora and fauna of the Tahiti 
 Islands, and scanned Baedeker to find out whether Rus- 
 sians drink vodka through a straw. But all this only goes 
 to show what everybody knows, namely that, within cer- 
 
 1 In fairness to editors, it should be added that the better maga- 
 zines are admitting fewer stories of this sort than they did twenty- 
 five years ago. But within the past twelvemonth at least half a 
 dozen absurdities have been published. 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 59 
 
 tain bounds, gold-brick literature is a marketable commod- 
 ity, no less than gold-brick stocks and gold-brick religion 
 are. Also, it goes to show that few people can write good 
 stories, and of those who can still fewer can pour them 
 forth on contract, month in, month out. And so the 
 wretched editors — Heaven comfort them! — have to take 
 what they can get. 
 
 The other clause in the rule is equally ignored. Even 
 experienced writers often wade through volumes and 
 volumes of sociological statistics, as a preliminary to 
 contriving a story, let us say, about a Madison Street 
 sweatshop. And I have heard promising young writers 
 sigh, almost tearfully, that they could never hope to 
 write psychological character stories like James' be- 
 cause the poor dears had not mastered the other James' 
 psychology. 
 
 Now, this despair is a baseless superstition. The truth 
 is, most facts that are important to scientists are only dis- 
 tantly connected with those which help to make a situation 
 dramatic. These latter are exclusively those which 
 the persons in the dramatic situation are directly aware of. 
 The sweater's kicks and curses, the garlicky air, the flat, 
 high voice from the top of a sick workman's filling lungs, 
 the twenty cents clipped off the week's pay for the crooked 
 stitching, — these are the raw material of sweatshop drama. 
 For it is they that men perceive, they that provoke to 
 wrath, they that move victims to slay or to fling them- 
 selves from bridges. The writer familiar with all such 
 factors may dispense with the others. 
 
 For this reason, the writer in search of material must 
 turn, not to libraries nor to schools and laboratories, but 
 to intimate every-day affairs. Other more dignified 
 sources of truth will give him his bearings in the midst of 
 life and sharpen his eyes toward good and evil. But never 
 
60 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 can they teach him how to make his characters hfe-Hke, 
 his situations real, and his chmaxes tense. 
 
 There remains a second limiting rule : 
 
 ii. The writer is free to develop a theme which he does not 
 believe. But he must understand how and why the char- 
 acters in the story feel and act as they do. And he must 
 portray the reasons and causes of their acts sympathetically. 
 If he cannot, he must give up the theme. 
 
 This would scarcely be worth mentioning, but for tjie 
 loose talk about 'sincerity' and 'earnestness' which many 
 excellent critics, and even writers, are wont to indulge 
 in. We have heard Chesterton assuring us that good 
 fiction comes only from doctrinaires; and other milder ex- 
 aggerators are constantly proclaiming that even the lightest 
 tale, in order to be good art, must 'have a message', 
 or 'point a moral', or come from the author's soul. And 
 so, every season under such promptings, comes a host 
 of fresh learners striving to pack their intensest beliefs 
 into little stories. To forestall the harmful consequences 
 of their misunderstanding, let them dwell upon the 
 vast, conspicuous difference between belief (or moral earnest- 
 ness) and sympathetic imagination. 
 
 This difference must be apparent to anybody who 
 dreams vividly or retains some shred of early youth's 
 power of fantasy. The mind so constituted perceives 
 the unreal as real and the preposterous as plausible. 
 While the spell lasts, nothing mars the perfect reality of 
 its presentments. Fiends, abysses, diamonds like hens' 
 eggs, the men of Mars, — they are all, for the swift instant, 
 just what they seem to be. Reason, paralyzed for the 
 nonce, does not challenge their status; nor does the acid of 
 common sense eat into their tenuous stuff. And so, in 
 one sense, they convince us, and we believe in them. 
 
 But 'thej^ are not convincing in the more proper mean- 
 ing of the word. They do not lay hold of us as the ideas 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 61 
 
 in Heretics lay hold of Chesterton, or as those in Widowers' 
 Houses master Bernard Shaw. They are not faiths which 
 grow out of life and, in turn, regulate it; they merely 
 possess such coherence and vivacity that, while we con- 
 template them by themselves, we cannot doubt them. As 
 soon as we withdraw from their little sphere and reason 
 about them, they lose their power over us. Consider, for 
 instance, the tales of Poe. What is there in The Fall of 
 the House of Usher that one could believe with a doctrin- 
 aire's fine frenzy? Absolutely nothing. The whole som- 
 bre creation is a picture, nothing more. But Poe dreamed 
 it so clearly, and the disasters of it hang together in every 
 minute detail so organically that the catastrophe possesses 
 all the fleeting persuasiveness of a nightmare. While you 
 read it, you inhabit a strange land. And the emotions 
 which this, your bewildering translation, induce are all 
 that you ask of the story teller. If he can produce this 
 illusion of reality, you do not care what he believes per- 
 sonally about anything. 
 
 There is no denying that a story shaped by some lofty 
 purpose often rises to heights attained by no idle play 
 of the imagination. Not even the hilarity of an O. Henry 
 nor his smother of puns mitigates the grim earnestness of 
 An Unfinished Story; and few of his more light-hearted 
 tales linger in the memory as does this attack upon the 
 employer who underpays his shop-girls. And yet, when all 
 is said, moral earnestness is only a strengthener, and 
 high purposes are seven-league boots, at best, in the 
 realm of the story writer. They improve, but they do 
 not create. They intensify, but they do not furnish the 
 material of brief fiction. Excellent they are, but not 
 essential. In proof of this, many an author can testify 
 that some of his most artistic, most successful works 
 have developed themes which he disliked, characters whom 
 he scorned, and ideas which he could not seriously enter- 
 
 k 
 
62 ' SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 tain. I have been told that there is a story writer of 
 renown who deUberately shelves every plot of his which 
 stirs him deeply in a serious way. And another echoes 
 what Frohman says of the plays he reads: ''Every one that 
 I like personally is sure to fail." 
 
 c. The theme as limited by the reader. 
 
 It is difficult to separate the artistic restrictions from 
 the commercial, in this case. For what a reader likes he 
 will buy, and what he dislikes he will leave on the book- 
 stand. Furthermore, he is much more interested in the 
 topic of a book than in its style or the opinion it voices or 
 the kinds of people appearing in it. His first decisive 
 query is this: What does the story narrate, adventure 
 or romance or a humorous situation or the inner life of a 
 character? And if he wishes catch-breath deviltry, no 
 amount of fine speech or pretty turns will make a simple 
 love story attractive to him. For this reason, his influence 
 will be discussed in the chapter on the business of story 
 writing. He has nothing to do with the art of writing, 
 but only with the art of selling the written. 
 
 S. Available story material. Thus far we have been in- 
 dicating what is not good story stuff. It is now time to 
 ask what is good. 
 
 a. Theme. There is no positive quality which marks 
 the available theme. You may, if you choose, show 
 dramatically that black is white, or that women should 
 vote, or that virtue is an illusion, or that love is a lovely 
 thing, or that lone widows ought never buy mining stock, 
 or that things as they are aren't as they should be, or 
 anjrthing else. In brief, all we can say is that the theme 
 may be whatever permits of dramatic development with a 
 single effect. But this tells nothing about the particular 
 content and quality of the idea. 
 
 b. Plot. Here we begin to see light, and under it the 
 story material shows up pretty definite. Almost every 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 63 
 
 experienced reader senses — at least vaguely — the quality 
 which makes ideas and incidents and characters good for 
 dramatic narrative. This quality has many names: 
 one is ^ human interest', another is 'emotional intensity*, 
 a third 'truth about human nature', and a fourth 'char- 
 acter revelation'. But these are all too hazy, and the 
 last is certainly too narrow. The first points at the truth 
 but does not attain it. Editors assure us that 'human 
 interest' is the flavor and perfume of every excellent 
 story. But what is human interest? How shall we know 
 it when we meet it? Has it a formula, that the tyro of 
 Grub Street may make it to order? Profound silence in 
 editorial offices! And the literary critics are not much 
 noisier. The truth is, no clear analysis of this nebulous 
 literary virtue has been rendered. But the way has 
 been cleared by contemporary psychologists. Their 
 studies of attention and interest are suggestive. 
 
 c. Interest. Between simple attention and interest 
 stretches a wide gulf. A person attends to things more 
 or less passively. A loud noise, a flash of light, a strange 
 voice, indeed almost anything different from what we 
 happen to be noticing at the moment, will draw our minds 
 in that pecuhar way which is called attending. Not so, 
 however, do things compel us to be interested in them. 
 The direction of our interest is set largely by our own 
 wills and our beliefs. We give attention, but we take 
 interest. In the first case there is a yielding, in the 
 second a seizing. When interested in something, we lay 
 hold of its features and we actively think about them, in 
 some of their hearings. Are you interested in the ven- 
 tures of a slack-wire artist? Then you surely do more 
 than follow his shaking march across the stage. You 
 wander how he will manage to keep his balance after 
 dropping his pole. You try to figure out what move he 
 will make next. You judge his chances of breaking a leg. 
 
64 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 You reflect upon the patience and skill his feats represent. 
 In short, you think hard. And so it is with great affairs, 
 too. If you take interest, say, in immigration or in 
 divorce or in Roosevelt, you do not merely attend as you 
 might to the pop of a toy pistol. You think, think,^ think 
 about causes and consequences, about the perils and the 
 benefits, about the right and the wrong of it all. Here 
 we have the infallible psychological mark of 'human in- 
 terest'; the interesting thing is the thing which provokes 
 thought. 
 
 d. What provokes thought? This query arises at once. 
 For, unless it is answered, the above description will not 
 enlighten us much. Fortunately, though, our pragmatic 
 philosophers have hit upon its solution. Thought is 
 provoked by any situation from which our instincts and our 
 established habits do not automatically deliver us. It 
 offers us a new critical weapon which cleanly cuts the 
 fit from the unfit material of artistic fiction. But let us 
 first inspect the fact itself. 
 
 Most people think only when they have to. This 
 incontestable fact you may utter with a cynical aieer, 
 if you have not reflected upon it. But if you have, you 
 know that the arrangement is not so bad as it sounds. In- 
 deed, it is pretty useful, taken by and large. It is not 
 ideal, to be sure; in a perfectly appointed world we 
 should never think at all but should only enjoy Hfe, solving 
 / all .problems mechanically, as we dislodge dust from the 
 eyes and digest our food. Seeing the universe is what it 
 is, though, a place full of change and entanglements, so 
 complex that no machinery, however intricate and well 
 fashioned, could do the right thing always at the right 
 time, this painful and difficult activity of thinking must 
 be invoked. Whatsoever we can manage through some 
 other agency we do so manage. And, if thinking is im- 
 perative for a while, we make that while as brief as possi- 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 65 
 
 ble. The baby thinks in learning to walk, but as soon as 
 his feet move surely he refrains from cogitation. He 
 thinks over his speech, too, but quickly he outgrows that, 
 transforming discourse from an intellectual performance 
 to a reflex habit. And he never thinks about the order 
 and choice of words again, unless they give rise to some 
 new, unforeseen perplexity; as, for instance, they might, 
 were he suddenly afflicted with stammering or stage 
 fright. This is no scandal, it is a great convenience. 
 Thanks to it, men are able to concern themselves with 
 fresh enterprises and hence to progress. Indeed, civiliza- 
 tion is a titanic nnionument to thoughtlessness, no less than 
 to thought. The supreme triumph of mind is to di'spense 
 with itself. For what would intellect avail us, if we 
 could not withdraw it from action in all the habitual en- 
 counters of daily life? Suppose we had to think how 
 to lace our shoes and steer sandwiches to our mouths! 
 And what if we had to set going the machinery of 
 Aristotle's logic whenever we sought to say ''Good 
 morning"! 
 
 e. The (hought-provoking situation is what we call a 
 problem. This is in accord with common usage, and also 
 with philosophy. Its implication carries us far from 
 many current theories about fiction. For it means 
 that 'human interest is confined to problems, and that 
 every good story is a problem story. Pretty soon we shall 
 have to explain what a problem story is and incidentally 
 clear away the easy but false supposition that it deals 
 with only the acute and ultimate social issues, as the 
 'problem play' does. For the moment, though, let us 
 draw another distinction. 
 
 Not every problem awakens the kind of human interest 
 which editors sigh for. A situation provoking thought is 
 not inevitably suitable for fiction. If it were, all the 
 innumerable puzzles of science and politics and huck- 
 
66 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 sterdom would fall within its domain; yea, and even the 
 questions the Walrus put to the Carpenter. Is a butterfly 
 a moth, and if not, why not? There you have matter 
 calling for some exercise of intellect; and yet it is obvi- 
 ously not to be threshed out by O. Henry or Henry James. 
 Although it awakens human interest, it is incompatible 
 with the ideals of the short story. For it is not intrinsically 
 dramatic. This fact at once suggests that there are 
 several kinds of thought-provoking situations, and 
 that only certain of these yield to the story teller's 
 art. 
 
 f . Three varieties of situations. A little reflection will 
 show that situations may be classified with respect to the 
 manner of managing them. Three types thereupon 
 appear: 
 
 -i. Those which can be managed by action alone. 
 Thus, the dodging of a missile; rebuffing a person who 
 seeks to tempt you with some outrageous offer; grasping a 
 friend's arm, as he slips on an icy sidewalk. In such 
 cases you do not stop to think; you simply 'do the right 
 thing'. 
 
 ii. Situations which can be managed with pure thought 
 alone. For instance, multiplying 56 by 9; or discovering 
 the motives of a supposed friend who has grossly in- 
 sulted you; or laying bare a conspiracy, by inference from, 
 a chance remark you overhear in the street car. 
 
 iii. Situations which can be managed only by thought 
 and some consequent personal action.^ Thus, in A Coward, 
 
 ^ Were this a book on the psychology of conduct, I should de- 
 scribe a fourth situation, namely that which can be managed only 
 by thinking aud simultaneous action. Here the action is not the 
 consequence of prior thinking, as it is in the dramatic situation; 
 rather is it an aid in thinking. Of this sort is all experiment. One 
 reflects up to a certain point; then does something to test his pro- 
 visional inferences or else to clarify the matter of the problem; and 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 67 
 
 the predicament into which Maupassant brings the vis- 
 count; the unhappy man must first think a long time, 
 but thinking alone will ftot solve his difficulty. Thought 
 must be followed by action. And so too in every dramatic 
 situation. Here we have come upon the mark of the 
 species. 
 
 g. The third type of situation fulfills only one ideal of the 
 ^hort story. In the primitive sense of the words, this kind 
 of situation gives rise to the behavior called dramatic. 
 Certainly the thinking it evokes displays human nature 
 somehow, and certainly too the action that grows out of 
 that thinking is 'in character\ Nevertheless, one might 
 easily suggest a host of cases possessing these features 
 and yet being too dull and colorless for fictional purposes. 
 To give an extreme sample: a cook might inadvertently 
 pepper a stew with roach powder three minutes before 
 family and guests were to dine. There's a situation that 
 ought to stir any ambitious culinary champion to deep 
 thought. Cook might ponder desperately, torn be- 
 tween the impulse to fly into the Plutonian night and the 
 impulse to open a can of soused mackerel and serve it in 
 place of the wrecked stew. In the end, the fish might 
 triumph over the flight; cook would clutch the can-opener 
 desperately and march into the pantry. There you find 
 all the elements of mere drama, and yet not the plot of even 
 a weak short story. The trouble with it is the sharp de- 
 cline in the last act. You may be moderately excited by 
 the fatal dose of roach powder. You may wonder poig- 
 nantly over the prospects of cook's blasted reputation or 
 over the fate of the diners, if cook serves the stew. But, 
 the minute you learn that mackerel are on hand to rescue 
 
 so on, with constant interplay. For psychological and ethical 
 purposes it is important to hold this variety of situation apart. 
 But the story writer need not concern himself with it, beyond notic- 
 ing its existence. 
 
68 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 cook from ignominy and the diners from hospital, the 
 tension is over. You know that the finish will be calm, 
 easy, and cheerful. In other Words, there is one effect 
 in the crucial situation of the episode, and another effect 
 in the denouement; and this violates the second ideal of the 
 short story. 
 
 h. For the purposes of the short story, the complica- 
 tion, the crisis, and the denouement must he of either equal 
 or ascending effectiveness. Nothing can be more deadly 
 than the declining effect. It is even worse than 
 a story which is dull throughout, for it awakens in you 
 hopes of a thrilling end and then disappoints you. Few 
 will hesitate to confirm this fact, and yet many persist 
 in ignoring it when they turn to write fiction. I am con- 
 tinually amazed at the scant attention given by fairly ca- 
 pable authors to the sustained finish. They conjure up 
 excellent dramatic situations and vigorous, sharply ac- 
 centuated characters, but halt as soon as they have done 
 that much. It may be that they fancy their 
 heroines can work out their own salvation and at the 
 same stroke please the reader. At any rate, this delusion 
 has been fostered and popularized by a literary school 
 which some are pleased to miscall 'psychological realism'. 
 The ideal of this school is to depict the stream of con- 
 sciousness in its natural flow across a natural world. 
 Given a certain character, what must he do in a certain 
 situation? What impulses, feehngs, or prejudices will 
 dominate his conduct? It is, they say, the artist's task to 
 answer this question pictorially. As Howells puts it: 
 "the true plot comes out of the character; that is, the man 
 does not result from the things he does, but the things he 
 does result from the man, and so plot comes out of charac- 
 ter, plot aforethought does not characterize". Or, as one 
 might say a little more exactly, the deliberate choice of a 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 69 
 
 man in a given situation is the stuff of which a good 
 story must be made. 
 
 Now, for argument's sake, we might grant this much 
 (though we deny it as a matter of fact); and yet we 
 should have to repudiate the all too common inference 
 from it, that all cases of a person choosing and shaping his 
 conduct will serve the fictionist. No logic can extract 
 this proposition from the original one, and only a narrow 
 artistic theory can defend it against the army of adverse 
 instances. Few indeed are the stories beloved of the world 
 which depict the triumph of pure human nature; and 
 many are those which, having done this, fail to delight 
 the average cultured reader. In The Pursuit of the Piano^ 
 Howells himself has furnished a capital specimen for the 
 refuting of his own theory. 
 
 No jaded reader could ask for a more promising, 
 whimsical situation than that which sets this story going. 
 A soberly romantic lawyer chances to catch the name 
 of a young lady on a boxed piano which, on its way to 
 her New Hampshire home, passes the cafe window at 
 which he sits breakfasting. On his journey to some 
 friends the piano haunts him, bobbing up at every 
 station. First idly wondering, then amused, then vexed, 
 then jesting over it with his friends, the attorney finally, 
 by dint of thinking much about the instrument and its 
 owner, . . . But we must not tell the story just 
 yet. Stopping here, you will surely sense the delightful 
 possibilities of the odd encounter. Now, if the theory 
 of psychological realism is sound, a good story would 
 inevitably result from the depicting of the hero con- 
 trolling and finishing up the complication, by the use of 
 his own inner nature, his impulses, his desires, his fancies, 
 his serious reflections. Unfortunately, though, it does 
 not work out that way here. The inner historj'^ of 
 
 ^ In A Pair of Patient Lovers. 
 
70 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Gaites, the lawyer, is faithfully drawn. Two or three 
 hundred of his mental states are painstakingly recorded; 
 and every turn, halt, and advance toward the end which 
 such a man in just such an affair must attain is illumi- 
 nated. But, for all that, the story ends flat — and the flat- 
 ness is quite exasperating, in spite of the delicious predica- 
 ment Gaites is brought into at the close. This predica- 
 ment is irrelevant to the plot, — a mere adornment, albeit 
 a good one. The story ends with the true lovers em- 
 bracing in the Cloister; for then and there the initial 
 complication solves itself, the pursuit of the piano is over, 
 and the central character works out what we all hope is his 
 salvation. Now, this entire scene is incomparably weaker 
 than any before it. It neither thrills nor excites nor 
 tickles nor alleviates nor even offends. It is just what 
 a sane young man and a sane young woman would do, 
 according to all the laws of mental balance and con- 
 temporary manners; which is to say that it is as un- 
 dramatic as coffee and rolls. 
 
 AVhat does this suggest, if not that a real character 
 seldom acts dramatically? Still less often does his con- 
 duct in a crisis appear dramatic to a spectator who sees 
 all his inner motives, impulses, and directions in their 
 entirety. Let us frame the truth with a paradox: let us 
 say that most acts which are true to character are not 
 characteristic. Much that a man does under the guid- 
 ance of some impulse or sentiment may be consistent 
 with the latter and yet may not imply it. 
 
 Here once more we discover the dramatic effect resting 
 upon a purely intellectual one. If you will turn to your 
 Elements of Logic, you will find that any given proposition 
 is implied by an infinite number of pairs of other proposi- 
 tions. Thus, to show that Socrates is mortal, you may 
 assert that Socrates is an Athenian, and all Athenians are 
 mortal; or that Socrates is a philosopher, and all phi- 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 71 
 
 losophers return to dust; or that Socrates is harassed by his 
 wife, and that all men who live in such connubial conflict 
 come to an untimely end; and so on, endlessly. It is 
 for this purely logical reason that, if told only that Soc- 
 rates is mortal, you do not know much about him. True 
 as mortality is to his nature, it does not characterize 
 it; it does not mark off this man from other creatures, 
 nor does it indicate its own inner necessity. It is nothing 
 more than a scrap of information, as unenlightening as it 
 is true. For, though it is implied by Socrates' nature, it 
 does not imply this nature; and hence it is no genuine 
 revelation. 
 
 Now apply this distinction to character drawing. 
 Suppose you wish to picture a cruel man. You will cast 
 about for appropriate incidents. You may observe a 
 cruel man for a long time and fot down all that he does. 
 Much of tills will doubtless flow from his harshness; he 
 may squeeze his debtors, he may beat children, and he 
 may know no gratitude. But can you, merely by setting 
 down such episodes, be sure of revealing the villain's 
 personality? Not at all. For all such acts, though in- 
 volved in the trait of cruelty, do not necessarily involve 
 this trait. A kind man in desperate straits may squeeze 
 debtors; a gentle neurasthenic lady may beat children 
 mercilessly, when she is 'having a spell'; and a merely 
 stupid man may be thankless toward his benefactors. 
 These acts, therefore, carry in themselves no final, 
 irresistible conviction about their perpetrators; for a great 
 variety of temperaments, appetites, and passing emotions 
 may terminate in such conduct. Not even the psycho- 
 logical inevitability of their happening in a given situation 
 lends them any genuine significance. A sneeze is more / / 
 inevitable than a woman's decision in a love affair. A 
 sane man's resolve to come indoors when it rains is 
 more inevitable than his resolve to forgive an enemy. 
 
72 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 But which is more dramatic? Which reveals the char- 
 acter? 
 
 We may, in conclusion, bring the matter into rela- 
 tion with the other ideal of the short story, the single 
 effect. The writer who begins with a character supposed 
 to have a certain trait and with a situation in which this 
 trait is to be developed must, of course, live up to his 
 promises. He must persuade us that his hero is just the 
 sort of person intended. Now, if the hero's conduct is 
 merely consistent throughout the tale, his nature will be 
 equivocal. If it is equivocal, it is vague. If vague, it 
 lacks the effect of a clear-cut character. Hence the story 
 produces at least two effects, that of the initial situa- 
 tion and all its half-pledges, and that of the development. 
 And, so, it has failed. 
 
 i. The single effect in dramatic narrative is generally pro- 
 duced, not hy depicting a mere problem, hut hy depicting a 
 conflict. And this conflict ends in one of two ways: (a) it 
 brings out an act which is uniquely characteristic of the 
 actor, or else (6) it finishes with a merely consistent act of 
 violation. These are the only two clearly marked types of 
 conduct which hold the reader's interest to the last without 
 altering its quality. 
 
 a. The uniquely characteristic act. In an oft-cited 
 remark to Maupassant Flaubert says: 
 
 When you pass a grocer sitting at the door of his shop, 
 a janitor smoking his pipe, a stand of hackney coaches, 
 show me that grocer and that janitor, their attitudes, their 
 whole physical appearance, embracing likewise . 
 their whole moral nature, so that I cannot confound them 
 with any other grocer or any other janitor. Make me 
 see, in one word, that a certain cab horse does not re- 
 semble the fifty others that follow or precede it. 
 
 This advice is sound, though not to be followed except 
 in the handling of the most important features of a story, 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 73 
 
 especially in character drawing and plotting. To catch 
 individuality is the artist's highest achievement; for in- 
 dividuality is single in its effect and essentially dramatic, 
 thus realizing the two virtues of brief fiction. An act 
 which brings out this, the quality of the whole man, 
 need not be exciting. It may be, apart from its setting, 
 the veriest trifle, as it is in O. Henry's The Moment of 
 Victory, where the hero, bespangled with war medals, 
 walks up to the girl who long ago had jilted him con- 
 temptuously and says to her: '^Oh, I don't know! Maybe 
 I could if I tried!" Being ignorant of the hero's previous 
 deed and of the girl's cruelty, you would find little in this 
 climax to interest you. But, as a revelation of Willie 
 Robbins' career and soul, it is perfect. It is not simply 
 the truth, it is the one truth that enlightens. 
 
 b. The consistent act of violation. Please construe 
 'violation' in its legal sense. It means disregard of law or 
 custom. Thus it. includes not only excesses of physical 
 force but also every case of formal transgression, how- 
 ever mild or free from appeal to brawn or malicious 
 cunning. The splendid lie by which Jean Francois 
 cheated justice and saved his cowardly friend, in Coppee's 
 masterpiece. The Substitute, is no deed of brute force; but it 
 does do violence to law and custom in that it delivered 
 a criminal from justice and punished an innocent man. 
 And so it falls well within our definition. So too does the 
 horrible murder of the little boy in Merimee's Mateo 
 Falcone. It is not the outburst of passion nor the horror 
 of its deed that makes it a sound dramatic ending. It 
 is its human consistency which, added to the intensity of 
 the act, warrants it. That is to say, a man living in 
 Corsica and brought up as Mateo Falcone was would come 
 to esteem loyalty above justice, even to the point of slaying 
 his owTi son for betraying a criminal who had put his 
 trust in the lad. This violates the reader's no+ion of law 
 
74 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 and order, as well as the official proprieties of Corsica. If 
 it did not, the story's ending would be quite flat; it would 
 not differ from the legalized hanging of a condemned 
 murderer, which is an undramatic horror. May it not 
 well be that a Corsican bandit would find Merimee's 
 grisly tale a tame moral story? For to him Falcone's 
 deed would not appear at all unlawful. Its harshness 
 would strike him as the unfortunate but necessary harsh- 
 ness of a wise custom wisely enforced. He would say 
 that it was no more dramatic than defending oneself with 
 a cane against street thugs. 
 
 j. The three levels of conflict. We have said that the 
 only situation suited to fictional presentation is that which, 
 in real life, would stimulate the characters to thought 
 and action. The broader structural features of such a 
 situation have just been indicated; it now remains for us to 
 point out the material of which it is made. This exhibits 
 three pretty sharp forms: the conflict may lie between, 
 
 a. Man and the physical world. 
 
 b. Man and man. 
 
 c. One force and another, in the same man. 
 
 a. Man and the physical world. This is the primary 
 battle of life, the battle which the coddled city-folk forget 
 so easily. The struggle against a head-wind, the nursing 
 of a pitiful corn crop through a desperate drought, the 
 hungry searching for a rabbit in the bitter y/inter wood, 
 the flight from wild beasts, and the escape from savage 
 captors, — of such is still the life of the Lower Billion, who 
 inhabit most of the earth beyond Fifth Avenue. 
 Those who are not of the Lower Billion sometimes look 
 down upon such adventures and sniff top-loftily at the 
 Hhrillers' which are written about them. But you must 
 pay no heed to such talk. It is only the critics' back- 
 handed way of saying that they are too far from raw life 
 to understand it sympathetically. 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 75 
 
 * For the average reader, man's battle with nature will 
 continue to be the most absorbing story theme, and man's 
 triumphant conspiracy against nature's blind, dumb 
 cruelty will remain the supreme story plot, until the last 
 frontier has yielded to the moving picture show and the 
 hot- water flat. And, even in that day, the adventure 
 story will grip the young and the under-educated; for 
 to these the world teem*^ with mystery, perils, and sudden 
 shocks. And they will read what they understand. 
 
 b. Man and man. Society is a gigantic compromise 
 whereby millions of people who differ from one another 
 more widely than chimpanzee differs from orang-outang 
 may rub up against one another with a minimum of 
 offense. Excellent as the compromise is, in many re- 
 spects, it is not and never will be so skilfully devised 
 that every man may have what he wants and be rid of 
 what irks him. In this unpleasant fact you have, re- 
 duced to lowest terms, the basic dilemma which generates 
 thousands of story plots, all of which may fairly be called 
 social. Two lads wooing the same lass; two workmen 
 after the same job; two millionaires scheming against 
 each other, to control a railroad; two politicians seeking 
 the same contract; two ladies sighing to lead the Upper 
 Ten of Hicksville; two school boys after the captaincy of 
 the baseball team: these are headed for a very different 
 battle from that which the wilderness hunter wages against 
 lions and famine. They are matching desire against de- 
 sire, faith against faith, personality against personality. 
 
 It is in this field of conflicts that the average mature 
 man of today finds his steadiest entertainment. And 
 the reason for this lies on the surface of affairs. It is be- 
 cause fiction readers take deepest interest in what touches 
 vitally their daily life. Adventure stories will thrill 
 more sharply and be sought more eagerly in hours of utter 
 relaxation. But they must yield to the social story, for 
 
76 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 they lack altogether its power of awakening thought and 
 the more thoughtful emotions. There was an age when 
 they did not wholly lack it; and that not so very long ago. 
 As late as Shakespeare's day most people inhabited a 
 world of freebooters, sudden wars, and irresistible plagues; 
 a world whose brutal vicissitudes called for a man's best 
 thinking and commanded his attention for a goodly part 
 of his life. And so adventure had a reality and a serious- 
 ness even to the comfortable burgher and the office scriv- 
 ener. It was not a thing apart from life. To the burgher 
 the press-gang might come in the night and lure him 
 aboard the King's four-decker, to brave the cutlasses of 
 Barbary pirates, on far-off, sweltering seas. And the 
 village clerk might become, on an instant's command, the 
 go-between for lordly lovers or the spy of high intriguers. 
 But these possibilities are no more. Ours are other dan- 
 gers. We may be swindled by rascally promoters, or 
 looted by the tariff, or injured by society's foibles and 
 superstitions; or caught in a conflict of morals; and so it is 
 to these that our imagination will turn most freely and 
 with the soberest, most sustained interest. 
 
 c. One force with another^ in the same man. This 
 conflict furnishes the stuff of which the so-called psycholog- 
 ical story is made. You see most clearly what it is, if you 
 inspect one of its most admirable specimens, Markheim. 
 The struggle which Stevenson here depicts is purely in- 
 ternal. It is all the murderer's struggle with himself; or, 
 more precisely, the conflict between two natures in him. 
 The shopkeeper whom he slays is only an incidental 
 presence; the real characters are the souls of Markheim. 
 And so it is always in stojies of this class. 
 
 Such conflicts are not discerned by the greater public. 
 It is not in the average man's power to analyze and inter- 
 pret impulses, thoughts and emotions; or even to observe 
 the flux of these accurately. Indeed, he is scarcely 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU WRITE ABOUT? 77 
 
 awi^re of their existence. He knows only the things which 
 stir them into existence, and all his instinctive interest is 
 in those same things, as it should be. There is no more 
 reason for his being intimate with them than there is 
 for his investigating minutely the workings of his heart 
 valves or the chemical processes of his spinal cord. The 
 immediate, the pressing problems of his life come from the 
 world about him and from the people with whom he has to 
 deal. What with the worries of business and politics and 
 social affairs, Tom, Dick and Harry find scant time for 
 musing over their private mental machinery. And Na- 
 ture has wisely endowed them with little knack in that 
 direction. 
 
 Thus it appears that the three types of conflict appeal 
 respectively to the three chief types of mind; the primitive, 
 the socialized, and the intellectual. As we shall see 
 later, this fact must influence both the construction and 
 the literary manner of all stories. 
 
78 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Exercises 
 
 1. Which qualities of a short story are given in the 
 x'ollowing? 2. Which are wholly lacking? 3. Which are 
 suggested? 
 
 A pathetic plea that a town be saved from desertion 
 has come to the State Railroad Commission. It is 
 from Theresa, 35 miles north of Milwaukee, a settlement 
 of 350 inhabitants, which feels that it is really off the 
 map because the Chicago, Minneapolis & Sault Ste. 
 Marie Railway line was built about a mile and a half 
 away from it. The citizens now ask that the road be 
 compelled to build a spur track, and run trains so that it 
 can realize its destiny. 
 
 Theresa was an old-time fur trading post, established 
 in 1842 by Solomon Juneau, son of the founder of Mil- 
 waukee, and named after his eldest daughter. Ma]?y 
 French Canadians went to live there, and the place at 
 one time seemed to have a bright future. The indifference 
 of the railroad, however, resulted in the building up of 
 Theresa Station outside its old bounds, and in late years 
 the enterprising younger people and immigrants have 
 settled there instead of the original town. Population 
 and prosperity have dwindled in the face of growth all 
 about. For a long time this condition was permitted 
 to go unchecked, but at length the "booster" has come 
 and the Theresa Advancement Association has been 
 formed. It is this organization that has appealed to the 
 Railroad Commission in a quaint document. Here are 
 some of its paragraphs : 
 
 The town began to wane in the early 70's in business prominence 
 because of the ever lacking transportation facihties. 
 
 Our $16,000 school has now only two departments and our dis- 
 trict has lost the yearly State aid on account of incompetency. 
 
 It even has not been successful to induce the retiring farmer as 
 even he wants his accommodations yet and wants to spend the rest 
 of liis life in a town that is pressing gaily ahead instead of the one 
 going to the contrary. 
 
EXERCISES 79 
 
 Hailroad officials, however, say that it would not be 
 worth while to serve the old town, and that it can never 
 realize its ambition to become a metropolis. 
 
 1. Is the following report good material for a short 
 story in its present form? If not, state precisely why not. 
 
 2. Which type of story will it most easily make? 
 Explain your answer. 
 
 A series of stormy sessions of the Hungarian Parliament 
 at Budapest reached their climax today, when Julius 
 Kovacs, a member of the Opposition, fired three shots at 
 Count Tisza, President of the Chamber, and then shot 
 himself in the temple. Count Tisza was unhurt, but 
 Kovacs is believed to be dying. 
 
 The shooting was due to Count Tisza's methods of 
 quelliiig the attempts at obstruction and having offending 
 members carried out by the police. Members of the 
 Opposition who had been suspended on account of re- 
 cent disturbances gathered in a cafe in the morning and 
 proceeded in a body to the House. 
 
 No attempt was made to prevent their entrance. 
 This clemency is believed to be due to the fact that 
 Count Tisza knew that cinematograph operators were 
 stationed outside the Parliament Building to take pic- 
 tures of the struggles of members with soldiers, and he 
 wished to prevent such a blow to the prestige of the 
 Chamber. 
 
 The members, on reaching their seats, found themselves 
 surrounded by police, who requested the intruders to 
 retire. Some quietly obeyed, but other members of the 
 Opposition raised shouts and caterwaulings against the 
 President. Finally the entire Opposition were driven 
 out of the hall by the police. 
 
 Immediately afterward Count Tisza remarked: 
 
 "Now that the House is cleared, there is no fear of a 
 repetition of Wednesday's disgraceful scenes. We will 
 proceed to work." 
 
 At that instant Deputy Kovacs forced his way into the 
 press gallery, holding a revolver in his hand, and fire^ 
 three shots at Count Tisza, crying: 
 
80 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 "There is still a member of the Opposition in the 
 House. They are not all driven forth. I am he." 
 
 Then, turning his weapon on himself, he fired a bullet 
 into his temple and fell to the ground. 
 
 Count Tisza's first thought was for the Countess 
 sitting in the gallery, and he made a reassuring gesture, 
 but his wife, who had rushed screaming to the front at 
 the first shot, sank back sobbing and unable to believe 
 the evidence of her eyes that her husband was unhurt. 
 
 Read George Meredith's The Tale of Chloe, The House 
 on the Beach and The Case of General Ople and Lady Camper , 
 searching out the quality in each tale which makes toward 
 or away from the short story ideal. Analyze The Tale of 
 Chloe, especially with respect to the complexity of (a) the 
 generating circumstances, (b) the plot complication, and 
 (c) the character development. 
 
 Which type of situation is dealt with in each of the 
 following stories? Explain clearly your answers. 
 
 Kipling, — The Man Who Would be King. 
 
 Morris, Gouverneur, — An Idyl of Pelham Bay Park 
 (in It). 
 
 London, — The Sun-Dog Trail (in Love of Life). 
 
 O'Grady, R.— Fettered (Harper's, May, 1912). 
 
 Gather, Willa Sibert, — The Bohemian Girl (McClure's, 
 August, 1912). 
 
 Gibbon, Perceval, — The Murderer (Harper's, August. 
 1912). 
 
 Oppenheim, James, — Clerks (Harper's, August, 1912) 
 
 Norris, Kathleen, — S is for Shiftless Susanna (Every- 
 body's, August, 1912). 
 
 Which type of conflict is portrayed in each of the 
 following? Does any story depict two types? 
 
 Kipling, R., — His Chance in Life (in Plain Tales from 
 the Hills). 
 
 — Watches of the Night (Ibid.). 
 
EXERCISES 81 
 
 Henry, 0., — No Story (in Options), 
 Freeman, Mary Wilkins, — Old Lady Pingree (in A 
 Humble Romance). 
 
 Maupassant, — The Horla. 
 
 Moore, G., — Homesickness (in The Untitled Field), 
 Stockton, F. R., — The Lady, or the Tiger? 
 Aldrich, T. B., — Marjorie Daw, 
 
CHAPTER III.— WHAT SHALL YOU SAY 
 ABOUT IT? 
 
 SECTION I. GENERAL PRINCIPLES , 
 
 In the preceding chapter ve have looked at the varic as 
 kinds of dramatic situations which may produce the 
 single effect. We now have to ask how these shall be 
 presented so as to produce it. This (question brings us 
 into tec!inique. 
 
 L Tell the story. Foolish though^ it may sound, this 
 is the first advice which the beginner must take to heart. 
 To be sure, it does not inform him how to tell his tale; but 
 it does direct his efforts. For the advice means that 
 the writer must attend, first of all, to reporting the affairs 
 which constitute the plot. Put negatively, the substance 
 of this commandment shines forth more clearly. Let us 
 phrase it thus: 
 
 Pay no special attention to description of scenes, char- 
 acter drawing, philosophizing, or stylistic effects until you 
 have stated all the essentials of the plot so clearly that the 
 theme and the outcome and the single effect are apparent 
 {though not necessarily vivid) and unequivocal. 
 
 For many this is the hardest lesson of all. Especially 
 does it irk those straight-away writers who dash off 
 their brilhant ideas at a single sitting, in white heat. 
 Their attention inevitably fluctuates between plot and 
 characters, characters and setting, setting and phrase- 
 ology; and so, unless the story is tremendously vivid 
 and quite simple in structure, they lose sight of some 
 incidents upon whose sharpening the very sense and 
 
 82 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU SAY ABOUT IT? 83 
 
 import of the narrative depend. Now I do not say 
 that straight-away writing is therefore to be decried. 
 Far from it. Some good writers work so most naturally, 
 and everybody should try to. But to the beginner the 
 danger of the method is usually present, and its avoidance 
 does -not make the above warning less trustworthy; it 
 only shows that the particular writer is exceptionally skil- 
 ful in carrying many details in his mind simultaneously. 
 There is no denying that the story's the thing, after 
 all; and that all its finish, its clever turns, its ingenious 
 trappings, and its sparkling epigrams are but poor 
 tinsel, «nce the drama which they overlay is veiled, 
 blurred, or broken. Now, it is just this axiom which 
 warrants the rule we have laid down. It is this, too, 
 which indirectly accounts for the fact that most good 
 story writers have served* an apprenticeship as newspaper 
 reporters. People usually suppose that the work of a 
 reporter brings him into touch with life, and that the 
 intimacy with human nature which he thus acquires is 
 what makes his stories. But this is less than a half- 
 truth. To be sure,/^the reporter does rub up against the 
 realities of things more than bookkeepers and fishwives 
 do; but there are many professions and trades which 
 penetrate toward the springs of human nature far more 
 deeply than he. The average physician, the lawyer, the 
 policeman, the settlement worker, the business man, 
 the valet, and even the apartment janitor see some 
 Things as They Are more lucidly than he; for they are 
 participants and witnesses, whereas he only jots down 
 their testimony. Why, then, is it that there are so few 
 physicians and lawyers and valets penning memorable 
 stories, and so many reporters doing it? It is because 
 the newspaper man becomes proficient in setting down 
 the story, the whole story, and nothing but the story. 
 The facts without trimmings he must deliver daily. 
 
 ft'. 
 
84 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Doing this, he masters the first and most important 
 trick of story telUng. 
 
 The beginner cannot do better than imitate the news- 
 paper man's procedure, in its essentials. For the drill's 
 sake, we shall schematize the latter a little— bej^ond the 
 form of ordinary journalistic practice. In handling a 
 topic important enough to head a column, the reporter 
 commonly performs three operations with his material. 
 First, on the scene of the news-gathering (or on his way 
 back to the office), he jots down phrase-wise the gist of 
 the story, and its most striking feature. At his desk, 
 he leads off with a few paragraphs, giving this same gist 
 in simple narrative, so that the hasty newspaper reader 
 may learn the facts in the first half-minute and, if they 
 do not interest him, skip elsewhere. This opening sum- 
 mary is followed by a more elaborate account which 
 brings in the interesting incidentals. Frequently this 
 approaches literary form; and the writer improves it in 
 later editions of the paper (drawing upon his imagination 
 now and then, alas!). 
 
 Now, let the story writer do likewise. Having an idea 
 for a story, let him first sketch it in the following form:* 
 
 1. The theme is 
 
 2. The main complication is 
 
 3. The dominant character is 
 
 4. The decisive character trait is 
 
 5. The crucial situation is 
 
 6. The outcome is 
 
 In answering these questions, do not use single words 
 or phrases. Use declarative sentences, whenever possible. 
 
 1 The meaning of these questions will be cleared up in later sec- 
 tions of this chapter. 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU SAY ABOUT IT? 85 
 
 Other modes of expression are hazy and may only con- 
 ceal a vagueness in your own mind. 
 
 Next, draw up a bald report of the story in less than 
 500 words, mentioning only as much as is needed to 
 make it absolutely clear. State it as though you were 
 reporting an actual happening for a newspaper. 
 
 Finally, expand it so as to produce the strongest 
 possible single effect. 
 
 2. What the simple report must contain. This is the 
 first matter to be settled after the general idea of the 
 story has been hit upon. The writer must fix upon his 
 material before concerning himself with its literary 
 form. Now, this material includes: 
 
 a. The circumstances giving rise to the main complica- 
 tion. 
 
 b. The persons actively involved in the main compli- 
 cation. 
 
 c. The main complication itself. 
 
 d. The character trait (if any) which shapes the course 
 of events. 
 
 e. The crucial situation (sometimes ambiguously called 
 the climax), in which the consequences of the initial com- 
 plication reach their highest intensity. 
 
 f. The outcome or solution of the crucial situation 
 (sometimes called the denouement.) 
 
 g. The import (or lesson) of the story, if it happens 
 that this is as striking as the events themselves. 
 
 To illustrate these contents, look at Kipling's The 
 Strange Ride of Morrowhie Jukes. The generating 
 circumstances of this story are, on the one hand, the 
 alleged Hindu custom of consigning to an open-air 
 prison those who recover from trance and catalepsy; 
 and, on the other hand, Jukes' business visit to a desert 
 
86 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 where such a prison was situated, and his falling ill of 
 fever and chasing a wild dog, in his delirium. The 
 persons actively involved in the main complication are 
 Jukes, Gunga Dass, and the sentinel. The main com- 
 plication is Jukes' tumbling into the horrible village of 
 the officially dead, whence escape seems impossible. 
 The character trait which shapes the course of events is 
 Gunga Dass' greed; his treachery also counts heavily. 
 (But neither actually solves the complication; in other 
 words, this is not a character story.) The crucial situa- 
 tion is that in which Gunga Dass assaults Jukes and leaves 
 him at the quicksand's edge, robbed of the paper which 
 showed the way of escape. The outcome is the arrival 
 of Dunnoo at the edge of the pit, and his rescue of his 
 master. The story has no import or lesson; it is simple 
 adventure. In this respect most stories resemble it; 
 and a very large number depict no important character 
 trait. None of the other five materials, however, are 
 ever wholly absent from a genuine story. 
 
 The learner is particularly warned kgainst slurring 
 over the generating circumstances and the character 
 trait. These are commonly neglected, to the reader's 
 distress. Often minute incidents in the opening situa- 
 tion throw much light upon the later course of affairs, 
 and so too do trifling deeds of the hero. It is all too easy 
 to overlook such in the rush of the narrative. 
 
 3. The form of presentation. We now stand at the 
 threshold of technique. To render the facts of the 
 story is a reporter's task. But reporting is not storj^- 
 telling. One may tell a truth without casting it into 
 dramatic narrative, and without producing that single 
 effect which is the very soul of the short story. Not all 
 good narrative is drama, nor does all good drama yield a 
 unified impression. But what, now, does fulfil the 
 double ideal of our art? 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU SAY ABOUT IT? 87 
 
 As has been said, there is no particular mechanical or 
 outward form which all good stories alike assume. There 
 is, though, a small set of principles which are deduced 
 from the double ideal and produce the desired re- 
 sult. 
 .^^-^-We have seen that the single effect may be produced 
 either by developing a theme after the fashion of a 
 narrative sermon, or else by stressing one or more of the 
 three factors of the dramatic narrative, namely the 
 character, the complication, or the setting. Now, this 
 means that the effect is not contributed by something 
 apart from the story proper; not by fine descriptions 
 joined to the dramatic narrative, nor by a running fire of 
 aphorisms on the side, nor by any other device save the 
 plot itself. If the effect is produced by the theme, it is 
 produced only in and through the events which demon- 
 strate the theme, as in Hawthorne's The Great Stone Face. 
 If it is produced by emphasis of a dramatic factor, it is 
 again the narrative containing this factor that turns the 
 trick. In short, the two ideals are realized, not hy two 
 distinct parts of a story, hut in each and every part of it 
 identically. Their respective expressions are related 
 as are pattern and argument, in prose exposition generally. 
 This relation Stevenson aptly describes thus: 
 
 The conjuror juggles with two oranges, and our pleasure 
 in beholding him springs from this, that neither is for an 
 instant overlooked or sacrificed. So with the writer. 
 His pattern, which is to please the supersensual ear, is 
 yet addressed, throughout and first of all, to the demands 
 of logic. Whatever be the obscurities, whatever the 
 intricacies of the argument, the neatness of the fabric 
 must not suffer, or the artist has proved unequal to his 
 design. And on the other hand, no form of words must be 
 selected, no knot must be tied among the phrases, unless 
 knot and word be precisely what is wanted to forward 
 and illuminate the argument; for to fail in this is to 
 
88 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 swindle in the game. . . . Pattern and argument 
 live in each other; and it is by the brevity, clearness, 
 charm, or emphasis of the second that we judge the 
 strength and fitness of the first. . . . That style 
 is therefore the most perfect, not, as fools say, which is 
 the most natural in the disjointed babble of the chronicler: 
 but which attains the highest degree of elegant and preg- 
 nant implication unobtrusively; or, if obtrusively, then 
 with the greatest gain to sense and vigor. . . . ' 
 
 What argument is to exposition plot is to dramatic 
 narrative; and, less exactly, the single effect corresponds 
 to the pattern. For argument is the logical, and plot the 
 historical or psychological sequence of developing items; 
 and this same sequence, in its influence upon the reader, 
 produces in him the impression of a fabric uniquely 
 definite in texture and hue. This influence has long been 
 called style and has been treated as an independent 
 existence (which it is not). It is merely the dynamic 
 phase of the writer's ideas. It is just as good and just 
 as bad as those ideas; and, what is more to the point, 
 it inhabits the very words and phrases which they do. 
 And the producing of it is identical with the task of 
 selecting and ordering the items of the story that will 
 yield a single dramatic impression. This task I call 
 integration. 
 
 4. Integration: what it is not. Integration, or the 
 working up of parts into a whole, has been overdone in 
 ,.v« two directions; once toward the ideal of drama, and 
 fKy again toward that of the single effect. In the latter in- 
 stance, Poe and not a few writers of 'atmosphere' and 
 complication, aiming only to arouse a certain thrill, a par- 
 ticular quality of emotion, have so far succeeded that 
 whatever drama their stories may hold potentiaUy goes 
 lost in the glare of the sensuous explosion. On the 
 other hand, some writers who follow Howells, James, 
 1 On Style in Literature. 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU SAY ABOUT IT? 89 
 
 et al, subordinate all the elements to the evolution of the 
 leading character. This practice has gained a certain 
 orthodoxy in contemporary story technique. "In a well 
 appointed story," we are told, "not only must every- 
 thing that happens grow naturally out of the situation, 
 but it must seem to be the only thing that could happen 
 under the circumstances."^ This is the ideal of that 
 miscalled psychological realism, of recent vogue, whose 
 eyes are fixed only on the play of the inevitable movings 
 in human nature. 
 
 Now, all the errors of technique in these two directions 
 are due, not to lack of artistic insight, but to the prior 
 choosing of a too narrow ideal. The artist applies to 
 stories at large the special devices of integration which per- 
 fect the kind of story he likes to tell; and, finding this is 
 good, he fancies that he has come upon the recipe for all 
 good story telling. The truth is, though, that the short 
 story has no recipe; it has only principles. Its integration 
 is not definable in terms of any single fixed relation be- 
 tween character and action, or situation and climax. And 
 it is not, for the excellent reason that these factors them- 
 selves do not sustain a constant relation to one another. 
 In many a complication story, for instance, there is no 
 development of character, and in many a character story 
 the complication is trifling. Therefore what Poe tells us 
 about unifying the complication is, as a universal rule, 
 quite as wrong as what Howells advises us to do by way of 
 focussing upon the inner growth of the hero. 
 
 5. Integration: what it is. That integration is a 
 principle rather than a formula appears as soon as we 
 inspect the nature of narrative. A moment ago we 
 compared narrative with exposition, pointing out that 
 the latter is knit up according to logical principles, and 
 the former according to psychological principles. Now, 
 
 1 Charity Dye, The Story Teller's Art, 34. 
 
90 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 integration in expository writing is nothing more than 
 the selecting and ordering of facts in such manner that 
 they prove the main thesis. Of course, you cannot 
 state the form of their connection in terms of special 
 facts; you cannot say, for instance, that you must begin 
 with generalities and proceed to particular instances, or 
 that your first proposition should hint at the final premise. 
 Far from it ! There is only one rule, and that is that the 
 order, as well as the choice, of facts is fixed by the logical 
 effect you wish to produce. And the principle of order 
 and choice is that of implication. 
 
 Much the same situation occurs in narrative, but with 
 one very important difference. And that difference 
 .springs from the fact that the aim of narrative is more 
 various than that of exposition. Exposition aims only 
 to prove. Narrative aims to produce the feeling proper to 
 a given idea. And this feeling varies with the idea; 
 that is, it varies with the matter of fact. But there are 
 many, many feelings; many sentiments, many emotions. 
 This gives us a situation quite different from that in 
 logic, which has at bottom onlj^ two t3^es of proof; 
 namely the deductive and the quasi-proof by probability. 
 This difference is very profound, but we cannot here 
 analyze it further, for it would soon carry us far into 
 abstruse philosophy. Accept it as a fact, with the further 
 qualification that, in narrative, the effect is produced by 
 the particular quality of the facts ordered, no less than 
 by their order and choice; whereas in exposition the 
 effect is produced wholly by the logical relation of the 
 data, and is utterly indifferent to their particular quality. 
 Thus, it is all the same to the logical effect whether I 
 prove that A is B by showing that all A is M and all 
 M is B; or by showing that all A is P, and all P is B; or 
 that all A is X and all X is B. The outcome is identical 
 in all cases. Not so in narrative, though. It makes all 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU SAY ABOUT IT? 91 
 
 the difference in the world to the psychological effect 
 as to the particular events wherewith I may show that 
 Jones is a brave man. I might show it by exhibiting 
 him in the act of defying his wife's request to tend to 
 the furnace; or again by his carrying a cripple out of a 
 burning building. In both instances you might sense 
 his courage, but how unlike your emotions would 
 be! 
 
 From all this it follows that, in order to integrate a 
 given set of items, you must first fix sharply tke particular 
 single effect at which you are aiming. For instance, 
 suppose you wish to write a story about a wife who falls 
 in love with a young friend of her stolid, unkind husband 
 and, for honor's sake, diverts the youth's attention to 
 another woman. ^ This event, in its bald outline, has no 
 single quality. It has many potential qualities. To 
 name only two: it might be posed as as to bring out pre- 
 dominantly the animal pliability of the young lover in 
 the wife's hands, in which case the single effect would be 
 comedy, mildly cynical; or again, it might be turned so as 
 to throw into relief the tremendous moral courage of the 
 wife, who, thoiMk mismated and wretched, rejects 
 for honor's sake ttiis belated chance of happiness; and 
 with this turn pathos, tragedy, and moral exaltation would 
 stir the reader. Now, is it not clear that the incidents you 
 would choose to tell the story in the first way would not be 
 the incidents which you would pick for the second narra- 
 tive? And the arrangements would differ too. We com- 
 monly say that 'the same event' is either pathetic or tragic 
 or ludicrous; but this is not accurate. It is more accurate 
 to say that an event has many different bearings and 
 relations, and that these latter, taken singly and ex- 
 
 ^ This subject has lately been handled with sincerity and charm 
 by Fannie Heaslip Lea, in her story, entitled Mrs. Kilborn's Sister. 
 Harper's, June, 1912. 
 
92 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 hibited apart, are in one case comic, in another tragic, 
 and so on. So it is that, from a series of highly intricate 
 happenings, the writer must select and arrange with an 
 eye to the sentiment or mood he mshes to make dominant. 
 
 SECTION II. INTEGRATIVE INTENSIFIERS 
 
 If the remarks of the preceding section are correct, they 
 urge the writer of stories to busy himself with all the 
 materials and relations figuring in his prospective fiction 
 and to seek in each of these the factors, groupings, and 
 qualities which intensify the single effect he is, in the 
 particular case, aiming at. All this is the task of dis- 
 covering integrators, and it is, I shall maintain, the 
 supreme problem of technique. To it we now address 
 ourselves. 
 
 1. What is intensity? It is worth while to ask just 
 what this intensity of effect is which the story teller seeks. 
 Singleness of effect is readily comprehended; but I 
 venture to say that few persons know quite what they 
 mean by the adverb when they say, if^, instance, that a 
 story is 'intensely' pathetic. Arid yet, in the clear under- 
 standing of this one word lies the key to many mysteries 
 of technique. Indeed, I think we may safely say more: 
 it holds the master key. For intensity is the very soul 
 of the short story, distinguishing it from the novel and 
 most lesser forms of prose narrative. 
 
 There is at least one characteristic common to all inten- 
 sities, from that of the simplest sense impression up to that 
 of enjoying Ibsen. Each of them is the amount of a certain 
 quality cognized in a single instant. This sounds very 
 abstruse, but it is a fact to which a few simple observations 
 readily lead any one who will take pains to make them. 
 Suppose you listen to a note on a piano, struck now softly 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU SAY ABOUT IT? 93 
 
 and then loudly. You say, of course, that the second 
 sound is more intense than the first; and, if pressed for the 
 meaning of your judgment, you promptly add that the 
 louder tone, while identical with the softer in pitch, timbre, 
 and other qualities, differs from it in that it is somehow 
 'bigger', or contains more of the pitch and timbre. Or, 
 again, look at two lights of precisely the same shade of 
 red, one of which has double the other's brilliancy. Do 
 you not see more red in the brighter? Not a greater area 
 of red, to be sure, but rather more of the red in the same 
 area. We need not ask here how a color can be packed 
 more thickly or thinly. Leave that worry to the physi- 
 cists and metaphysicians. Enough to observe it is packed, 
 that all other cognizable qualities also are, and that this 
 peculiar condensation is what we call intensity. With 
 these facts in hand, we may look at the more intricate 
 literary instances of the same phenomenon. 
 
 Insofar as the artistic effect of a story is concerned, a 
 quality is present to us just as long as its specific feeling- 
 tone lingers in our consciousness, influencing our mood and 
 the course of our thoughts. For it is this feeling-tone 
 and not the full presence of the quality itself, that counts 
 in shaping our impressions. Touching this matter, com- 
 mon speech is quite accurate when it says, of an evil odor 
 or a painful thought or a happy discovery, that 'it stays 
 with us' long after it has gone. The paradox is, like most 
 others, merely verbal; the fact it states is very sure. 
 Things do survive in their own effects. 
 
 Heiice it is that, at each moment of our lives, a multi- 
 tude of things experienced in their pristine qualities a 
 long time before is tinging all our sentiments. What 
 these things are and how great their number is, nobody 
 knows; but there is abundant psychological evidence to 
 prove their host is great. The brilliant French philoso- 
 pher, Bergson, believes that every minutest trifle a man 
 
94 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 has ever experienced 'stays with him' throughout his 
 entire life; and this is not so absurd as it first seems. 
 But, once more, we must leave that sort of question to the 
 scientists. The lesser truth is quite enough for us, for it 
 discloses the origin of art's most potent charms. This 
 origin is in the coming together of many similar things in a 
 single apprehension. 
 
 Each thing sets up its own definite feeling in the person 
 apprehending it; and similar things induce similar feelings. 
 Now let these feelings occur simultaneously, and the 
 result will be precisely that which we note in the brighter 
 light and the louder sound. Each complex impression 
 will contain more of one and the same quality, and this 
 increase will be the quality intensified. Consider the 
 most relevant of instances, fictional narrative, and let us 
 choose the most conspicuously intense specimen of it, 
 The Fall of the House of Usher. The opening paragraph 
 of this abnormal fantasy forms a single impression, b'y 
 which I mean that the reader virtually carries it all in 
 mind at once. While reading the last phrases, the effects 
 of the first still vibrate in him with horrible vividness; 
 hence, in his own consciousness, the3p)icture is one and 
 instantaneous. Now, what is there in this picture? 
 What feelings are awakened? Well, there are only two 
 which sweep through the whole of it; insufferable gloom 
 and mystery. And it is the former alone which is intensi- 
 fied with that incredible excess of diabolical skill which 
 places Poe forever in a class by himself. Look away 
 from the larger ideas of the passage; look only at the items. 
 In the first twenty lines, we come upon these words : dull, 
 dark, soundless, autumn, clouds, oppressively, low, alone, 
 dreary, shades of evening, melancholy, insufferable gloom, 
 unrelieved, sternest, desolate, terrible, bleak, vacant, 
 utter depression of soul, hideous, bitter lapse, iciness, 
 sinking, sickening, unredeemed dreariness, goading, tor- 
 
WHAT SHALL YOU SAY ABOUT IT? 95 
 
 ture. . . . One word in every six throughout the passage 
 thunders the mood with hypnotizing iteration! 
 
 Of course, their mere stringing together does not produce 
 intense gloom; but the result comes when they are all 
 focussed and integrated into one scene or episode which is 
 readily grasped in its unity. And it is precisely this 
 focussing and integration which Poe has achieved, and 
 toward which every writer with high ideals strives. The 
 learner's duty is to discern those manipulations of form 
 and material which focus, integrate, and thus intensify 
 the single effect of dramatic narrative. 
 
 2. The general rule for intensification. If intensity is 
 the amount of a given quality per impression, the general 
 method of intensifying is therewith revealed. We may 
 state it thus: v^ 
 
 Having chosen the single effect which is to he stressed, the 
 writer must select and report only those features of the char- 
 acters, the setting and the complication which produce that 
 effect. And, if some features necessary to the coherent telling 
 of the story do not produce the effect, they must he reported 
 as colorlessly as possihle, in order that they may not yield 
 an antagonistic impression. J/^ 
 
 Here we have, in new guise, the ancient and familiar 
 rule of relevancy. Usually this has been applied chiefly 
 to argumentation, and lately to plot; but it properly 
 governs absolutely every detail of narrative. What its 
 dictates are, we must now inquire. 
 
 Every element of a story may, of course, serve to 
 heighten the total effect. But there are five kinds which 
 do so in a superlative degree. They are: 
 
 1. The dominant character. 
 
 2. The plot action. 
 
 3. Ths order of events. 
 
96 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 4. The point of view 
 
 (a) toward the story {artistes attitude). 
 
 (b) within the story {angle of narration). 
 
 5. The atmosphere. 
 
 These elements demand such extensive analyses that 
 each must be discussed in a separate chapter. 
 
i 
 
 THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 97 
 
 SUB-CHAPTER A. — THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 
 
 In handling this element, we have to bear in mind 
 
 four rules: 
 r,^^ 1. Eliminate every trait and deed which does not help 
 p. peculiarly to make the character's part in the particular 
 
 story either intelligible or more open to such sympathy 
 
 as it merits. 
 
 2. Do not describe a trait or feature or other peculiarity 
 if it can be portrayed in action that is relevant. 
 
 3. Paint in only the 'high lights'; that is: 
 
 a. Never employ a commonplace or merely accurate 
 incident or other detail, if an unusual or acutely charac- 
 teristic one can be found to depict the same trait equally 
 well. 
 
 b. Never qualify or elaborate a trait or episode, merely 
 for the sake of preserving the effect of the character's full 
 reality. 
 
 4. Depict in their true proportion all three phases of 
 conduct, namely, i. sensing the crucial situation, ii. de- 
 liberating over its solution, and Hi. solving it by decisive 
 action. 
 
 Comments on these. 
 
 1. This rule of dramatic economy is a result of the 
 peculiar structural limitations of the short story, and 
 marks the latter off most sharply from the novel. Unlike 
 the novelist, the story-teller makes no attempt to give us 
 a panorama of life, in all its perplexing intricacy and 
 fulness. His is the humbler aim, to render some one 
 little scene perfectly. He does not hang together all his 
 impressions, conjectures, and wishes about the world, 
 weld them into a huge Weltanschauung, and project 
 them into language in the form of a story about an 
 
98 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 imaginary society, as Balzac did. To attempt this 
 through the short story would be as foolish as to try 
 telling the history of the United States in one sen- 
 tence. 
 
 The ultimate reason for the rule is that the short 
 
 V 
 
 story has no words to spare for non-essentials, and the 
 only essentials in its character drawing are intelligibility 
 and sympathetic portrayal of the one trait which figures 
 dramatically in it. 
 
 >J 2. The second rule is also deduced from the condi- 
 tions set by the double ideal. It appears most clearly 
 in the character story. The single effect of such a 
 story is produced through the dominant character. Also, 
 this character figures conspicuously in the action. Now, 
 the intensest effect will he produced if the character, in one 
 and the same deed, both exhibits his own nature relevantly 
 and advances the plot action. This combination is the 
 dramatic one par excellence; and it is powerful, not be- 
 cause it is drama, but because it is intense. And it is 
 intense in that it produces a strong effect per unit im- 
 pression.^ 
 
 3. The rule of 'high lights' puts the beginner to his 
 severest test. He usually has trouble distinguishing it 
 from the rule of dramatic economy; and, having over- 
 come this difficulty, he encounters still greater ones in 
 practicing the rule. For this, I fear, critics and their 
 text-books are largely to blame, in that they have stressed 
 overmuch the virtues of briefness and simplicity. George 
 Henry Lewes, for instance, makes these the first two 
 of what he calls the five virtues of narrative fiction j^ 
 Frank Norris urges the young writer to contemplate the 
 wonderful brevity of the Bible 'stories';^ and Esenwein 
 
 ^ Cf . above, on the nature of intensity. 
 2 Principles of Success in Literature. 
 ' The Responsibilities of the Novelist. 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 99 
 
 assures him rather vaguely that 'compression must 
 pervade the' whole plot.'^ Did these (and other) writers 
 elsewhere call attention sharply to the nature and tech- 
 nique of significant characterization, all might be well. 
 But they do not. The result is that the learner readily 
 imagines he is delineating character successfully if he 
 says the fewest possible things about his hero, or if, 
 following Esenwein, he ''seizes upon a salient charac- 
 teristic and makes it stand for the whole, leaving the 
 reader to fill in the details from imagination." ^ 
 
 a. Unfortunately, 'high lights' may usually be rendered 
 with great brevity and simple speech; and so people, 
 misled by externals, fail to distinguish iheha from these, 
 their incidental forms of expression. It is easy to show, 
 though, that it is neither brevity nor simplicity of action 
 which brings out character. 
 
 Let us suppose that we are to depict the truthfulness 
 of Georgie Washington. We write as follows at the 
 crucial situation: 
 
 Mrs. Washington thrust her stately head out of the 
 kitchen window and gazed thoughtfully at her son: 
 "Georgie!" she asked, "have you given the cat her 
 cream yet?" Georgie, in the very act of pouring the thick 
 fluid into Tabby's saucer, looked his mother straight in 
 the eye and answered without a quaver: "Yes, mother! 
 I cannot tell a lie! I have fed the cat." 
 
 It is greatly to be feared that historians would not 
 accept this as overwhelming proof that Georgie was con- 
 stitutionally above all prevarication. And yet, he did 
 tell the truth, didn't he? You observe his veracity in 
 action, don't you? It is simple, brief, and swift, too, 
 isn't it? It therefore possesses the virtues which the 
 literary authorities call for. Evidently, then, these 
 
 ' Writing the Short Story. 
 ^Loc. cit., 232. 
 
J 
 
 100 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 virtues do not fill the bill. And we see what they lack, 
 the very instant we contrast the above effusion with the 
 classical narrative: 
 
 ''George!" his father sternly demanded, as he con- 
 templated the prone ruin of his favorite cherry tree, 
 ''who chopped this down?" 
 
 "Father!" spoke up George firmly and without hesita- 
 tion, " I cannot tell a lie. I did it with my little hatchet." 
 
 Now the youth tells the trutl^ under circumstances 
 which make a white lie much more comfortable and easy. 
 A dilemma confronts him; either he must sacrifice the 
 temporary well-being of certain peripheral nerves or 
 else he must offer up a moral ideal on the altar of hedon- 
 ism. And his conduct in this crisis shows what manner of 
 lad he is. His character is intelligible and open to our 
 sjmapathy. Thus the narrative fulfils the first two rules 
 of integration. But the third rule remains to be obeyed. 
 The 'high lights' have not been turned on. The story 
 could scarcely be delivered with intensely dramatic 
 effect. Telling the painful, perilous truth to an angry 
 father reveals a genuine love of truth, but it does not 
 force us to believe that Georgie is the incarnation of 
 probity. It is not inconceivable, we fear, that even such 
 an exemplary youth might swerve from accuracy, for a 
 consideration — say fifty dollars. In other words, the 
 crisis over the cherry tree, genuine and earnest though 
 it is, lacks the gravity necessary to show the hero to be 
 through-and-through truthful. To sketch such a crisis 
 would be to turn on the high lights of dramatic narrative. 
 We should have to see the hero in some desperate predica- 
 ment, where truth telling would jeopardize his dearest, 
 deepest wish or his whole future. And he should clearly 
 sense this danger, tremble before it, and yet tell the truth. 
 
 Let us put the matter in another way. It is not 
 
THE DOMINANT OHAW.CtTER 101 
 
 enough to show a character doing something consistent 
 with that trait which you seek to exhibit. The merely 
 consistent deed does not persuade. And the reason for 
 this lies imderneath art; it is imbedded in the nature of 
 things. The merely consistent act, of itself, is logically 
 incapable of proving character. Logically, I say. And 
 it can be demonstrated, thus: 
 
 The truthful man always tells the truth even to his 
 own injury. 
 
 Georgie once told the truth and thereby injured 
 himself. 
 
 Conclusion: None. 
 
 You see now, I trust, why a random consistent deed 
 is unconvincing. Once is not always. Therefore, in 
 order that we may be persuaded that he will always 
 do so, we must witness him telling the truth under circum- 
 stances which make the same habit easy and natural for him 
 under all other circumstances. If a man tells the truth 
 when doing so costs him a dollar loss, he may not do so 
 when it costs him a himdred. But if he does it when it 
 costs him a hundred, we are sure that he will do it when it 
 costs him only a dollar. This is no subtle esthetic princi- 
 ple peculiar to artistic technique. It is plain common 
 sense, as most other principles will turn out to be, once 
 we have carefully analyzed them. 
 
 Finally, the necessity for 'high lights' is strengthened 
 by the fact that the quality of the information we have 
 about a person tends to penetrate and fuse with the image 
 of the person which we build up out of this information. 
 If we know only petty facts about a man, the man is 
 in danger of appearing petty to us, even though the facts 
 do not imply such a character. For instance, were you 
 to say that Roosevelt's teeth gleam as large and as numer- 
 ously as the tombstones of his political enemies, your 
 hearers would never quite rid themselves of this de- 
 
102 '' ''''"'.'' 'iSHORT. STORY WRITING 
 
 scription. And whoever learned only such trifles would 
 frame a picture of an insignificant, ridiculous, or con- 
 temptible person. 
 
 "" In this, once more, there is nothing strange. We judge 
 people in the light of what we know about them. That 
 is the whole secret, the only secret. It is because of this 
 alone that one may damn with faint praise. It is be- 
 cause of this alone that the bravest and noblest may 
 easily be made to seem ordinary and even despicable 
 not by lies but by small truths. Washington flirted 
 scandalously with servant girls, Lincoln was at times 
 foul-mouthed, Thomas Aquinas was a glutton; and so, by 
 citing such facts, it is easy for any shallow iconoclast to 
 make his dupes believe these great men were of the com- 
 monest clay. And this possibility becomes a peril to the 
 literary artist who thinks only of accuracy and consistent 
 character drawing. 
 . The artistic material is that which persuades; and the 
 persuasive is not the merely true or consistent, but rather 
 the acutely characteristic, namely that which unequivo- 
 cally reveals a nature which can be counted on to be 
 constant under all circumstances. The discovery of 
 such decisive marks is almost a science by itself, a science 
 moreover in which few are versed. Do you know what 
 is the sure test of a coward? Or of a spoiled child? 
 Or of a dreamer? Or of a hypocrite? Or of a crue^ 
 man? Or of a flirt? Or of a saint? Can you describe a 
 situation in which any one of these characters discloses 
 itself past all misunderstanding? If so, you can write a 
 powerful short story. 
 
 x^ b. The second rule of 'high lights' is little more than 
 a corollary of the first. Young writers are steeped in 
 the superstition that, for reality's sake, they must ex- 
 plain who the hero's grandparents were, how he came to 
 live in the town, why he went to work in the shirt factory, 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 103 
 
 where he first met his beloved, and all the other incidents 
 prior to the climax. The sufficient answer to this mis- 
 belief has been given: most of those episodes are petty, 
 in comparison with the plot, and hence, if told, will 
 inevitably dilute the latter wofully; and, secondly, they 
 are not characteristic of any trait that develops in the* 
 plot, and hence do not persuade the reader of anything 
 in particular. 
 
 (4) The last rule of character drawing, to which we now 
 come, 'is by all odds the most important. It is also the 
 one which demands, for its understanding, the maturest 
 insight. Merely to explain it is to write a short Essay on 
 Man. 
 
 a. The mark of human nature. Philosophers used to 
 say that the soul of man was a trinity, whose members 
 were feeling, intellect, and will. Each, said they, was 
 ultimate, irreducible, and unique. Feeling was not a 
 kind of thinking, nor was thinking a species of volition. 
 For all their difference, however, all three faculties worked 
 in wonderful unison; and the problem of life was the 
 problem of balancing their activities. 
 
 Modern science discards this pretty scheme, but it 
 preserves its truth. (^Today we recognize that man is an 
 organism which adjusts itself in many manners tolvicissi- 
 tudesJ and that what marks him off nwst sharply from all 
 other animals is his reflective foresight.) The ape has feel- 
 ings, and the ape acts; but between his feelings and his 
 conduct there is little or no control. The creature does 
 not check and postpone his impulsive responses, in order 
 to consider whether they will redound to his own future 
 good. Nor does he seek out the consequences of an 
 impending act and anticipate its pleasure or pain. But 
 this is the very gist of human life. Insofar as a man acts 
 on impulse, he is not exhibiting the power which dis- 
 tinguishes him from lower animals. Of course, he may 
 
104 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 be a man in a purely zoological sense, even though he 
 habitually fails to ponder and look ahead; just as he 
 might be a biped, though paralyzed in both legs. But 
 he would impress nobody as human. We should say of 
 him: ''What a brute!" And the epithet would not be 
 poetic license, but sober fact. 
 
 l^ow, when we speak of character, we refer to just this 
 same reflective foresight in its actual operations. There 
 is no difference between human character and the charac- 
 teristically human. To be sure, the former phrase is 
 often used eulogistically, whereas the latter has a cold, 
 scientific sound; but this is a mere accident of language. 
 It is impossible to lay a finger upon a quality which is 
 included within the one and not within the other. Di- 
 gesting meat is not a power of human character, for it is 
 not characteristically human. Singing is not an affair 
 of human character, for larks and cuckoos sing. Having 
 feelings and emotions is not a sign of human character 
 for certainly dogs and cats fall into a panic, know jealousy, 
 and there runs through some of them even a queer little 
 shred of loyalty. 
 
 b. Analysis of character. Let us analyze briefly the con- 
 duct of one endowed with this imique reflective foresight. 
 We find that there are three stages in it. First, a man 
 finds himself in a situation which makes trouble for him; 
 and he must sense this trouble feelingly. He may be 
 thwarted in a desire, or brought into pain. Secondly, he 
 plans to escape the difficulty; and, in planning, he looks 
 ahead to the probable outcome of each project which he 
 considers. Against his private wishes he weighs the effects 
 of gratifying them. Against the demands of other 
 people he sets what he deems to be his rights. Against 
 his own bad habits he arrays his better knowledge. 
 Having done this, he finishes off the affair with a de- 
 cisive act. And it is this act which, when judged in the 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 105 
 
 light of the circumstances, reveals the precise degree and 
 quality of control which the man's reflective mind ex- 
 ercises over his career. The character of this man is\ 
 nothing more nor less than the management of just these 
 hiter-playing impulses, appetites, feelings, foresights, / 
 and arguments. In his adjustment of these forces, hy 
 shows himself as in no other way.^ 
 
 Let us call these three stages of rational behavior 
 respectively the immediate response to the difficulty, 
 the refiective delay, and the active solution. We may 
 now state a little more formally the fundamental fact 
 about them which gives form and body to the whole 
 technique of character drawing: 
 
 Character, being the particular proportion and relation of 
 these three activities, is not determined by any one or two of 
 them. Hence, to depict it unambiguously, all three must 
 he shown in their particular relation under the given. cir- 
 cumstances.^ 
 
 Or, to put the case more bluntly; the finest analysis of 
 a hero's emotions and yearnings will not tell us decisively 
 what manner of man he is, nor will his thoughts do so, 
 nor will his deeds alone. To demonstrate this and at 
 the same time to show that perfect character drawing 
 involves the three-phase integration just described, I 
 shall cite a few passages from Maupassant's little master- 
 piece, A Coward, which the student should carefully 
 review at this point. 
 
 The three phases here are very obvious. The insult 
 passed to the viscount's guests gives rise at once to the 
 dramatic difficulty, and to this difficulty the viscount 
 
 ^For an exhaustive analysis of this performance, read John 
 Dewey's How We Think and Dewey and Tufts' Ethics (Henry Holt, 
 1908) ; especially chapters 3 and 10 of the latter book. 
 
 ^An important qualification of this rul^ will soon be noted; 
 cf. 112. 
 
106 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 responds immediatel3^ This response gives rise to a 
 further complication, the challenge. Then begins the 
 reflective delay, during which the viscount's impulses, 
 feelings, notions of propriety, anticipations, and unsus- 
 pected physical reactions fight among themselves for the 
 control of the decisive solution of his difficulty. At the 
 height of their battle, one wins; and the act comes in a 
 twinkling. Here are some illuminating incidents from 
 each phase: 
 
 The immediate response. 
 
 The young woman continued, half smiling, half vexed: 
 ^It is very unpleasant. That man is spoiling my ice.' 
 
 The husband shrugged his shoulders: 'Pshaw! Don't 
 pay any attention to him. . . . ' 
 
 The viscount had risen abruptly. He could nort 
 suffer that stranger to spoil an ice which he had offered. 
 . He walked toward the man and said: 'You 
 have a way of looking at those ladies, monsieur, which I 
 cannot tolerate. I beg you to be so kind as to stare less 
 persistently.' . . . The gentleman answered but 
 one word, a foul word. . . . Profound silence 
 ensued. Suddenly a sharp sound cracked in the air. 
 The Viscount had slapped his adversary. Everyone, 
 rose to interfere. Cards were exchanged between the two. 
 
 The reflective delay. 
 
 When the viscount had returned to his apartment, he 
 paced the floor for several minutes with great, quick 
 strides. He was too much agitated to reflect. A single 
 thought hovered over his mind — 'a duel' — without 
 arousing any emotion whatsoever. . . . Then he 
 sat down and began to consider. He must find seconds 
 in the morning. Whom should he choose? . 
 He discovered that he was thirsty, and he drank three 
 glasses of water in rapid succession. Then he resumed 
 his pacing of the floor. He felt full of energy. If he 
 blustered a Httle, seemed determined to carry the thing 
 through, demanded rigorous and dangerous conditions, 
 insisted upon a serious duel, very serious and terrible, his 
 adversary would probably back down and apologize. 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 107 
 
 • He picked up the card. . . . 'Georges Lamil, 
 51 Rue Moncey.' Nothing more. He examined these 
 assembled letters, which seemed to him mysterious, 
 full of vague meaning. Georges Lamil! Who was this 
 man? What was his business? Why had he stared at the 
 lady in such a way? . . . There arose within him 
 a fierce anger against that bit of paper — a malevolent 
 sort of rage blended with a strange feeling of discomfort. 
 What a stupid business! He took a penknife that lay 
 open to his hand and stuck it through the middle of the 
 printed name, as if he were stabbing some one. 
 
 The active solution. 
 
 So he was really going to fight! It was no longer 
 possible for him to avoid it. What on earth was taking 
 place within him? He wanted to fight; his purpose and 
 determination to do so were firmly fixed; and yet he 
 knew full well that, despite all the effort of his mind and 
 all the tension of his will, he would be unable to retain 
 even the strength necessary to take him to the place of 
 meeting. 
 
 From time to time his teeth chattered with a little dry 
 noise. He tried to read, and took up Chateauvillard's 
 duelling code . . . 
 
 As he passed a table, he opened the case by Gastinne 
 Renette, took out one of the pistols, and then stood as if 
 he were about to fire, and raised his arm. But he was 
 trembling from head to foot, and the barrel shook in 
 all directions. 
 
 Then he said to himself: 'It is impossible. I cannot 
 fight like this!' 
 
 He regarded the little hole, black and deep, at the end 
 of the barrel, the hole that spits out death. He thought 
 of the dishonor, of the whispered comments at the clubs, 
 of the laughter in the salons, of the disdain of the women, 
 
 He continued to gaze at the weapon, and, as he raised 
 the hammer, he saw the priming glitter beneath it like 
 a little red flame. . . . And he experienced a con- 
 fused, inexplicable joy thereat. 
 
 If he did not display in the other's presence the calm 
 and noble bearing suited to the occasion, he would be lost 
 forever. . . . And that calm and bold bearing 
 
108 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 he could not command — he knew it, he felt it. And yet 
 he was really brave, because he wanted to fight! He was 
 brave, because — The thought that grazed his mind was 
 never completed; opening his mouth wide, he suddenly 
 thrust the barrel of the pistol into the very bottom of his 
 throat and pressed the trigger. 
 
 So closely does Maupassant cling to the pure psycholog- 
 ical truth here that many readers find the marvelous little 
 story bald and hard. There is no sympathy in it; if it 
 leads you to feel sorry for the poor viscount, it does so 
 by its brute facts, not by any persuasion from the author. 
 But it is just this crystalline accuracy that makes A 
 Coward a perfect model for students to contemplate. 
 The phases of character expansion are as sharply limned, 
 the one from its next, as the acts of a play. 
 
 Let us see how the story would have worked out, had 
 Maupassant neglected some phase. Suppose, first of 
 all, that he had not told us anything definite about the 
 viscount's immediate response to the provoking situation. 
 Well, that would have virtually halted the telling of the 
 tale; for it was the viscount's spontaneous resentment of 
 the stranger's impudence that brought on the challenge. 
 Not to tell what the viscount did would rob the story of 
 the very incident which sets it going. This is not an 
 accidental complication of this particular plot. It 
 occurs in all stories of character, in greater or less degree. 
 Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that its oc- 
 currence brings the character intimately into the plot 
 action and so makes a character story. In this case the 
 immediate response belongs to the narrative by definition. 
 
 Now suppose that Maupassant had told us all about 
 the encounter in the restaurant and also about the 
 viscount's suicide, but not a word about his wonderings 
 and waverings, his strange access of panic, his half- 
 crazed dreams about the outcome of his grim misad- 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 109 
 
 venture, his schemes to rob it of its peril. What then 
 of the story? To answer this question, you have only 
 to read the original, omitting the passages which sketch 
 the reflective delay. So manipulated, the events shrink 
 to a mere episode not a little obscure. A diner who 
 stares at the viscount's guests is asked to mind his man- 
 ners. He retorts insultingly, and the viscount slaps him. 
 The duel is arranged, the viscount chooses his weapon 
 and his seconds. The latter call on him, settle the details 
 of the contest, and go. A few minutes later, his valet 
 rushes in, alarmed by the report of a gun, and finds him 
 dead; and beside him on the table a paper bearing only 
 these four words: Hhis is my Will'. 
 
 That is a mystery story, isn't it? And an ill-hung one 
 too, for it does not solve the puzzle of the viscount's 
 suicide. What has happened, anyhow? The viscount is 
 plainly a bold, firm man. Did he not walk straight up 
 to the insulter in the restaurant? Did he not accept 
 the fellow's card? Did he not insist upon the most serious 
 form of duel? Did his seconds not find him calm? Well, 
 then! there's something behind all this affair, something 
 dark and wicked! Perhaps Georges Lamil was the prodigal 
 brother of the viscount's guest, and the lady begged the 
 viscount to break off the duel and save her family from 
 notoriety. Perhaps the fellow was a hired assassin — 
 or maybe the affair was all a hoax, to test the viscount's 
 courage, and the viscount, discovering it, was humiliated. 
 
 Or — ^but there are as many guesses as there are readers, 
 and every one of them remains unsubstantiated. We 
 sha)l never know whether the viscount was a hero or a 
 coward or the victim of persecution or the butt of a 
 ghastly practical joke or something else. 
 
 Finally, suppose that Maupassant had said nothing 
 about the viscount's \cojxsummating deed. Suppose the 
 story had ended at the point where the man, having 
 
110 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 picked up a pistol and aimed it across the room, found 
 himself trembling from head to foot, and then cried: 
 "It is impossible. I cannot fight like this!" Surely the 
 story would now be mutilated less than in either of the 
 preceding cases. We should at least perceive the vis- 
 count's physical cowardice, and we should conjecture 
 that he withdrew from the duel and was disgraced thereby. 
 But we should not be absolutely sure that he was as 
 weak as he felt himself to be, nor that he did not walk 
 into the duel, when the appointed hour came, no less 
 firmly than he approached his insulter in the restaurant. 
 And why shouldn't we? Simply because we know that a 
 man's feelings and emotions are not the infallible weather- 
 vanes of conduct. They are peculiarly untrustworthy 
 symptoms of bravery and cowardice. The most coura- 
 geous hero, for instance, is not the man who does not know 
 fear. Such a fellow is a dolt, whereas he who commands 
 our admiration is the one who, being wracked with 
 thoughts of the danger before him, nevertheless nerves 
 himself to meet it. So too with the coward. It is not 
 what he feels that shows him up; it is what he does after 
 reflection. However ill the thought of an approaching 
 duel may make him, that does not brand him. But let 
 him dodge the consequences of the accepted challenge; 
 let him flee not only his adversary but even the painful 
 gossip that his behavior will bring down upon him, and 
 there you have the finished and unmistakable type. 
 
 We have sketched the elementary pattern of human 
 conduct, but we have not indicated the source nor the 
 nature of its perpetual novelty and immeasurable variety. 
 A profitable study of these would carry us far beyond the 
 purposes of this book, so I shall merely suggest a few 
 leading facts which the writer of character stories must 
 keep in mind. 
 
 The profoundest difference between man and man ap- 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 111 
 
 pears ii? the balance and magnitude of forces at work 
 during the reflective delay. In this stage of the dramatic 
 struggle the battle is doubtless fought and won, though 
 the victory does not appear to the observer — ^nor, often 
 enough, to the man himself — until the decisive act has 
 been consummated. Now, the palm is awarded to one 
 of three contestants :i to impulse, to feeling, or to reason. 
 And the particular manner in which the victorious force 
 gains the ascendency gives us insight into the soul of the 
 particular man. In A Coward this three-cornered 
 contest is beautifully clear. Consider this passage, which 
 is typical of the entire story: 
 
 "I must be firm,'' he said. "He will be afraid." 
 {Reasoning.) The sound of his voice 'made him tremble, 
 and he looked about him. {Feeling, followed by an im- 
 pulse.) He drank another glass of water, then began 
 to undress for bed. {Impulse.) . . . He thought: 
 "I have all day tomorrow to arrange my affairs. I must 
 sleep now, so that I may be calm." {Reasoning.) He 
 was very warm under the bed clothes, but he could not 
 manage to doze off. ... He was still very thirsty. 
 {Feeling.) He got up again to drink. {Impulse.) Then 
 a disquieting thought occurred to him: ''Can it be that 
 I am afraid?" 
 
 Why did his heart begin to beat wildly at every familiar 
 sound in the room? {Reasoning.) 
 
 Notice how each power tries in turn to master the 
 viscount, and how your own interest centres about the 
 steady, . insidious onrush of the purely physical collapse 
 and the last desperate stand which the poor man's reason 
 makes against it. It is in just such conflicts that the 
 character story has its being. 
 
 ^ The reader versed in psychology will please skim this descrip- 
 tion with an indulgent eye. It is a rough outline of the truth. 
 For pedagogy's sake, I trust that it is permissible to speak of 
 impulse, feeling, and reason as though they were independent enti- 
 ties, instead of interlocking processes. 
 
112 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 The reader will easily observe that the three factors 
 of this conflict resemble more or less those of the wider 
 situation wherein reflective delay is the second phase. 
 The immediate response is commonly rich in emotional 
 flavor; the reflective delay itself is essentially rational, 
 even though reason does not always win out; and the 
 active solution is inevitably impulsive in some degree, 
 just because it is an act of will. This parallelism m 
 not a freak of nature; any psychologist will explain more 
 clearly than is here possible how this circumstance is 
 due to the very nature of the reflective delay, which is, 
 as I have said, nothing but the arena wherein all the 
 forces of human nature meet in combat. For lis, how- 
 ever, the literary -aspect of the fact is more significant. 
 Briefly, it is this: 
 
 The pattern, or static structure, of a character can he 
 adequately depicted by the interplay of forces within the 
 reflective delay. But the proof of the pattern, the full 
 dramatic evidence of its existence and power in the par- 
 ticular person, appears in the active solution that follows 
 the reflective delay. 
 
 This is a very important qualification of the rule 
 laid down above. ^ And it has a bearing upon the most 
 modern, most highly praised mode of fiction, the so- 
 called 'psychological story \ 
 
 The psychological story is one which analyzes the feel- 
 ings, thoughts, and impulses of its leading characters 
 more minutely than does the ordinary dramatic story, 
 which is content to describe only as much as might 
 normally appear to the eye and ear of a possible spectator. 
 In another chapter we shall discuss the advantages and 
 disadvantages of the analytical technique ;2 at present 
 let us note only the danger of substituting analysis for 
 
 1 Cf. 105. 
 
 2 Cf. the section on point of view. 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 113 
 
 drama. This is a very real peril today, though perhaps 
 less so than in the eighties, when Henry James was 
 heralded as the discoverer of the real and the ultimate 
 in literature. At bottom the danger is precisely the 
 one which we have suggested in the above inspection 
 of Maupassant's story. It is the danger of letting the 
 thought do duty for the deed; that is, substituting for the 
 real course of events the hero's stream of consciousness. 
 To explain this substitution, we must make another brief 
 but arduous excursion into psychology. 
 
 Nature is nowhere more prodigal than in mental life. 
 She produces millions more little fish than can ever 
 survive in the sea; and she gives birth to hundreds of 
 millions of sensations, feelings, and imageries which 
 can never develop and become dominant in the directing 
 of men's lives. You become aware of this, the instant 
 you observe accurately what is going on in your mind. 
 Swift, ^ evanescent, and immeasurably complex is the 
 flux; arid its items of an instant baffle the acutest intro- 
 spective cataloguer. Now, this fact is, of itself, enough 
 to prove that, when we think about a certain matter, we 
 do not think in terms of these elusive and microscopical 
 'mental states'. These are, on the contrary, nothing 
 more than our manipulations in adjusting ourselves to the 
 situation which concerns us. They bear the same rela- 
 tion to thinking as the tugging of a slack-wire walker's 
 muscles do to the task of keeping his balance. They 
 are responses to the conditions of the pressing problem; they 
 are neither the conditions nor the character which responds. 
 
 The literary artist, though, is interested in the dramatic 
 aspect of human conduct, not in the mechanism of its 
 activity. The latter falls to the professional scientist; 
 to the psychological expert and the physiologist. Its 
 truthful portraiture affords no greater opportunity for 
 fine narrative writing than does an account of the slack- 
 
114 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 wire walker's muscle play.^ As Aristotle saw, the 
 objects of the artist are always *men in action'. But a 
 gush of 'mental states' is no more a man in action than 
 a series of writhings is. Action may be the result of 
 many sensations and writhings; but, even then, it has a 
 singleness, a direction, and a purpose which these, its 
 mechanical factors, altogether lack. We are nearer to 
 human conduct when we see Smith knock down a 
 hoodlum who has insulted him than we are when a 
 scientific observer enumerates to us the fifty-seven 
 varieties of naughty thoughts which the insult sent 
 flitting through Smith's consciousness. To be sure, we 
 are not thus brought to an understanding of conduct, 
 if by understanding we mean a knowledge of causes. 
 But it is not the artist's business to furnish that. He is 
 asked to sketch only the broad movement and tr^id in 
 their decisive and illuminating manifestations The 
 single effect, the impressive unity of somebody's behavior, 
 is his ideal; and, to render this, he must abstain from mak- 
 ing perceptible in the action what is imperceptible to the 
 ordinary competent observer; and from making dramatically 
 conspicuous what has little or no efficiency. For of just 
 this succession of visible and crucial events does dramatic 
 action consist. 
 
 Dangerous as are most analogies between the arts, I 
 cannot resist comparing the writings of the extreme 
 psychological school to the Dutch microscopical paintings. 
 Those freakish little canvases on which we see every 
 mesh of a fly's wing and every individual hair in the 
 down of a peach betray a confusion of science with art 
 in their maker's mind. The correct aim of the painter 
 
 1 The difference between scientific and artistic writing here indi- 
 cated is absolute. It springs from a difference in aims. But this 
 does not mean that scientific writing must be inartistic in the sense 
 of being obscure and clumsy. 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 115 
 
 is to present some visible aspect of some real or imaginary 
 object. He is free to omit much that is visible, if by so 
 doing he vivij&es significantly the remainder, as Corot 
 does with the blues and grays and Rembrandt with the 
 browns and yellows. But he has no right to introduce 
 the invisible. This the Dutch microscopist does though 
 when he inserts into the scene, not what men perceive 
 of the fly and the peach but what wing and down ' really' 
 are. The result must have bewildered the good man, 
 for it is singularly dead and unreal to the eye. You 
 might fancy that Alice would have seen the like of it, 
 had she gone through a magnifying glass instead of 
 through the looking glass. His fly and peach are not 
 of our world. 
 
 Precisely this effect is all too easily produced in fiction 
 by elaborately conscientious analysis of the hero's con- 
 sciousness. *^h.e reader is forced to notice many minute 
 impressions and impulses which neither mould nor ad- 
 vance the action at all and hence do not truly charac- 
 terize, but only blur, the significance of the portrayed 
 conduct. 
 
 ^^here is another serious misunderstanding about 
 the so-called 'psychological story' which mars at times 
 even the writings of veterans. I have wondered to what 
 extent we ought to put the blame of it upon the lexi- 
 cographer who defines * psychological' as meaning *of 
 or pertaining to the human soul and its operations'. 
 Certainly it is just this loose, all-inclusive notion which 
 confuses technique. A story would, according to it, be 
 psychological if it 'pertained' in any way to somebody's 
 'mental states'. And so many writers fancy themselves 
 dipping deep into the abysses of the soul when they write 
 as follows: 'It flashed across her troubled mind', 'on his 
 mental horizon a black doubt arose', 'a pang of regret 
 
116 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 smote him', 'the lad wondered long, weighmg all the 
 direful possibilities of his thought', and so on. 
 
 Such allusions, though, do not make literature psycho- 
 logical. They are as powerless to do that as loud curses 
 and piercing shrieks are powerless to make an adventure 
 story. Curses and shrieks are merely the effects of some 
 adventurous encounter; and, being such, they may aid in 
 expressing its poignancy. Indicating somebody's reac- 
 tion to the adventure, they come to indicate by indirec- 
 tion the quality of the adventure itself. They hint at 
 a character's point of view toward the latter. And this 
 is all that is accomplished by the mental horizons, pangs, 
 wondering, and weighing on mental scales about which 
 pseudo-psychological writers amplify. They tell a story 
 by telling us how its episodes impress some witness or 
 participant. 
 
 Now, it often happens that the episodes themselves 
 are no more psychological than a thunderstorm or the 
 flight of a bird. The hero may be caught in a jam on the 
 Subway, or the heroine be spattered with mud by a pass- 
 ing automobile. Furthermore, it may be that the crowd 
 of travelers or the racing chauffeur figures in the action 
 of the story, while the hero's sensations and the heroine's 
 thoughts do not. In such a case, the reader's attention 
 need not be dra^vn to these mental states, except insofar as 
 they alone can make clear the relevant happenings. 
 
 The genuine psychological story uses 'mental states' 
 in a different way. They are not its language; they are 
 its subject matter. The working of some human trait is 
 depicted, as any simple adventure or love affair might 
 be. Maupassant's A Piece of String, Henry James' 
 The Liar, and Mrs. Wharton's The Daunt Diana typify 
 this undertaking. The first shows us, in their tragic 
 interaction, the deeds of an over-shrewd miser who 
 cherishes his reputation and of his neighbors who deal 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 117 
 
 lightly with it. The second portrays an incorrigible 
 'drawer of the long bow. The third exhibits the acquisi- 
 tive passion and its paradoxical end. Such material 
 seldom demands the false psychological manner; its 
 narrative can flow along as objectively as a newspaper 
 report, and so it often does. Unfortunately, though, 
 it often does not; and its failure is nowhere more con- 
 spicuous than in some of Howells' stories. 
 
 Howells analyzes human nature's milder moods and 
 appetites with sympathetic accuracy; and when he 
 does, he produces a sincere, convincing psychological 
 story, albeit generally a tame one. But, unfortunately, 
 he has associated the psychological manner and language 
 with whatever material he writes about; and when the 
 latter is not psychological, the resulting narrative suffers. 
 The opening of A Circle in the Water mingles the psycho- 
 logical manner with the psychological material. The 
 former appears at the very outset: 
 
 The sunset struck its hard red light through the fringe 
 of leafless trees to the west^^vard, and gave their outlines 
 that black deflnition which a French school of landscape 
 saw a few years ago, and now seems to see no longer. In 
 the whole scene there was the pathetic repose which we 
 feel in some dying day of the dying year, and a sort of 
 impersonal melancholy weighed me down as I dragged 
 myself through the woods toward that dreary November 
 sunset. 
 
 Presently I came in sight of the place I was seeking, and 
 partly because of the insensate pleasure of having found it, 
 and partly because of the cheerful opening in the boscage 
 made by the pool, which cleared its space to the sky, my 
 heart lifted. I perceived that it was not so late as I 
 had thought, and that there was much more of the day 
 left than I had supposed from the crimson glare in the 
 west. . 
 
 The phrases of this passage which I have italicized do not 
 describe the scene directly, nor do they turn us toward 
 
118 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 some other part of the story proper. They help to give 
 us a distinct feeling for the mildly dreary autumnal hour, 
 by telling us that somebody was contemplating the sunset, 
 and what he felt. The narrator's reminiscences and emo- 
 tions are of no account in the drama; they merely assist 
 — or are supposed to assist — in lighting up the stage. 
 Notice how easily we may cut them out. Smoothing 
 over the gaps, we get something like this: 
 
 The sunset struck its hard red light through the fringe 
 of leafless trees to the westward, and gave their outline 
 a black definition. In the whole scene there was the 
 pathetic repose of a dying day in the dying year; and the 
 impersonal melancholy of it weighed me down as I 
 dragged myself through the November woods. 
 
 Presently I came in sight of the place I was seeking; a 
 cheerful opening in the boscage made by the pool, which 
 cleared its space to the sky. There was more of the day 
 left than the crimson glare in the west betrayed . . . etc. 
 
 Let the student ask himself whether, in this briefer, 
 purely objective report, any feature of the original scene 
 has gone lost. I think he will find none missing; and if 
 he does, it is through my faulty abridging and not be- 
 cause of the changed point of view. The truth is, very 
 few events that are visible or audible can be made known 
 to readers more vividly through the reporter's 'mental 
 states' than by means of the bald, common, and obvious 
 qualities, manners and consequences of the objective 
 items themselves. Indeed, the 'mental state' generally 
 turns out to be a pure redundancy, as it is in the above 
 passage. When Howells says that in the sunset there was 
 the repose which we feel in a dying day, the allusion to tne 
 feeling is gratuitous. For everybody knows that repose 
 is something which we feel; and to mention the fact in 
 finished prose is pretty much like saying 'the color red 
 which we see in the rose', when one means 'the red of 
 
THE DOMINANT CHARACTER 119 
 
 the rose^ or *rose-red\ Or, again, to say: 'I perceived 
 that it was not so late as I had thought^ when the fact 
 of perceiving makes no difference to the story, is not only 
 less elegant, but less true dramatically than to say: ^It 
 was not so late as I had thought.' Such psychological 
 mannerisms only divert the reader from the plot to the 
 narrator, and to that extent falsify the total impression.^ 
 Not so, however, with the genuine psychological narra- 
 tive whose material is, both by intent and by full dramatic 
 right, the world of 'mental states'. When the narrator 
 of Ho wells' story flings himself down 'on one of the 
 grassy gradines of the amphitheatre' and muses over the 
 mysterious antiquity of the place, he sees not the slight- 
 est impulse 'of the life that the thing inarticulately recorded.' 
 
 I began to think how everything ends at last. Love 
 ends, sorrow ends, and to our mortal sense everything 
 that is mortal ends. . . . Was evil then a greater 
 force than good in the moral world? I tried to recall 
 personalities, virtuous and vicious, and I found a fatal 
 want of distinctness in the return of those I classed as 
 virtuous, and a lurid vividness in those I classed 
 as vicious. Images, knowledges, concepts, zigzagged 
 through my brain, as they do when we are thinking, or 
 beUeve we are thinking; perhaps there is no such thing as 
 we call thinking, except when we are talking. 
 
 ^ The first italicized clause in the opening of A Circle in the Water 
 (117) may seem far removed from a psychological mannerism. To 
 compare the outhne of autumnal trees to the effects achieved 
 some years ago by certain French painters is, one might insist, a 
 sober historical allusion. But I would urge that it is this only in 
 appearance. Really it is a private reminiscence, as obscure as it is 
 private. It is a random association, and the pictures which the 
 landscape suggested to the author have been neither seen nor 
 heard of by most readers. The comparison is therefore meaningless 
 to most of us. In effect, it is as though Howells had written: "The 
 sunset . . . gave their outline a black definition which awoke in me 
 the memory of something done by a French school . . . etc". 
 Thus revised, the psychological mannerism of it protrudes. 
 
120 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 These reflections and the peculiar flicker of mind that 
 accompany them are dramatically perfect. They are not 
 dragged in to describe something else. They are made 
 known for their own sake and because they count in the 
 story. It is this very doubt about the permanence of the 
 good and the transiency of evil which is going to work 
 itself out in the encounter with Tedham. Indeed, to 
 the careful reader, it appears the deeper, more universal 
 topic, of which Tedham's adventures are only a dramatic 
 exemplification. The difference, therefore, between it 
 and the 'I thought's', 'I felt's', and 'I perceived's' of the 
 first quoted passage is not one of degree; it is a dif- 
 ference of logical and dramatic kind. Never can the 
 one be reduced to the other. 
 
EXERCISES 12] 
 
 Exercises 
 
 1. Find the single effect of Kipling's In Flood Time 
 (in Black and White). Then analyze the six paragraphs 
 of the introduction, separating the items of character, 
 complication, and setting. Now point out those which 
 heighten the single effect and those which do not. 
 
 2. Does the opening description of setting and 
 characters (first nine paragraphs) of Mary Wilkins 
 Freeman's A Far-Away Melody (in A Humble Romance) 
 heighten the single effect of the story? If not, specify in 
 what respects it fails. 
 
 3. Answer the above questions with regard to Mau- 
 passant's The Piece of String (first five paragraphs). 
 
 4. In 0. Henry's Lost on Dress Parade do you find any 
 character trait or deed which does not make Mr. Towers 
 Chandler's part in the story intelligible or open to such 
 sympathy as it merits? If so, designate it precisely. 
 
 5. In Margaret Deland's Good for the Soul {Old Chester 
 Tales) is any character trait or feature described which 
 might be more vividly portrayed in direct action? If so, 
 designate it. 
 
 6. Can you suggest less commonplace incidents for the 
 depicting of Langbourne's eager curiosity in Howells' 
 The Magic of a Voice (in A Pair of Patient Lover s)"? 
 
 7. In Mary Wilkins Freeman's A Modern Dragon (in 
 A Humble Romance) is any character trait elaborated 
 beyond the demands of the story? 
 
 8. Point out the three phases of the leading character's 
 conduct in each of the following stories, and state which of 
 them, if any, the author has either overdrawn or under- 
 drawn : 
 
122 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 a. Poe's The Masque of the Red Death. ' 
 
 b. George Moore's The Exile (in The Untilled Field). 
 
 c. Kipling's The Phantom ^Rickshaw. 
 
 9. a. Pick out some trait in the following character. 
 Find a crucial situation in the events narrated which 
 may exhibit that trait. Then work up a plot around it, 
 drawing on the given material as much or as little as you 
 please. 
 
 b. Get a character story out of the last sentence in the 
 news item. 
 
 Ross Raymond, author, war correspondent, and ad- 
 venturer, of whom it has been said he was in a palace 
 one day and a prison the next, died in Carson, Nev., on 
 Thanksgiving Day. 
 
 Raymond's right name was Frank Powers, and Beaver, 
 Penn., was the place of his birth. At different times 
 Raymond declared that he was the son of a well-known 
 officer of the British Army, that he was an ex-officer of 
 the British Navy, with a long and honored career behind 
 him, and that among his friends were some of the fore- 
 most men and women of this country, England, and 
 continental Europe. 
 
 Raymond may be said to have begun his varied career 
 by entering the United States Navy. After serving a 
 time he resigned and then entered the British Navy, and 
 after a tour of duty in that service resigned to become a 
 correspondent of newspapers. As a correspondent he 
 represented in various parts of the world newspapers in 
 San Francisco, Chicago, Baltimore, London, and this 
 city. He traveled the world over, and it is said was one 
 day in poverty and the next day in luxury. 
 
 At one time Raymond was on the staff of a powerful 
 Indian Rajah, while at the time of the bombardment of 
 Alexandria he was an officer on the staff of the Khedive 
 of Egypt. After his Egyptian career he is charged with 
 having impersonated many distinguished men, and for 
 these false pretensions he served ten years in an English 
 
EXERCISES 123 
 
 prison, and is said also to have served a term in prison in 
 this country. 
 
 As the press agent of the Khedive Raymond cut a wide 
 swath. After the Egyptian war he went to Paris, clad 
 in the glittering uniform of an Egyptian officer and sur- 
 rounded by a full staff of equally gorgeously clad Egyptian 
 subordinates. He announced at the time that the 
 Khedive was soon to visit Paris, and engaged whole 
 floors in great hotels for the entertainment of that per- 
 sonage. He had trays of rarest gems sent to him for in- 
 spection, which he is said to have retained pending the 
 approval of the purchase by the Khedive. Then he dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 When next heard of he was masquerading as a Rajah 
 in India. He had a great time in India, and then he 
 came back to the United States, and going to Ohio 
 learned that his mother was dead. Then he went West. 
 His wife stuck to him through it all. 
 
 10. What character trait does G.'s conduct suggest in the 
 following episode from the Titanic disaster? If you find 
 it equivocal, add such events as will make it clear. 
 
 When the crash came I awakened them and told 
 them to get dressed. A few minutes later I went into their 
 rooms and helped them to get ready. I put a life pre- 
 server on Mr. G. He said it hurt him in the back. There 
 was plenty of time and I took it off, adj usted it, and then 
 put it on him again. It was all right this time. 
 
 They wanted to go out on deck with only a few 
 clothes on, but I pulled a heavy sweater over Mr. G.'s 
 lifebelt, and then they both went out. They stayed 
 together, and I could see what they were doing. They 
 were going from one lifeboat to another, helping the 
 women and children. Mr. G. would shout out,' Women 
 first,' and he was of great assistance to the officers. 
 
 Things weren't so bad at first, but when I saw Mr. G. 
 about three-quarters of an hour after the crash there was 
 great excitement. What surprised me was that both 
 Mr. G. and his secretary were dressed in their evening 
 clothes. They had deliberately .taken off their sweaters, 
 and as nearly as I can remember they wore no lifebelts 
 at all. 
 
124 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 'What's that for?' I asked. 
 
 'We've dressed up in our best/ replied Mr. G., 
 'and are prepared to go down Uke gentlemen.' It was 
 then that he told me about the message to his wife and 
 that is what I have come here for. 
 
 Well, shortly after the last few boats were lowered 
 and I was ordered by the deck officer to man an oar, I 
 waved good-bye to Mr. G., and that was the last I saw 
 of him and his American secretary. 
 
 11. a. What character traits are at work in the following 
 history? Which one seems to have been decisive? 
 Having answered these questions, simplify the events so 
 as to bring out nothing but the one most important 
 trait. 
 
 b. Can either character be made the topic of a short 
 story, without profoundly altering the events? 
 
 The woman who was found insane on Monday after- 
 noon in the room of Prof. Louis G. Parma, beside the 
 dead body of the music master, was identified yesterday 
 as Clara Conner of Shelbyville, Ind., k former pupil of the 
 professor. 
 
 Prof. Parma kept Miss Conner in seclusion for twenty 
 years, providing for her every want and supporting her 
 entirely at his expense, that she might not be sent to an 
 insane asylum. The old professor had a horror of such 
 institutions, and when Miss Connor, one of his most 
 promising pupils and a great favorite with the music 
 master, lost her reason, he proclaimed to his friends that 
 never should the girl, without near relatives or appar- 
 ently any kin at all except a cousin, be committed to an 
 asylum. 
 
 Prof. Parma was wealthy then. Miss Conner had 
 come to his school from her home in Shelbyville and 
 from the first she made rapid progress. She hoped to 
 win a place on the stage, and the professor predicted a 
 great future for her. Then her mind gave way. 
 
 Prof. Parma was broken-hearted, but instantly pro- 
 vided a place in his own home for the girl. To strangers 
 he never spoke of her, but to his and her friends the 
 
EXERCISES 125 
 
 professor never made a mystery of the girFs presence 
 in his home. He regarded her affliction as a secret of 
 hers, and for this reason only he refused to mention her 
 to strangers. 
 
 The doctors in Bellevue Hospital can get nothing 
 coherent from the woman. In her babblings she has 
 talked in at least seven different languages, but never 
 connectedly enough to give the authorities any clue to her 
 past. 
 
 12. Develop the following into a half-serious character 
 story, first designating the single effect, the character 
 trait, and the crucial situation. 
 
 Willie Finnegan, 12 years old, and Freddie Rosenberg, 
 10 years old, today became tired of a short career as 
 thieves and applied to the police to send them to the 
 reform school. 
 
 The boys a few nights ago tried to steal the opera 
 house bass drum. Next they robbed John P. Flanagan's 
 grocery store, and last night stole bottled beer from a 
 wagon. They drank some of the beer and today felt 
 remorse. 
 
 The police turned the boys over to Probation Officer 
 MacWilliam, and Judge Lyon sent them to the reform 
 school in Jamesburg. 
 
 13. Read carefully How ells' The Pursuit of the Piano. 
 Then strike out from the first chapter every word which 
 describes an event or circumstance by recounting Hamil- 
 ton Gaites' sensations or thoughts about it. Be very 
 careful not to expunge anything that counts in the dramatic 
 action. Finally, connect smoothly the surviving passages 
 and compare the result with the original with respect 
 to (a) vividness, (b) clarity, and (c) dramatic velocity. 
 
126 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 SUB-CHAPTER B. THE PLOT ACTION. 
 
 Important as the plot action is, it makes almost no 
 demand upon the writer's knowledge or insight, in 
 comparison with the integrative intensifier which we 
 have just been studying. To handle it effectively, little 
 technical skill is required. It raises only two questions 
 worthy of discussion here: the question of directness, 
 and the question of necessity, 
 
 1. Directness. Let us first define our terms. Action 
 is direct which, in every complication, moves toward the 
 crucial situation. Every other kind is indirect in greater 
 or lesser degree. 
 
 These qualities of plot action must be carefully dis- 
 tinguished from the order of events, with which it is easy 
 to confuse them. The plot action is determined by the 
 selection of events to be depicted; the order of the selected 
 events, while more or less influenced by the selection, is 
 a distinct and secondary feature. Almost any story will 
 reveal this distinction, but Balzac's A Seashore Drama 
 does so with exceptional sharpness. The student will 
 please analyze it carefully, in the light of the following 
 comments. 
 
 The plot action here is doubly indirect. It begins with 
 the reveries and gamboling of the artist narrator and 
 Pauline on the Brittany coast, and through the first 
 thousand words these persons seem to be the chief char- 
 acters. Then the wretched fisherman suddenly appears, 
 and for the space of over three thousand words his past 
 and present misery unfold. Here at last, the reader 
 thinks, is the hero; and the story is about his poverty, 
 his filial loyalty, and the solitude of his dull existence. 
 But no! The Man of the Vow at last shoots into view, 
 and the tale the fisherman tells about him makes us 
 
THE PLOT ACTION 127 
 
 forget all else. When this terrible seashore drama has 
 unrolled, the narrative leaps back across the years to 
 the artist and Pauline; and the closing movement por- 
 trays the effect of the drama upon them. 
 
 Here, to be sure, is a definite arrangement of episodes. 
 But the order itself is quite distinct from the matter 
 ordered. The three acts, as it were, might contain 
 exactly the same incidents and yet relate them in other 
 sequences. Thus, the story might open with the artist 
 and Pauline meeting the fisherman. During the mock 
 barter over his lobster and crab, all the exuberance of 
 the summer visitors' sheer physical joy and all their 
 summer fancies might be brought out, though doubtless 
 not so successfully as in the arrangement which Balzac 
 has chosen. Also, the discovery of Cambremer on his 
 granite bowlder might occur in the midst of the artist's 
 first encounter with the poor fisherman; and the fisherman 
 might tell his own history while telling that of the Man 
 with the Vow. (The story would gain much by bringing 
 Cambremer into it sooner.) 
 
 No such manipulation affects the plot action. At 
 most, it only obscures or clarifies it. To alter the plot's 
 aramatic qualitj^, you must delete episodes or insert others. 
 This is remarkably easy in A Seashore Drama; inasmuch as 
 neither of the first two movements contain integral parts 
 of the central plot. Strictly speaking, both of them 
 contribute only to the atmosphere and the philosophical 
 interpretation. They are pure intensifiers. To state 
 this in the language of the definitions above laid down: 
 they are indirect action, inasmuch as neither the artist 
 nor Pauline nor the fisherman do anything which makes 
 Cambremer drown his profligate son. 
 
 a. Two indirections. Two varieties of indirect action 
 are conspicuous; first, that which introduces secondary 
 complications (sub-plots) in order to reach the climax; and, 
 
128 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 secondly, that which proceeds by developing a character in 
 a manner that conceals the line of action from the reader 
 for a while. Gouverneur Morris' story, Sapphira, con- 
 tains indirect action in the form of a sub-plot, which is pe- 
 culiarly unsuccessful inasmuch as the minor action 
 almost overwhelms the major. The title indicates that 
 the benevolent liar, Miss Tennant, is the dominant 
 character and consequently that the events centering 
 about and springing from her fibs constitute the plot. 
 But the adventures of David Larkin, particularly his love 
 affair with Another Lady, do much more than bring 
 out Miss Tennant's embarrassments; they make one 
 forget these altogether. A Circle in the Water is doubly 
 indirect action. It introduces a secondary complication 
 (which, in this case, can scarcely be called a sub-plot) 
 and it also proceeds by developing the leading character, 
 Tedham, while suppressing the plot action in the earlier 
 movement. Mr. and Mrs. March extraneously make 
 difficult the convict's home-coming and his meeting his 
 daughter. Tedham's reestablishment in his daughter's 
 affections and in society could, so far as the dramatic 
 necessities of the affair are concerned, have been ac- 
 complished without most of the elaborate debates and 
 interpositions of the Marches. While these do figure 
 in the action, they serve chiefly to accentuate the public 
 hostility toward ex-convicts and the deeper charity of 
 the Marches, which feebly struggles to masquerade 
 under the guise of sternness. The two indirections shoot 
 through the entire narrative; and their joint effect is 
 especially powerful in the first movement, which runs 
 on through fifteen hundred words without betraying 
 anything about the leading characters and the com- 
 plication. 
 
 b. The use of direct and of indirect action. The illustra- 
 tions we have just considered suggest perhaps that only 
 
THE PLOT ACTION 129 
 
 direct action is altogether praiseworthy. But this is 
 not true, though it is much more nearly so in the out- 
 and-out character story than elsewhere. Which method 
 is better depends upon the particular effect sought; and 
 the fundamental principle which decides its fitness is 
 the principle of integration. Thus, if we were writing 
 a thematic story, we should not ask ourselves which 
 events in our material are the most exciting, or which 
 rush on to the climax most swiftly. Rather should we 
 seek those which more uniformly and most vividly 
 illuminate the theme. And if, again, we were composing 
 an adventure story whose supreme thrill sprang from pure 
 surprise, we should not choose a plot structure with an 
 eye to its character drawing or its moral or anything else 
 save that startling denouement. 
 
 We may sum up these observations in several practical 
 rules : 
 
 Like every other factor, episodes may be intensifiert>^ 
 of whatever single effect the writer aims at. Now, of 
 course, all those which are integral parts of the plot must 
 be reported and suitably developed, lest the action be 
 vague. So the technical problem reduces to two ques- 
 tions: How far may the plot events be elaborated be- 
 yond the degree at which they make clear the plot action? 
 And to what extent may one introduce and develop 
 incidents which do not belong to the plot action? The 
 answer is simple enough in form, but hard to apply. 
 
 Only such events may be introduced as heighten the 
 single effect; and they may he developed only up to the 
 point at which they begin to obscure the plot action either 
 by interrupting it or else by diverting interest from it to 
 themselves. 
 
 Let us suppose that you have a plot whose most inter- 
 esting feature is not the complication nor the atmosphere 
 but, say, the hero's lack of humor. This defect you wish 
 
130 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 to bring out most vividly, making it yield the story's 
 single effect. In looking over the essential incidents of 
 the bald plot, you find that, while they reveal the trait, 
 they do not make the most of it. They give the fact 
 but not the thrill of it. What then shall you do? Well, 
 first of all, see whether some of the essential plot incidents 
 cannot be elaborated so as to produce the thrill. If they 
 can, you are fortunate. If they cannot, invent a few 
 episodes which perfectly characterize your hero's mirth- 
 lessness and add them to the narrative at the point where 
 they are clear, relevant, and harmless to the continuity 
 nA,^ of the action. 
 
 Where is this pomt? Occasionally you will find it at 
 a lull in the main action where the latter shifts its trend. 
 But, nine times out of ten, it is at the story's opening. Not 
 by chance nor by any dead technical formality does it 
 happen thus, but rather because an event so placed does 
 not break in upon the plot action at all and, furthermore, 
 because it fixes the character in advance, thereby relieving 
 the reader of the task of discovering him. As the majority 
 of stories require some measure of secondary intensifying 
 episodes, the opening assumes a tremendous technical 
 importance, of which we shall soon hear more. And those 
 editors who read only the first page or two of a story 
 manuscript seldom err in rejecting a contribution that 
 does not impress them favorably in that brief space. 
 
 The length of intensifying plot events that are placed 
 at the opening is pretty easily controlled, but that of 
 interpolated material is not. The reason for this is 
 that every episode which enters into the texture of a plot 
 must, for the drama's sake, hang together smoothly with 
 its antecedents and its consequents, and a certain un- 
 predictable amount of detail is involved in making the 
 two transitions. Unfortunately, the ease and brevity of 
 these depend so much upon the particular events that 
 
THE PLOT ACTION 131 
 
 no useful rule, nor even suggestion, can be given about 
 them. The writer must fall back upon the general prin- 
 ciple. 
 
 c. The two typical errors in plot action. An episode may 
 violate either the first or the second clause of the general 
 principle and thus give rise to two kinds of faulty action, 
 which we may name: 
 
 i. Irrelevancy and 
 
 ii. Over intensification. 
 
 i. Irrelevancy. Many writers admit matter to their 
 pages 'because it is really connected with the story' 
 or 'because, being connected with it in fact, it will 
 lend a desirable air of reality to the tale'. These, alas, 
 are fundamentally wrong reasons, and they have ruined 
 whole libraries of would-be literature. The genuineness 
 of such a connection is not the slightest argument in 
 favor of introducing the matter. It would be, if you 
 were a scientist investigating a real person and his affairs. 
 But, as an artist striving to exhibit some single effect of 
 a dramatic incident, you must suppress everything that 
 does not make for this end. If you do not, you will 
 produce things like a recent story entitled The Crime in 
 Jedidiah Peehle's House,^ which is (unintentionally) 
 a most solemn warning against the sin of realistic ir- 
 relevancy. 
 
 Its theme seems to be something like this: 'A criminal 
 is relentlessly pursued by public vengeance and cannot 
 hope to escape it'. The single effect proper to this is, 
 of course, the stern joy of a more than personal justice, 
 mingled perhaps with awe before the spectacle of Fate 
 and the Furies working invisibly through the common 
 people. The main plot action is admirably simple: 
 a fleeing murderer, resting behind a hedge far from the 
 scene of his crime, overhears some people talking about 
 
 ^Harper's, March, 1912. 
 
132 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 him and his past and his pursuei:s and his inevitable 
 capture; as they stroll off, the sunset pours its blood-red 
 light over him, and tte sky holds up before his terror- 
 stricken eyes a great cloud shaped like the head of the 
 venerable old man whom he has slain. There you have 
 an incident which Hawthorne would have delighted in 
 and exalted to a magnificent, sombre allegory. But, in 
 the author's hands, it has been ruined by the chatter of the 
 wayfarers. Their private affairs, so far as I perceive, 
 have no inner connection with the theme nor with the 
 action; nevertheless they have been spun out and out and 
 still out until the reader is forced to believe that, in some 
 subterranean way, they are of the plot. More than a 
 thousand words are wasted in talk about the women's 
 dresses, their opinions about husbands, the old gentleman's 
 seed store, his pet rabbits, and the love affair of his impe- 
 cunious grandson. And all the while, behind the hedge, 
 sits the murderer drinking in this dilute, irrelevant conver- 
 sation. Poor fellow! If he is bored half as much as the 
 reader is, the punishment exceeds his crim*^. 
 
 ii. Over-intensification. This fault, unlike the first, 
 is one to which very good writers are susceptible. In- 
 deed, it is the supreme literary virtue rimning wild. 
 He who clearly perceives his theme, its best single effect, 
 and the plot action is most likely to be carried away by 
 them and to overdraw some significant feature. Mau- 
 passant becomes, at times, a victim of literary speed 
 mania and strikes a pace that no narrative drama can 
 hold. Poe often lays on horrors too thickl5^ Meredith 
 is thrust out of the story-world by the avalanche of his 
 subtle refinements. And so on, even unto the latest 
 of the great, O. Henry, who cannot always control his 
 passion for topsy-turvy surprises. 
 
 A fairly clear case of over-intensification occurs in 
 Richard Harding Davis' entertaining psychological story, 
 
THE PLOT ACTION 133 
 
 A Question of Latitude.^ Its theme is put into the mouth 
 of the Enghsh Coaster, who, speaking of the Congo 
 country, says: 'It doesn't matter a damn what a man 
 brings here, what his training was, what he is. The 
 thing is too strong for him. ... He loses shame, 
 loses reason; becomes cruel, weak, degenerate'. This 
 the plot action illustrates. An eminently moral and 
 well bred Bostonian newspaper man goes to reform the 
 jungle, and the jungle deforms him — but not so seriously 
 that we cannot laugh cynically at his plight, and marvel 
 at the author's mercilessly accurate delineation of human 
 nature in the raw. Now, in order to show the brute 
 force of the tropical wildernesses in full swing, Davis does 
 exactly the right things; first, he makes Everett, the 
 reformer, the incarnation of culture and the proprieties; 
 and, secondly, by anecdote, debate, and pure description, 
 he portrays the Congo country in all its vileness. Every 
 word of all this is pertinent and interesting. The trouble 
 is that it is too interesting and too long. It outshines 
 the story of Everett's infatuation, which is the climax 
 and by all odds the most entertaining part of the plot. 
 The first five hundred words present us with as minute 
 a portrait of the hero as is possible in brief fiction. (0. 
 Henry would have given as accurate a one in seventy- 
 five words.) Then follow about twelve hundred 
 words of conversation on shipboard about the un- 
 amiable habits of West Coast savages and the cor- 
 ruption which the African sun works under the European's 
 skull. The next eight hundred words report Everett's 
 harrowing first experiences; and here the plot action 
 gets under way, somewhere around Word No. 2,400, which 
 is at least a thousand words too late. 
 
 d. The formalist fallacy. The assertion has often been 
 made that Hhe short story is Maupassant'; which is a 
 
 * In the collection entitled Once Upon a Time (Scribner's, 1910). 
 
134 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 eulogistic way of saying that the pure direct plot action 
 alone is the perfect pattern. This view, however, can 
 be maintained only by assuming that the one legitimate 
 single effect is that of dramatic velocity. Such a pre- 
 supposition runs counter to the taste of most artists and 
 readers and is, for this reason alone, indefensible inas- 
 much as literary ideals are essentially a matter of taste. 
 Few of us are so narrow that we find enjoyment only in 
 such swift catastrophes as The Piece of String, The 
 Necklace and Little Soldier, Life is full of gentler griefs 
 and lazier merriment and more languorous romance which 
 claim our tears and laughter no less strongly and which 
 cannot be told adequately with Maupassant's lightning 
 artistry. The pure dramatic story of the French type gives 
 us the dizzying effect of terrific speed. Its scenes and 
 catastrophes flit past as the landscape past a racing auto- 
 mobile. Probably no other sensation is quite so intense, 
 unless it is that of tumbling from an aeroplane. But 
 there are many other kinds of intensity, and every well- 
 balanced reader likes to change the flavor of his fiction 
 occasionally. These other intensities are not all attained 
 by swift, direct action. The quality accentuated in the 
 story's single effect may be any one of a large number 
 which reveal themselves in slower stirrings. They are 
 especially prominent in three classes of stories: 
 >^ i. The thematic story commonly requires indirect 
 action; because the development of the theme tends to 
 follow the argumentative order of its proof, and the steps 
 of the latter are seldom connected dramatically. 
 
 ii. The 'psychological character story of the analytical 
 type often calls for mdirect action, especially when the 
 forces at work in the character are either highly com- 
 plicated or are interesting because of their surprising 
 solution. In the former case the pattern of action re- 
 sembles that of the story with sub-plots, the minor 
 
THE PLOT ACTION 135 
 
 movements being those of the various interplaying in- 
 stincts, prejudices, and appetites. 
 
 iii. The complication story employs indirect action in 
 proportion to its intricacy and to the importance of the 
 solution. The pure surprise, such as the detective and 
 the mystery tale, usually is indirect. 
 
 In all other cases, however, direct action is better, par- 
 ticularly in the ordinary character story. Such a story 
 depicts conduct in a crisis, and this is never clearer and 
 stronger than when told in its own simple terms, un- 
 decorated by attendant circumstances and not refracted 
 through some other character's experience. To inter- 
 polate events or commentaries between the items of the 
 pure plot may indeed interpret the latter gloriously, but 
 it blurs the picture more or less, coloring the action with 
 preachment. 
 
 2. Necessity. One of the most hotly debated ques- 
 tions in the older theories of the drama had to do with 
 the nature and bounds of dramatic necessity. To what 
 extent may the playwright allow accidents to happen on 
 his stage? The weight of authority has always been 
 against his allowing it at all. And this opinion has come 
 over, quite naturally, into the theory of dramatic fiction, 
 and today prevails there. As Brander Matthews neatly 
 puts it, "fiction dealt first with the Impossible, then 
 with the Improbable, next with the Probable, and now 
 at last with the Inevitable". And hi The Story-Teller^ s 
 Art Charity Dye lays down the orthodox rule, which we 
 must quote for the second time: "In a well-appointed 
 story, not only must everything that happens seem to 
 grow naturally out of the situation, but it must seem to 
 be the only thing that could happen under the circum- 
 stances." 
 
 However sound this may be in the field of drama, it 
 is little short of preposterous as a commandment to the 
 
136 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 fiction writer. It could have been advanced only by 
 persons whose interest in a certain type of literature 
 hid everything else from their understanding. As a 
 criterion of artistic merit it fails miserably, and as a guide 
 in writing it is a sheer impossibility. Not one in a hundred 
 good short stories produces so much as the fleeting im- 
 pression of inevitability; and I do not believe that more 
 than one author in a hundred strives for that effect. 
 Those who do so, moreover, fall far short of it. Howells, 
 for instance, aspires toward a psychological fatalism 
 in which, as we have heard him say, the events of a story 
 are the mere effects of the particular character whom the 
 writer is exhibiting. As effects, they must of course 
 appear as the necessary consequences of their causes. 
 But how often do they in Howells' stories? Or, again, 
 how often in James* and Mrs. Wharton's? I must confess 
 that I have not experienced so much as the illusion of 
 inevitability there, except in The Liar and in that marvel- 
 ous novelette, Ethan Frome. 
 
 This is not proof that the ideal of dramatic necessity 
 is wrong. It is only an argumentum ad hominem. But 
 practically it is as good as a demonstration; for where 
 such masters of analysis as Howells, James, and Wharton 
 fail we wrongly urge others to rush in. Impersonal evi- 
 dence of the same import is not lacking, though; and it 
 is most accessible in the ideals of short story. 
 
 So long as we are trying to fix upon nothing more than 
 the marks of a good short story, we have no right to look 
 beyond the virtues of dramatic narrative with a single 
 effect. We ought not select a theme or a type of material, 
 or a literary style within such narrative and find therein 
 the 'essence' of the genre. The 'essence' is not there, 
 any more than all human beauty is resident in the smile 
 of a lovely face that strikes our fancy. To think that 
 it is, is to perpetrate what the logicians term the fallacy 
 
THE PLOT ACTION 137 
 
 of accident. It is to confuse form and matter and to 
 exalt the latter to the level of the first. Or it is to mistake 
 an intensity for the quality which is intense. 
 
 It may well be that drama attains its supremely en- 
 thralling moment when it reveals a human soul triumph- 
 antly asserting itself over circumstances which threaten 
 to stifle its virtues and pervert its noblest instincts. 
 But, even so, it does not follow that whatever falls short 
 of this high pitch is not genuine drama. One might as 
 well argue that only the most vivid blue is true blue, 
 and only the loudest note true music. The combination 
 of persons and events which makes dramatic action in- 
 tense does not make it dramatic. To attain the intensity, 
 the matter must first have acquired the specific quality. 
 
 Let us now apply these dry, abstract propositions to 
 the integrative intensifying of the short story. Dramatic 
 necessity is only one of many devices for perfecting the 
 single effect. It is not an ideal of the short story, as 
 such; its usefulness is limited to a relatively small class of 
 character plots, namely those which depict nothing but 
 the operations of sharply defined mental types. Its 
 employment elsewhere probably does more harm than 
 good. 
 
138 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Exercises 
 
 The anecdote below is highly ambiguous. Give it as 
 many reasonable interpretations as you can. Then 
 amplify it so variously as to develop in turn (1) a broadly 
 comic complication; (2) a pathetic character story; and 
 (3) a moral tragedy. 
 
 Charged with intoxication, a man dressed in a Santa 
 Claus costume caused a stir today in the Adams Street 
 Police Court. 
 
 ''What is this?" said the Magistrate, as he gazed on 
 the figure before him. "Santa Claus in a poHce court? 
 I thought he was too busy with getting things ready for 
 Christmas to spend his valuable time in this place?" 
 
 Santa Claus appeared bewildered and muttered 
 something that sounded like too much Christmas, but 
 was unable to say any more. 
 
 Policeman Joseph Kane told the Magistrate that he 
 had found the man, Louis Kane, at Fulton and Willoughby 
 streets flourishing a bell and requesting the charity of 
 passersby for Christmas. He had a cauldron, into which 
 contributions were dropped. 
 
 The policeman said he approached Kane and cautioned 
 him not to be so enthusiastic about the boiling pot. 
 
 "But," said Santa, "I am a member of the Volunteers 
 of America and must earn my salary." 
 
 "You're drunk," said the policeman. 
 
 "Well, I did go into a saloon," the poHceman quoted 
 him as saying, "to get some string to tie my whiskers on, 
 as they were falling off, and I must admit I did take about 
 'two fingers.'" 
 
 The man and the pot were taken to the Adams street 
 poHce station, where "Santa" spent the night, and was 
 discharged today by the Magistrate with a reprimand. 
 
 As Kane left the court he was heard to mutter, "Never 
 again!" 
 
EXERCISES 139 
 
 * 2. a. Construct a humorous complication plot out of 
 the following, using the judge as the butt. 
 
 b. Make a thematic tragedy plot of it, building around 
 'red tape' or else the cruel and empty dignity of the 
 law. 
 
 C. J. McGuire, a letter carrier, entered the Yorkville 
 Court yesterday with a special delivery letter. He re- 
 fused to remove his hat from his head when ordered to do 
 so by Court Attendant Rasmussin. He said: 
 
 *' I am only obeying orders. I am not allowed to take 
 off any part of my uniform while on duty." 
 
 Magistrate Breen wanted to know whether the post- 
 man couldn't strain a point in favor of courtesy, but 
 McGuire, who seemed to be a stickler for departmental 
 rules, said this was impossible. 
 
 "I am only obeying orders. I am not allowed to take 
 off any part of my imiform while on duty", he said, me- 
 chanically. 
 
 Having found out that the man to whom he had to 
 deliver the letter was stationed in the Men's Night Court, 
 McGuire started to walk out. 
 
 ''Be sure you keep your hat on when you go into the 
 Night Court", Magistrate Breen called out. Whereupon 
 McGuire answered in a monotone: 
 
 "I am only obeying orders. I am not allowed to take 
 off any part of my uniform while on duty." 
 
 3. In each of the following stories discover (a) the items 
 of the direct action; (b) those of indirect action (if any); 
 (c) irrelevant episodes, and (d) over-intensified episodes. 
 Explain each case of (c) and (d). 
 
 Balzac, H. — La Grande Breteche. 
 
 Foe—The Gold Bug. 
 
 Kipling — The Man Who Would Be King 
 
 Coppee — A Voluntary Death. 
 
 O. Henry — Lost on Dress Parade (in The Four Million), 
 
 London, J.^A Day^s Lodging (in Love of Life). 
 
 Benefield, B. — Old Johnnie (Scribner's, Dec, 1911) 
 
140 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Byron, T. P. — Loaded Dice (Everyhodifs, Jan., 1912). 
 
 Osbourne, Lloyd — Detty the Detrimental {Everybody's, 
 Aug., 1910). -V 
 
 4. While reading each of the following stories, note (a) 
 the point in the narrative where you think you foresee 
 the outcome; (b) the point where you revise this guess, 
 and (c) the accuracy of the guess. 
 
 James, H. — Owen Wingrave. 
 
 Deland, Margaret — The Child's Mother (in Old Chester 
 Tales). 
 
 Kipling, R. — His Wedded Wife (in Plain Tales from 
 the Hills). 4 
 
 London, J. — The Unexpected (in Love of Life). 
 
 Henry, 0. — A Blackjack Bargainer (in Whirligigs). 
 
 By what handling of the action is suspense maintained 
 in each story? Which handling succeeds best? 
 
. THE ORDER OF EVENTS 141 
 
 SUB-CHAPTER C. — THE ORDER OF EVENTS. 
 
 This problem is a stumbling block. Not one beginner in 
 twenty solves it, nor does more than one magazine story in 
 five. Why is this? Chiefly because, in arranging events, 
 the writer must look away from his plot for a while and put 
 himself in the reader's place. He may construct his story, 
 insofar as the choice and qualification of its material are 
 concerned, with an eye to nothing save the material itself. 
 For this labor he is sufficiently equipped if he understands 
 his people, times, and places, and recognizes a dramatic 
 complication when he sees or imagines one. But the 
 instant he begins the narrative, he is confronted with a 
 radically different task; he must now communicate with 
 his pubUc, and in such fashion that the latter gets not 
 only the facts but their dramatic effect. This effect is 
 produced by a delicate and exceedingly difficult mingling 
 of revelations and concealments; for, as with humor and 
 music, its peculiar quality depends upon what the audi- 
 ence receives from moment to moment. In the language 
 of rhetoric, it is a matter of order and suspense. 
 
 Now, the art of suspense is as different from pure 
 plotting as speech is different from thought. This must 
 be emphasized today as never before, inasmuch as the 
 contrary has been stoutly alleged by not a few authorities. 
 Certain philosophers and literary folk tell us that a 
 story is bound to be no better and no worse than the idea 
 which the author has to express; and hence that, once 
 you clear up your plot and know just what effect you wish 
 it to produce, it will narrate itself.^ This theory shoots 
 
 1 This theory of the self-expression of ideas originates with the 
 brilliant Italian philosopher and critic, Benedetto Croce. He gives 
 it a form, though, which is not open to the above criticism. The 
 erroneous twist in it appears in the thinking of those, his followers; 
 who apply the doctrine to literature and its teaching. 
 
142 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 very close to the truth, and it is not easily refuted in 
 debate; but a little editorial experience quickly discloses 
 its one small, yet fatal exaggeration. Everybody who 
 has read MSS. knows that the so-called 'story-sense' 
 and the knack of story-telling are two distinct gifts, 
 almost as independent as the eyes are independent of the 
 ears. Some writers conjure up delightful plots but 
 cannot narrate them effectively, although they have all 
 the details well in hand and write a flowing narrative 
 style. Others, on the contrary, devise weak plots and 
 seem to have little feeling for character and complication; 
 but give them a plot, and they dash off a capital story. 
 There is a well known story writer of to-day whose greatest 
 successes have been built upon plots given to him by oblig- 
 ing editors and whose desperate efforts at originality usu- 
 ally gain him admittance only to third-rate maga- 
 zines. And three of the most ingenious plot-makers 
 and smoothest writers among my own students 
 have always had difficulty in 'getting it over the 
 footlights', while others much less gifted in fantasy 
 and in command of words have readily produced 
 salable stories. 
 
 1. What order accomplishes. At least four things are 
 accomplished by the arrangement of episodes: 
 
 i. Transitions are smoothed. 
 
 ii. Characters and situations are clarified. 
 
 iii. The natural climactic sequence of the plot events 
 is made evident and sometimes intensified. 
 
 iv. The single effect of the story is sharpened ('the 
 theme is rounded off'). 
 
 2. First general law of order. Throughout his work, the 
 student should keep in mind the principle of simplicity, 
 which, with reference to our present topic, may be thus 
 stated : 
 
 Alter the historical order no more than is necessary. 
 
THE ORDER OF EVENTS 143 
 
 And the corollary is: First, discover the historical 
 order and test its narrative values. The beginner, indeed, 
 will generally do well to adhere to it in the first complete 
 draft of each story. He should not trust his judgment 
 in imagining the efTect of the sequence. 
 
 3. The special problems of order. With respect to the 
 material of the story, there arise three special problems 
 of order: 
 
 a. The opening event. 
 
 b. The closing event. 
 
 c. The distribution of events throughout the plot 
 action. 
 
 In solving each of these problems, all four of the above 
 named improvements are accomplished, in varying 
 degrees. 
 
 a. The opening event. The opening event has two 
 functions; it must awaken the reader's interest in the / 
 story and it must also carry him quickly into the latter. 
 Either function alone is easily discharged, but to handle 
 both at once demands considerable skill and frequently 
 much experimenting. Many a story which finishes 
 strong begins with dull episodes. Witness that de- 
 licious satire of Mrs. Wharton's, Xingu,^ which starts 
 off thus: 
 
 Mrs. Ballinger is one of the ladies who pursue Culture 
 in bands, as though it were dangerous to meet alone. To 
 this end she had founded the Lunch Club, an association 
 composed of herself and several other indomitable hunt- 
 resses of erudition. The Lunch Club, after three or four 
 winters of lunching and debate, had acquired such local 
 distinction that the entertainment of distinguished 
 strangers became one of its accepted functions; in recog- 
 nition of which it duly extended to the celebrated 'Osric 
 Dane', on the day of her arrival in Hillbridge, an invitation 
 to be present at the next meeting. 
 
 ^Scribner'Sf Dec, 1911. 
 
 l^' 
 
144 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 A Lunch Club hardly piques the jaded reader's euri- 
 Dsity. But for the stinging characterization of Mrs. 
 Ballinger, he might yawn and pass on to the next article. 
 That clever hit, though, at the get-wise-quick lady stirs 
 him; and he will be dull indeed if he does not wonder 
 what is going to happen to her. Mrs. Wharton's device 
 is perfect, as usual, and we may profitably scrutinize it. 
 
 In these hundred words Mrs. Wharton has (1) pre- 
 cisely anticipated the single effect of her story (mildly 
 satirical merriment); (2) outlined the setting; (3) desig- 
 nated and slightly described two of the leading characters, 
 and (4) reported one of the events of the complication. 
 The only thing that has not been broached is the outcome 
 of the comedy; and to omit this is no fault. For the 
 opening does not have to tell the story, but should only 
 coax the reader into it pleasantly; and this can be ac- 
 complished in most cases by the factors above named. 
 Furthermore, there is always the danger that, in fore- 
 casting the finish, you may betray the action and rob it 
 of all tension and surprise, as Kipling all but does in 
 At the Pit's Mouth, when he begins thus: 
 
 Once upon a time, there was a Man and his Wife, and a 
 Tertium Quid. 
 
 All three were unwise, but the Wife was the un wisest. 
 The man should have looked after his Wife, who should 
 have avoided the Tertium Quid, who, again, should have 
 married a wife of his own, after clean and open flirtation, 
 to which nobody can possibly object, round Jakko or 
 Observatory Hill. ... 
 
 The eternal 'triangle' and its eternal tragedy are too 
 palpable; and, though the outcome is not quite stated, 
 you have only three guesses about it, and each is too, 
 too easy. 
 
 Now, bearing in mind the two functions of the opening 
 and the ideals of our genre we may distinguish ten ways 
 
THE ORDER OF EVENTS 
 
 145 
 
 of getting a start. I list them in the order of their 
 general excellence.^ (The fifth alone is, as we shall see, 
 often better than its rank.) A story may open with: 
 
 1. 
 
 Direct action: 
 
 Indirect action: 
 
 Which reveals in some measure the 
 setting, the characters, and the 
 theme or the single effect. 
 
 2. Which reveals character only. 
 
 3. Which reveals the setting only. 
 
 4. Which reveals only the theme or the 
 single effect. 
 
 5. A philosophical overture. (Anticipa- 
 tory generalizations without ac- 
 tion.) 
 
 6. Which reveals setting, characters, 
 and the theme or single effect. 
 
 7. Which reveals character only. 
 
 8. Which reveals the setting only. 
 
 9. Which reveals only the theme or 
 single effect. 
 
 10. Pure description. (No action and 
 
 no anticipatory generalizations.) 
 
 For simplicity, I omit from this list six types, namely 
 all those which reveal some two of the three story factors, 
 such as character and setting, or setting and theme. 
 There are three two-phase openings with direct action, 
 
 ^The student must be warned against supposing that he falls 
 short of perfection whenever he is unable to begin a story in the 
 better of these manners. It may be that his plot and his single 
 effect necessitate indirect action or the concealment of character 
 up to some point in the midst of the story. Not every story can 
 have tha best beginning, any more than it can have the strongest 
 climax. Both start and finish depend more or less upon the epi- 
 sodes that start and finish. Usually at least four or five openings 
 are possible; and the author must discover and choose the best of 
 these. 
 
146 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 and three with mdirect. Naturally each is better than 
 any one-phase opening of its own tj^je of action. And 
 the student will readily grasp the nature and merits of 
 each, as soon as he has mastered the ten fundamental 
 types. 
 
 Illustrations. 
 
 1. The opening of Xingu, already quoted and analyzed. 
 
 2. Love of Life, by London: 
 
 They limped painfully down the bank, and once the 
 foremost of the two men staggered among the rough- 
 strewn rocks. They were tired and weak, and their faces 
 had the drawn expression of patience which comes of 
 hardship long endured. They were heavily burdened 
 with blanket packs which were strapped to their shoulders. 
 Head-straps, passing across the forehead, helped support 
 these packs. Each man carried a rifle. They walked 
 in a stooped posture, the shoulders well forward, the head 
 still farther forward, and the eyes bent upon the ground. 
 
 "I wish we had just about two of them cartridges 
 that's layin' in that cache of ourn," said the second man. 
 
 His voice was utterly and drearily expressionless. He 
 spoke without enthusiasm; and the first man, limping 
 into the milky stream that foamed over the rocks, vouch- 
 safed no reply. 
 
 Where are the men? What is their predicament? 
 What is going to befall them? And what is the theme? 
 You cannot know until much farther along in the tale. 
 But the picture of the men excites your interest and 
 promises to lead swiftly into the adventure. In the very 
 next instant the accident happens which makes the 
 story. 
 
 3. The Pursuit of the Piano, by Ho wells: 
 
 Hamilton Gaites sat breakfasting by the window of a 
 restaurant looking out on Park Square, in Boston, at a 
 table which he had chosen after rejecting one on the 
 Boylston Street side of the place because it was too 
 
THE ORDER OF EVENTS 147 
 
 noisy, and another in the little open space, among ever- 
 greens in tubs, between the front and rear, because it 
 was too chilly. The wind was east, but at his Park 
 Street window it tempered the summer morning air with- 
 out being a draught; and he poured out his coffee with a 
 content in his circumstance and provision which he was 
 apt to feel when he had taken all possible pains, even 
 though the result was not perfect. . . . (The 
 balance of the paragraph describes Gaites' food.) 
 
 It is from this comfortable vantage that the hero first 
 spies Phyllis* piano on its devious way to Lower Merritt. 
 Hence his breakfasting there is an integral part of the 
 plot action. But it carries the reader a very short 
 distance into the story. Is Gaites a fugitive murderer 
 or a hardware drummer or a Harvard professor of astrol- 
 ogy? Is the story going to be about the restaurant or his 
 cantaloupe or Park Square or himself? And will it deepen 
 into tragedy or froth up into farce? Thus far, there's 
 not a clue to any of these mysteries. The opening is 
 conspicuously weaker than the preceding types. 
 
 4. The Fall of the House of Usher, by Poe. 
 
 During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day 
 in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung op- 
 pressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, 
 on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country; 
 and at length found myself, as the shades of evening drew 
 on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. I 
 do not know how it was — but with the first glimpse of the 
 building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my 
 spirit. I say insufferable; for the feeling was unrelieved 
 by any of that half-pleasurable, because poetic, senti- 
 ment with which the mind usually receives even the 
 sternest natural images of the desolate or terrible. I 
 looked upon the scene before me — upon the mere house, 
 and the simple landscape features of the domain — upon 
 the bleak walls — upon the vacant, eye-like windows — 
 upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few white trunks 
 
148 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 of decayed trees—with an utter depression of soul which 
 I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly 
 than to the afterdream of the reveller upon opium — the 
 bitter lapse into everyday life — the hideous dropping 
 off of the "Veil. . 
 
 This, it must be confessed, is not an absolutely pure 
 specimen of a direct-action opening which reveals only 
 the theme or the single effect. It tells us a very little, yet 
 a little too much about the setting of the story. Never- 
 theless, it will serve better than most of its type, inasmuch 
 as it develops so marvelously the emotional tone of the 
 story. With the very first phrase the gloom begins to 
 spread over the pages, and not a sentence thereafter halts 
 it. The power of it overwhelms all else and makes us 
 forget the trifle we thus far know about the narrator and 
 Usher. 
 
 There are very few perfect openings of this fourth 
 type, and the reason is evident: it is seldom that an 
 event in the direct plot action can be told without re- 
 vealing somethuig about the people and places participant 
 in it. For it is these who make the event. 
 
 5. A Municipal Report^ by O. Henry. 
 
 East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to 
 Calif ornians. Cahfomians are a race of people; they are 
 not merely inhabitants of a State. They are the South- 
 erners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no less loyal 
 to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer 
 and speak of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. 
 But Califomians go into detail. 
 
 Of course, they have in the climate an argument that 
 is good for half an hour while you are thinking of your 
 coal bills and heavy underwear. But as soon as they 
 come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness 
 comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden 
 Gate as the Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a 
 matter of opinion, no refutation is necessary. But, 
 
THE ORDER OF EVENTS 149 
 
 dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve descended), it is a 
 rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: ''In 
 this town there can be no romance — what could happen 
 here?'' Yes, it is a bold and rash deed to challenge in 
 one sentence history, romance, and Rand and McNally. 
 
 I call this a philosophical overture because it is neither 
 action nor description nor a simple essay-like introduc- 
 tion, but rather a broad, generalized comm.ent on the 
 cosmic state of affairs which the story is to illustrate or 
 prove. It is philosophical because generalized, and an 
 overture because, to fill out the musical analogy, it gives 
 us in advance the theme we are going to hear developed. 
 It is, of course, an old device of essayists and not unknown 
 to medieval minstrels. Poe used it perfectly several 
 times, notably in The Man of the Crowd. But it is 
 Kipling whom we have to thank for bringing it into 
 vogue of late. His Plain Tales from the Hills contains 
 a round dozen samples, the clearest of which occur in 
 Thrown Away and On the Strength of a Likeness. And 
 since them half a hundred authors have learned to turn 
 the same trick neatly. 
 
 Truth to tell, it is an easy trick; or, at least, much 
 easier than plunging headlong into the story. For any 
 cracker-barrel orator can draw a hundred glittering 
 generalities out of any item on the first page of the news- 
 paper, as deftly as a magician pulls rabbits from a hat; 
 and every story that is worth telling at all is at least 
 as prolific as newspaper items. Furthermore, the transi- 
 tion from a universal proposition to the plot action follows 
 three simple patterns, which we may name: (1) the ex- 
 ception, (2) the proof, and (3) the musing that finds an 
 answer. The first appears in Kipling's A Germ-Destroyer, 
 
 As a general rule, it is inexpedient to meddle with 
 questions of State in a land where men are paid to work 
 them out for you. This tale is a jiistiflahle exception. 
 
150 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Or you may follow this second model, from Miss 
 YoughaVs Sais by the same author: 
 
 Some people say that there is no romance in India. 
 Those people are wrong. Our lives hold quite as much 
 romance as is good for us. Sometimes more. 
 
 Or, thirdly, you may pursue subtler and lengthier 
 musings; frivolous wisdom such as O. Henry passes out 
 in The Venturers, Psyche and the P sky-scraper, and The 
 Green Door; or serious reflections such as Howells traces 
 in A Circle in the Water. Here the narrator seems to be 
 wondering or half-asserting some thought when suddenly 
 the thought exemplifies itself in an incident. 
 
 The power of the philosophical overture cannot be 
 denied. Being a statement of fact, or at least having 
 the air of such, it draws the reader into a serious mood; 
 and this mood tends to perpetuate itself throughout the 
 reading of the whole narrative. Only a very well man- 
 aged dramatic opening attains this highly desirable result. 
 Few indeed are the stories which, from the outset, deceive 
 us into feeling that they are history; and, of these, nearly 
 all either sound the depths of life, as They and Without 
 Benefit of Clergy and Will of the Mill do, or else are quasi- 
 arguments with the stories proper seemingly tacked on 
 by way of evidence. Now, this latter class is much 
 larger than the former. And when we ask why, we 
 come upon the one noteworthy exception to the ranking 
 of the ten possible openings. 
 
 When the intrinsic dramatic quality of a character and 
 the plot in which the character figures is mediocre, the 
 philosophical overture is usually better than a direct-action 
 opening. 
 
 The reason for this is, in. the narrowest sense of the 
 word, technical. I mean, it is not to be found in the 
 'pure idea' of the story, much less in the nature of the 
 
THE ORDER OF EVENTS 151 
 
 character depicted. The philosophical overture serves 
 in two ways: first, ^o reinforce the single effect which, in pure 
 dramatic presentation, may be weak; and, secondly, to 
 attract the reader as the simple narrative cannot do.^ 
 6. The Descent into the Maelstrom, by Poe. 
 
 We had now reached the summit of the loftiest crag. 
 For some minutes the old man seemed too much ex- 
 hausted to speak. 
 
 "Not long ago," said he at length, "and I could have 
 guided you on this route as well as the youngest of my 
 sons; but, about three years past, there happened to me 
 an event such as never happened before to mortal man — 
 or, at least, such as no man survived to tell of — and the 
 six hours of deadly terror which I then endured have 
 broken me up, body and soul. You suppose me a very 
 old man — but I am not. It took less than a single day to 
 change those hairs from jet black to white, to weaken my 
 limbs, and unstring my nerves, so that I tremble at the 
 least exertion, and am frightened at a shadow. Do you 
 know, I can scarcely look over this little cliff without 
 getting giddy?" 
 
 The 'little cliff' upon whose edge he had so carelessly 
 thrown himself down to rest that the weightier portion 
 of his body hung over it, while he was only kept from 
 falling by the tenure of his elbow on its extreme and 
 slippery edge — this * little cliff' arose, a sheer and unob- 
 structed precipice of black shining rock, some fifteen or 
 sixteen hundred feet from the world of crags beneath us. 
 Nothing would have tempted me to be within half a 
 dozen yards of its brink. . . . (The rest of the 
 opening describes the Maelstrom, as seen from this, 
 cliff.) 
 
 1 These two services ought to be identical, but are not. Often 
 the philosophical overture touches vividly upon some idea which 
 bobs up in the story more or less incidentally. And, on the other 
 hand, it sometimes reinforces the single effect without interesting 
 the reader. In both cases the story plot is almost certain to be seri- 
 ously defective. If its single effect cannot appeal to us in essay 
 form, it is too confused or too artificial ever to appeal in any dra- 
 matic form. 
 
152 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Here we have the setting, the dominant character, and 
 the single effect consummately drawn in their first out- 
 lines. But notice how the action differs from that of 
 Xingu. There the events were the first of the plot which 
 ensued; here they have only a remote, accidental connec- 
 tion with the old fisherman's nerve-racking adventure. 
 He leads the visitor to the cliff and, while the latter 
 gazes upon the awful waters below, tells the story. 
 
 For the character story and its varieties this opening 
 rarely succeeds. Daudet sometimes bends it to his 
 purposes in a swift and masterly fashion, as, for example, 
 in The Siege of Berlin: 
 
 We were going up Avenue des Champs-Elysees with 
 
 Dr. V. , asking the shell-riddled walls and the side 
 
 walks torn up by grape-shot for the story of the siege of 
 Paris, when, just before we reached the Rondpoint de 
 TEtoile, the doctor stopped and, pointing to one of the 
 great corner houses so proudly grouped about the Arc de 
 Triomphe, said to me: 
 
 "Do you see those four closed windows up there on that 
 balcony? In the early days of August, that terrible 
 August of last year, so heavily laden with storms and 
 disasters, I was called there to see a case of apoplexy. It 
 was the apartment of Colonel Jouve, a cuirassier of the 
 First Empire, an old enthusiast on the subject of glory 
 and patriotism, who had come to live on the Champs- 
 Elysees, in an apartment with a balcony, at the outbreak 
 of the war. Guess why ! In order to witness the triumph- 
 ant return of our troops! Poor old fellow! The news of 
 Wissembourg reached him just as he was leaving the 
 table. When he read the name of Napoleon at the foot 
 of that bulletin of defeat, he fell like a log." 
 
 There is wonderful skill in this seemingly simple open- 
 ing. Within the space of two short paragraphs it melts, 
 like a dissolving stereopticon view, from the indirect to the 
 direct action. Nevertheless it is the exception that 
 proves our rule; for, upon close analysis, you will find that 
 
THE ORDER OF EVENTS 153 
 
 the indirect action in it, which ends with 'Guess why!' 
 does not depict the character trait of Jouve that counts in 
 the story. We are casually told before that he is a chau- 
 vinist, but not that his chauvinism sets things agoing. The 
 instant the narrating physician has pointed out the apart- 
 ment and named its former occupant he takes up the main 
 plot action, and so deftly that the reader perceives no 
 change in the narrative quahty. But the change is 
 there; so Daudet has not used the sixth opening type 
 straight, he has bent it. 
 
 This opening is very useful in the atmosphere story, 
 and in the adventure story. The Descent into the Madstrjju 
 is both of these. The interested student may easil; figure 
 out for himself its utility there. 
 
 7. A Second-Rate Woman, by Kipling. 
 
 ^'Dressed! Don't tell me that woman ever dressed in 
 her life. She stood in the middle of the room while her 
 ayah — no, her husband — it must have been a man — 
 threw her clothes at her. She then did her hair with her 
 fingers, and rubbed her bonnet in the flue under the 
 bed. I know she did, as well as if I had assisted at the 
 orgie. Who is she?" said Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 
 ''Don't!" said Mrs. Mallowe feebly. "You make my 
 head ache. I'm miserable today." (Then follows more 
 about the Dowd, who is the heroine.) 
 
 This opening is weak, but not in every respect. It 
 often does succeed in illuminating character, as in the 
 above specimen. But it is long-winded, devious, and 
 hence confusing. If you must depict a person indirectly, 
 you have only two simple and plastic devices: let some- 
 body state his impressions of the person, or else depict 
 the effect the person has upon people or affairs. The 
 former device is hard to keep within bounds; as in our 
 illustration, when you let two women talk about a third, 
 not even a Kipling can throttle them in time to save the 
 
154 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 story.* The second device, on the other hand, tends to 
 become an independent episode, readable perhaps for its 
 own sake but leading nowhere. Of course, if you want to 
 mislead your reader, you cannot do better than to use it. 
 Hence in the pure surprise story and in humorous narra- 
 tive (which calls for incongruity and breaks) it may be 
 recommended. 
 8. A Voluntary Death, by Copp6e. 
 
 I knew the poet Louis Miraz very well, in the old 
 times in the Latin Quarter, where we used to take our 
 meals together at a cremerie on the Rue de Seine, kept 
 by an old Polish woman whom we nicknamed Princess 
 Chocolawska, on account of the enormous bowl of creme 
 and chocolate which she exposed daily in the show 
 window of her shop. It was possible to dine there for 
 ten sous, with *two breads', an 'ordinaire' for thirty 
 centimes, and a 'small coffee'. 
 
 Some who were very nice spent a sou more for a napkin. 
 
 (Then follows a description of the other habitues of 
 the cremerie.) 
 
 This is a wasteful opening and much less effective than 
 the preceding one. In the character story the setting is 
 almost invariably the least consequential factor. Why 
 then should it have ,one of the most important paragraphs 
 reserved for it exclusively? This question becomes doubly 
 pertinent when, as in the present case, neither the action 
 nor the setting which it reveals is closely connected with 
 the chief events. Coppee advances his story in only a 
 trifling degree; he establishes the acquaintance of the 
 narrator with the poet hero, and nothing more. The 
 Polish woman, the chocolate, the hoary ex-dictator, the 
 Buddhist student, and all the rest of the scene count for 
 
 1 Probably Kipling, in the story cited, wanted to show up the 
 malicious garrulity of the Dowd's detractors. If so, the opening 
 is more justifiable, although still overdone. 
 
THE ORDER OF EVENTS 155 
 
 absolutely nothing in the career of Louis Miraz. Had 
 all the good words wasted on them been spent on the 
 splendid bravery of Miraz, the tale would have become a 
 short story. 
 
 9. A Passion in the Desert, by Balzac. 
 
 "The sight was fearful!" she cried, as we left the men- 
 agerie of Monsieur Martin. 
 
 She had been watching that daring performer work 
 with his hyenas, to speak in the style of the posters. 
 
 "How on earth," she continued, "can he have tamed 
 his animals so as to be sure of enough of their affection 
 to—" 
 
 "That fact, which seems to you a problem," I replied, 
 interrupting her, "is however perfectly natural." 
 
 "Oh!" she exclaimed, while an incredulous smile 
 flickered on her lip. 
 
 "Do you mean to say' that you think beasts are en- 
 tirely devoid of passions?" I asked her. "Let me tell 
 you that we can safely give them credit for all the vices 
 due to our state of civihzation." 
 
 This type is clumsy and thoroughly antiquated. To 
 find a skilful author dallying with it, you must go back 
 to Balzac and Turgenieff; back to the days when nobody 
 counted words, and men had not yet thought of the short 
 story as an art having its own definite laws. The Russian 
 novelist, in particular, exhibits the most amazing indif- 
 ference to structure; many of his tales, such as Andrei 
 Kolosoff and The Jew, exceed the crudity of a modern 
 tyro in their openings. The wretchedest hack-writers 
 know better today than to squander words in letting 
 some imaginary person tell your reader that you are 
 going to tell a story about a certain subject. It is this 
 and no more that Balzac's opening accomplishes. 
 
 Weak as it is, though, it often combines successfully 
 with the philosophical overture. That is to say, if the 
 indirect action takes the form of a discussion which not 
 
156 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 only reveals the theme or single effect but also generalizes 
 broadly and argumentatively about it, the opening may be 
 very lively. Again we turn to Daudet for an exceedingly 
 perfect and ingeniously unobtrusive specimen: the be- 
 ginning of his pretty fable-story, The Goat of M. Seguin. 
 
 To M. Pierre Gringoire, Lyrical Poet, at Paris. 
 
 You will always be the same, my poor Gringoire! 
 
 Think of it! You are offered the place of reporter on 
 a respectable Paris newspaper, and you have the as- 
 surance to refuse! Why look at yourself, unhappy 
 youth! Look at that worn-out doublet, those dilapidated 
 breeches, that gaunt face which cries aloud that it is 
 hungry! And this is where your passion for rhyme has 
 brought you ! This is the result of your ten years of loyal 
 service among the pages of my lord Apollo ! Aren't you 
 ashamed? 
 
 Be a reporter, you idiot! Be a reporter! You will earn 
 honest crowns, you will have your special seat at Brebant's; 
 and you will be able to appear every first night with a 
 new feather in your cap. 
 
 No? You will not? You propose to remain perfectly 
 free to the end? Well, just listen to the story of Monsieur 
 Seguin's goat. You will see what one gains by attempting 
 to remain free. 
 
 Notice carefully in what respect this differs from the 
 opening of A Passion in the Desert. In both the action 
 is indirect. In both all that is revealed of the story is the 
 theme. But in Balzac's opening the theme is merely 
 stated in the midst of an extraneous incident, while in 
 Daudet's it is 'played up', argued, and enlivened prettily, 
 with irrelevant but illustrative action. Between the two 
 manners, the static and the dynamic, lies the whole gulf 
 that separates bungling from art. 
 
 This combination opening is best suited to stories having 
 well-marked themes or strong single effects. But it 
 ^uuld be used only when the entanglements of the 
 
THE ORDER OF EVENTS 157 
 
 plot happen to make a direct action opening awkward 
 or dull. 
 
 10. A Taste of Honey, by Mary Wilkins Freeman. 
 
 The long, low, red-painted cottage was raised above 
 the level of the street, on an embankment separated 
 into two terraces. Steep stone steps led up the terraces. 
 They were covered with green, slimy moss, and little 
 ferns and weeds sprang out of every crack. A wall of 
 fiat slate stones led from them to the front door, which 
 was painted green, sagged on its hinges, and had a brass 
 knocker. 
 
 The whole yard and the double banks were covered with 
 a tall, waving crop of red-top and herds-grass and red and 
 white clover. It was in the height of haying time. 
 
 A grassy wheel-track led round the side of the house to 
 a barn dashed with streaks of red paint. 
 
 Off to the left stretched some waving pasture land, 
 and a garden patch marked by bean-poles and glancing 
 corn blades, with a long row of bee-hives showing in the 
 midst of it. 
 
 A rusty open buggy and a lop-eared white horse stood 
 in the drive -opposite the side door of the house. 
 
 It seems incredible that a writer who could imagine 
 the genuine pathos and tragedy of this story could stumble 
 into it so clumsily. The opening might pass in the 
 loosest impressionistic sketch, which is not supposed to 
 get anywhere — and seldom does. But, in a short story, 
 which A Taste of Honey ought to be, all these irrelevant 
 minutiae of the landscape are so many mosquitoes buzzing 
 around the plot. They do not spoil the plot, but they 
 bother the reader who wishes to reach it. I trust that 
 no argument is needed to condemn them. The student 
 who does not sense their impropriety will, I fear, never 
 grasp the short story. Incidentally be it said that the 
 ability to unreel such description is no mark of literary 
 power. He is a dull high school graduate who cannot 
 equal it. 
 
158 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Exercises 
 
 Analyze the openings of the following stories and tell 
 TV^hich type each is. Also criticize the fitness of each. 
 
 Hopper, J. — Memories in Men's Souls {American, 
 Feb., 1911). 
 
 Johnson, 0. — One Hundred in the Dark (Saturday Ev. 
 Post, Oct. 21, 1911). 
 
 Moore, G. — The Exile (in The Untilled Field: Lippincott, 
 1903). 
 
 Coppee, F. — An Accident (in Ten Tales, Harper's, 1890). 
 
 James, H. — Collaboration. 
 
 Williams, J. L. — The Honeymoon (in The Married Life 
 of the Frederic Carrolls, Scribner's, 1910). 
 
 Freeman, Mary Wilkins — A Humble Romance, 
 
THE CLOSING EVENT 159 
 
 b. The closing event. In comparison with the opening, 
 the closing event is no problem at all. The variety of 
 endings is much less, and one's choice is not supremely 
 important. Furthermore, the material is more plastic 
 and may be experimented upon freely, without involving 
 radical changes in the body of the story. 
 
 There are three types of endings: 
 
 i. The direct denouement. 
 
 ii. The significant aftermath. 
 
 iii. Interpretative comment. 
 
 i. The direct denouement. This is the ideal finish of the 
 pure dramatic story. If action and character develop- 
 ment have advanced apace; if, in the supreme crisis, all 
 that remains for us to learn is how the hero, being what we 
 know him to be, meets it; then the author who tells us 
 more only offends us. Few are the gems which are cut 
 so true up to the last stroke; hence this finish is rare. It 
 is more often approximated in the dramatic mystery 
 story. We find it in Poe's masterpiece, Ldgeia: 
 
 . I stirred not — but gazed upon the appari- 
 tion. There was a mad disorder in my thoughts — a 
 tumult unappeasable. Could it indeed be the living 
 Rowena who confronted me? Could it indeed be Rowena 
 at all — the fair-haired, the blue-eyed Lady Rowena 
 Trevanion of Tremaine? Why, why should I doubt it? 
 — had she then grown taller since her 
 malady? What inexpressible madness seized me with 
 that thought? One bound, and I had reached her feet! 
 Shrinking from my touch, she let fall from her head, 
 unloosened, the ghastly cerements which had confined it 
 and there streamed forth, into the rushing atmosphere of 
 the chamber, huge masses of long and dishevelled hair; 
 it was blacker than the raven's wings of the midnight! 
 And now slowly opened the eyes of the figure which stood 
 before me. ''Here then, at least," I shrieked aloud, 
 
160 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 ''can I never — can I never be mistaken — these are the 
 full, and the black, and the wild eyes — of my lost love 
 —of the lady— of the LADY LIGEIA." 
 
 It is inconceivable that a better denouement could be 
 fashioned. The very last word alone lifts the veil. 
 Until it has been read, the reader's imagination is led off 
 in a different path. Unless he has analyzed as he goes, 
 he is quite sure that the Lady Rowena is returning to 
 life. And, fancying this, he may suspect that the story 
 breaks in twain clumsily; the earlier account of Ligeia 
 seeming irrelevant to the resurrection of her successor. 
 But, when that one key word falls under his eye, the 
 entire phantasmagorical welter of bewilderments and 
 horror orders itself into a clear plot whose theme Poe has 
 thrice sounded: 'Man doth not yield him to the 
 angels, nor unto death utterly, save only through the 
 weakness of his feeble will'. 
 
 Probably few plots admit of such manipulation. The 
 dramatic form is too intense to suit most material. To 
 be more accurate, most themes do not focus so sharply 
 upon one instant's revelation. Their solutions are 
 complex and require a certain elaboration. Xingu, 
 for instance, reaches its denouement when the Lunch 
 Club consults the encyclopaedia and learns that the 
 topic of their learned conversation is not a religion nor a 
 book but a river in South America. But, though the 
 denouement is here reached, it is not finished in that act. 
 The story demands that every member of the Lunch 
 Club realize minutely how Mrs. Roby has hoaxed it, and 
 that the Club 'do something about it'. Inevitably all 
 this must follow, not precede, the discovery in the en- 
 cyclopaedia. Again, there are other themes which, though 
 they may be wrought into action with the Ligeia finish, 
 ought not to end so, inasmuch as the dramatic quality of 
 their complication is too weak to harmonize with this 
 
THE CLOSING EVENT 161 
 
 most intense of all dramatic denouements. Low-grade 
 magazines and Sunday Supplements reek with mechani- 
 cally perfect specimens of it. Their detective stories and 
 other tales of mystery keep the reader guessing up to 
 the final paragraph. Nevertheless, they fall flat; and the 
 reason is that their form exceeds their material. The 
 shape and motion of a story is visible in each, but the 
 stuff of life is not therein. 
 
 This failure, alas, is all too easy. It is easy to tangle 
 your heroes and villains, and to manufacture myste- 
 ries. It is as easy as inventing a cipher code or conceal- 
 ing a fact, and often it is nothing more. Now, the 
 difficulty of solving a puzzle or discovering a way out 
 of a predicament is usually out of all proportion to the 
 importance of the puzzle or predicament. The brain 
 power that has been spent on pigs-in-clover, charades, 
 and jig-saw pictures might have abolished war; and the 
 manual labor that has gone into them would have dug 
 the Panama Canal. In real life, where it is stylish to be 
 absurd, this disproportion of effort to result is allowed; 
 but in art, which is little more than the passion for fitness 
 expressing itself, it is the unpardonable sin. The mountain 
 that brings forth a mouse is brother to the author who 
 works up a tense, breathless perplexity and then clears 
 it up with an episode which shows the complication 
 to be trifling. In the world of beauty, whither he would 
 lead us, he may affect us seriously only 'with serious 
 affairs, and deeply only with deep, and romantically only 
 with romantic. The humorist alone is privileged to toy 
 with the incongruous. 
 
 I cannot drop this topic without urging the student to 
 study carefully the maturer stories of O. Henry, who 
 surpasses all writers past and present in his mastery of 
 the direct denouement. What a host of his complications 
 do not solve themselves until the last fifty words! There 
 
162 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 is The Furnished Room, with its startling, pathetic com- 
 plication clearing in Mrs. Purdy's last remark: *' She'd 
 a-been called handsome, as you say, but for that mole 
 she had a-growin' by her left eyebrow". There is Tohin's 
 Palm, with its preposterously funny reunion of the lovers 
 in the last ten seconds. And, finest of all, though by no 
 means the last in the list, is The Municipal Report, with 
 its yellow horn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent 
 piece clearing up a dark mystery and proving the romance 
 of dull places. There is no exceeding the perfection of 
 these denouements. One must admire them with a touch 
 of awe, even though one dislikes the slap-dash, slangy, 
 kinetoscopic hurry of the stories. Nowhere outside of 
 Poe and Maupassant are they equalled. 
 >^ ii. The significant aftermath. This is the commonest 
 ending and usually the nTosT appropriate. It consists of 
 some little event which showsj^recisely how the char- 
 acters are taking the denoufem^t. Sometimes it in- 
 tensifies the latter, but more often only clears away the 
 last uncertainty about it. The length depends entirely 
 upon the particular denouement, and the importance 
 \/ of showing the characters' reaetioja^-te— it. y In Xingu 
 the aftermath is quite elaborate, and necessarily so. 
 It begins after Mrs. Ballinger says: ^'And they're shrieking 
 over us at this moment", — and continues to the very end.^ 
 In Coppee's The Substitute it is swift and short. The de- 
 
 1 The long conversation in which the ladies fit together Mrs. 
 Roby's remarks and bring them into harmony with the encyclo- 
 paedia's statements about Xingu is not aftermath, but denouement. 
 Some readers who are over-fond of the Maupassant model feel 
 that Mrs. Roby's previous connection with South America should 
 have been brought out in the opening of the story, so that this 
 long explanation might be dispensed with, at the very point where 
 things should rush along at top speed. But analysis proves this 
 opinion wrong. The single effect depends absolutely upon keeping 
 the nature of Xingu hidden until the denouement. 
 
THE CLOSING EVENT 163 
 
 nouement is over when Jean Frangois takes Savinien's 
 crime upon himself and holds out his hands for the hand- 
 cuffs, laughing at the police. After that: 
 
 To day he is at Cayenne, condemned for life as an in- 
 corrigible. 
 
 Observe how much this little sentence accomplishes. 
 It fixes the outcome, past all misunderstanding. Omit 
 it, and the reader might wonder whether Jean Fran- 
 cois was as great a hero as he led Savinien to think. 
 The galleys are terrible places; but did the ex-convict 
 end up there? Might he not have concealed his identity, 
 been sentenced as a first offender, and let off with a six 
 months' sentence? Or might he not have escaped again 
 from the thongs of justice? Perhaps the reader might 
 not frame these doubts consciously; he might only be 
 less profoundly impressed by the shortened version. But 
 this weaker effect would be due to the indecisiveness of 
 the denouement. 
 
 iii. Interpretative Comment. This is the counterpart 
 of the philosophical overture. Like it, it contains no 
 action; unlike it, it need not consist of generalizations. 
 It may be no more than a summary and a sentiment, as 
 in London's The Heathen: 
 
 And so passed Otoo, who saved me and made me a 
 man, and who 'saved me in the end. We met in the 
 maw of a hurricane and parted in the maw of a shark, 
 with seventeen intervening years of comradeship the 
 like of which I dare to assert have never befallen two 
 men, the one brown and the other white. If Jehovah 
 be from his high place watching every sparrow fall, not 
 least in His Kingdom shall be Otoo, the one heathen of 
 Bora Bora. And if there be no place for him in that 
 Kingdom, then will I have none of it. 
 
 Or it may return to the opening event, as in Harris 
 Merton Lyon's horribly true sketch of American village 
 
164 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 life, entitled $448.00. Somewhat abridged, the opening 
 runs thus: 
 
 In fourteen decillion B.C., . . . this stubborn 
 planet upon which we so carelessly shuffle our feet began 
 a series of Experiments toward an End. . . . At 
 first she tried for trees, and got trees. Then snails, 
 clams, jellyfish. Then, brooding over her intent, she 
 madethe jellyfish climb up out of the sea. . . . Then 
 she watched yearningly through the morose years the 
 light and the air beat down upon the jellyfish and irritated 
 it. . . After three hundred million jellyfish had died 
 in the process, she slumbered and considered the process 
 complete. After fourteen decilhon, one thousand eight 
 hundred and seventy-six years had passed, she rested. 
 . for the End of her Experiments had come. 
 The numberless millions of jellyfishes and the superb 
 march of countless years had produced Leander Percy 
 Johnson. 
 
 Then follows the story of Leander *s career; a story 
 made twice horrible by the streak of humor in its telling. 
 The dramatic end comes when the army surgeons pull 
 Leander, U. S. V. and fever victim, out of his storm- 
 wrecked Chickamauga tent, dead. Then follow two 
 endings, the first an unnecessary aftermath, and the second 
 the following brief interpretative comment: 
 
 And the old earth groaned and began it all over again. 
 For Leander had returned to the jellyfish whence he 
 came. He had gone back to fourteen decillion B.C. 
 
 A third excellent variation is a return to the philo- 
 sophical overture. In this wise Howells admirably 
 turns the close of A Circle in the Water. The story 
 opens, you recall, with the narrator's musing over the 
 consequences of good and evil and over the ever- 
 widening circles made by pebbles cast into the pool. 
 And, after Tedham has been restored to his daughter, 
 
THE CLOSING EVENT 165 
 
 comes this ending, which integrates perfectly with the 
 final action: 
 
 . So far as human vision can perceive, the 
 trouble he made, the evil he did, is really at an end. 
 Love, which alone can arrest the consequences of wrong, 
 had ended it, and in certain luminous moments it seemed 
 to us that we had glimpsed, in our witness of this ex- 
 perience, an infinite compassion encompassing our whole 
 being like a sea, where every trouble of our sins and 
 sorrows must cease at last like a circle in the water. 
 
 Were we here cataloguing all types of endings which have 
 been used by good writers, we should have to mention, 
 among others, two forms of the significant aftermath 
 and two of the interpretative comment. The first pair 
 are (a) the effect of the plot action upon a character in 
 the story, and (b) its effect upon the narrator or hearer 
 outside of the story. The second pair are (a) a comment 
 by a character, and (b) one by the narrator outside of 
 the story. (When the narrator happens to be a character 
 in the story, we have case (a) in both instances.) These 
 distinctions need not concern us here; for they have to 
 do with the point of view from which each particular 
 story is told. The serious problems raised by the point 
 of view will soon be discussed. It is enough to notice 
 in the present connection that there is one ending which 
 is to be shunned whenever possible, namely the second 
 type of aftermath. This occurs in its most deadly form 
 in Turgenieff's Andrei Kolosoff: 
 
 ''And what became of Varya?" asked some one. 
 "I don't know," replied the story-teller. 
 We all rose and went our various ways. 
 
 Could anything jerk the reader more violently out of 
 the imaginary world in which Kolosoff lives? And to less 
 purpose? The author might better have sold the space of 
 
166 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 these three atrocious lines to a patent medicine quack 
 for advertising purposes. 
 
 When, however, such an ending is combined with 
 interpretative comment, it becomes much more endur- 
 able, as in Hopper's Memories in Men's Souls. At best, 
 though, it is a makeshift, to be avoided whenever 
 possible. 
 
DISTRIBUTION OF EVENTS 167 
 
 c. The distribution of events throughout the plot action. 
 To the casual scanner of magazines the dramatic patterns 
 of stories seem infinitely numerous. To the hardened pro- 
 fessional reader they reduce to a half-dozen, and some- 
 times even this half-dozen tends to shrink. The popular 
 impression derives from the natural and proper blending 
 of the plot action with the 'trimmings' in the reader's 
 mind. The author forecasts, deceives, comments, sup- 
 presses, and bursts into description in a multitude of 
 manners; and, the more skilful he, the more deceivingly 
 all these touches fuse with the broad sweep of the plot. 
 This is as it should be; for the machinery of the story 
 should be concealed no less than are the wing lights and 
 the thunder-drum of the theatre. But it j^roduces the 
 illusion of a boundless variety of narrative types. V^ 
 
 Tfee-fadH», very few first-class stories deviate widely \ 
 from the old, familiar pattern of the drama. There are 
 three movements (corresponding to the three acts of the 
 modern play). In the first three factors appear: (a) 
 the setting, (b) the characters, and (c) the generating 
 "circumstances; that is, those which give rise to the ensuing 
 complication. The second movement presents two classes 
 of episodes: (a) the complication, and (b) the reaction of 
 the characters to it. This reaction often bulks large. 
 The third movement gives (a) the crucial situation 
 (climax), and (b) the denouement (with aftermath, if 
 one is needed). It is this pattern which orders the 
 episodes. And you should never depart from it unless 
 something in the single effect which you seek lor in the 
 specific texture of your plot action compels 2/o^y^ This is ^ 
 a commandment not because the pattern is as old and \ 
 venerable as Aristotle, but because it is so obviously 
 
168 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 the strongest dramatic sequence that people long ago 
 discovered it and agreed upon it. 
 
 This pattern carries with it several implications: 
 
 1. Telescope the events within each -movement as much as 
 possible. That is, make each episode develop all the story 
 factors in its movement. 
 
 2. // the events cannot he telescoped, depict first those 
 which demand the greater amount of pure description, except 
 insofar as the single effect or dramatic sequence forbids 
 this. 
 
 3. Transitions are best effected by telescoping the last 
 event of one movement with the first event of the next. 
 
 4. The natural order of events may be altered in only two 
 cases: (a) when the denouement can be concealed up to the 
 proper instant in no other way, and (b) when the plot action 
 is shaped by some character's learning the episodes in their 
 false order. 
 
 Another quartet of rules might be laid down, but the 
 learner will automatically master them as soon as he has 
 grasped those we have given. And now a word about 
 these. 
 
 1. We have repeatedly seen that the single effect at 
 which the short story aims demands the emplojmient 
 of a minimum of material; and this fact alone is enough 
 to warrant the first rule. In strict logic, this rule is not 
 a rule of arrangement, but rather one for escaping the 
 problem of arrangement. You will see this, once you 
 consider an extreme illustration. Suppose you were able 
 to depict adequately in one incident the setting, the 
 generating circumstances, and the characters. Would 
 you have to worry over the next event? Not at all. 
 You would go straight to the complication and character 
 trait of the second movement. And if you could also 
 telescope these perfectly into one episode, again you would 
 have transcended the problem. In anecdotes and ad- 
 
DISTRIBUTION OF EVENTS 169 
 
 venture stories, which seldom involve much character 
 drawing, it is not surpassingly difficult to do this, inas- 
 much as a mere name and a phrase will there tell enough 
 about the people. The opening event of Daudet's 
 The Little Pies integrates almost perfectly the three 
 factors, character, setting, and complication: 
 
 That morning, which was a Sunday, Bureau, the pastry 
 cook on Rue Turenne, called his apprentice and said to 
 him: 
 
 ^'Here are Monsieur Bonnicar^s little pies; go take them 
 to him and come back at once. It seems that the Ver- 
 saillais have entered Paris." 
 
 In these three short sentences Daudet marshals almost 
 everything which is going to count in the ensuing dramatic 
 movement. There is only one slight omission. The pas- 
 try cook should have warned tlie lad not to dally, because 
 M. Bonnicar was a very particular and fidgety old epicure. 
 This would have introduced accurately, albeit indirectly, 
 the one other important personage. As the opening 
 stands, you have no hint that Bonnicar himself is going to 
 figure in the affair; much less that his gastronomical 
 habits will. Nevertheless, it is a wonderfully skilful 
 piece of integration. 
 
 2. This is the most frequently violated rule of order. 
 And the violation is due largely to false teaching. Two 
 doctrines have been advanced by writers on narrative 
 technique: one is that all inevitable description must be 
 bunched as near the opening as possible; the other is 
 that the story must begin with action and scatter its 
 descriptions where they will least clog the movement 
 of the plot. The first doctrine is based upon the as- 
 sumption that the speed of the narrative should increase 
 steadily to the end, and that hence the slowest material, 
 which is, of course, the more descriptive, must come 
 first. The second doctrine grows out of the hypothesis 
 
170 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 that the short story should be pure dramatic narrative 
 throughout, and therefore disencumbered of all exclu- 
 sively descriptive passages. 
 
 Unfortunately, both suppositions are false; uniform 
 acceleration of action is not an ideal at all, and pure 
 dramatic narrative is not an exclusive ideal. The short 
 story has two ideals, both playing incessantly upon 
 every manipulation of its material. The correct principle 
 of arrangement reckons equally with both of these ideals, 
 and it consequently bids us to employ descriptive events 
 at those points where description best intensifies both the single 
 effect and the action; or, if impossibly both, then thai one 
 which stands in greater need of intensification. 
 ^( Now, froipa this may be deduced several special prac- 
 tices the most important of which are the following: 
 
 a. The more completely the plot action and the single 
 effect grow out of a single setting, a single character trait, 
 and a single generating circumstance, the more completely 
 should the descriptive events be moused in the opening. 
 
 b. The more completely the plot action and the single 
 effect grow out of some one factor (such as the setting, or the 
 character trait, or the complication), the more completely 
 should the descriptive events mass around the first develop- 
 ment of that factor. 
 
 These two rules hold not only for character stories but 
 for all other types^X To perceive this, consider three 
 stories which dilf er as widely as possible from one another : 
 A Coward, Ligeia, and O. Henry's skit, Calloway^s Code. 
 The first is the purest character drama; the second is that 
 rarest of all, the three-phase story; and the third is the 
 lightest sort of complication. I choose these, because the 
 test of a rule is in extreme instances. 
 
 In the first everything grows out of the viscount's 
 single trait, a single custom of French society, and a 
 single encounter; hence every line of description is 
 
DISTRIBUTION OF EVENTS 171 
 
 packed into the first three paragraphs. And why? 
 Because, first of all, this description must precede all 
 the action, in order to make the latter intelligible; and, 
 secondly, because no other description is needed, inasmuch 
 as the single effect is here identical with the dramatic 
 action. 
 
 In Ligeia Poe aims at integrating setting, character, 
 and complication; and the single effect, which is the 
 emotion aroused by the thought of a human will triumph- 
 ing over death, even through another's body, is produced 
 equally throughout all three factors. You feel it in 
 the person of Ligeia, and in the death chamber, and in the 
 grewsome complications. Every touch and turn keeps 
 you thinking vaguely that stupendous, mysterious powers 
 are at work in the invisible environment. Now, unlike A 
 Coward, Ligeia has several generating circumstances and 
 several complications, all of which the reader will easily 
 find for himself. It is therefore an extreme negative in- 
 stance under rule (b). Its plot and action and single effect 
 do not grow out of one factor, nor are the factors out of 
 which they grow simple; therefore, if our rule is sound 
 the descriptive events will not mass around one factor 
 or one event, but will be distributed around many. This, 
 of course, is precisely what we find. The story is the 
 despair of the dramatic formalists who preach the Mau- 
 passant pattern. More than 2,000 words at the very 
 outset — nearly as many as in A Coward — describe 
 minutely the beauty and learning and character of 
 Ligeia. Between the first movement, which ends with the 
 marriage of Rowena, and the second, which begins with 
 her husband's first outbursts of hatred toward her, there 
 are interpolated over six hundred words sketching the 
 bridal chamber in the gloomy dwelling. Finally, through- 
 out the third movement, the picturing is steady and rich, 
 even up to the denouement. 
 
172 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Calloway^s Code tells us how a cub reporter deciphered 
 a mysterious cable dispatch which the newspaper's 
 special correspondent in the Russo-Japanese war smug- 
 gled past the press censor. The whole interest centres 
 upon the cipher and the youngster who discovered it. 
 Hence it is that the only description in the entire story 
 is of Vesey, the cub, at the moment when he walks in, 
 peruses the message which has baffled everybody else, 
 and solves it; and of the veteran who padded the report 
 for scare-head purposes. Unquestionably, this second 
 touch is irrelevant; but it is very brief and inoffensive. 
 
 In conclusion, the gist of the second rule of order is this: 
 usually some special quality of the single effect or the 
 dramatic action fixes the order of the more important 
 descriptive events and pure descriptions; and when it 
 does not clearly do so, the latter properly come as early in 
 the story as possible. 
 
 3. The rule of transitions is so familiar and lucid that 
 discussion is not called for. Perhaps it should be noticed 
 in passing, though, that many plots pass abruptly from 
 movement to movement, by the very nature of their 
 events and their direction. The student must therefore 
 be on his guard against a false ideal. He must not strive 
 to make the action continuous, unless he has assured him- 
 self that it is not intrinsically broken. Often the breaks 
 will be so sharp that, in mere honesty to the public, 
 they should be typographically symbolized. I know, 
 some critics consider a line of asterisks in the middle of a 
 tale most uncanonical; but so much the worse for critics 
 and canons. They are trying the impossible, in imposing 
 an external form upon an art which takes its shape only 
 from ideals and ideas. Maupassant's The Necklace has 
 four visible breaks, and yet even the formalists concede its 
 flawlessness. A Coward has two breaks; The Horla, with 
 its diary form, has half a hundred; The Elixir of Father 
 
DISTRIBUTION OF EVENTS 173 
 
 Gaucher has six, — and, were a chronicler so minded, he 
 might array a ghttering host of splendid works against the 
 error, drawing them from almost every master of fiction. 
 
 4. The superiority of the natural order of events ought 
 to be apparent, but to many it is not. Young writers 
 commonly suppose that historical inversion is an unfailing 
 virtue; that it whets the reader's curiosity, puzzles him, 
 and thus heightens the effect of the story. The result 
 of this belief is a flood of stories that aren't stories; that 
 is, much writing about undramatic, intrinsically dull 
 happenings. The momentary illusion of story stuff is 
 produced by twisting things or by standing them on their 
 heads. One might count so-called detective and mystery 
 tales by the score which ape the real kind by just such 
 operations. They attempt it because the real kind almost 
 always inverts events; and the aping authors fancy that, 
 by copying the form, they may seize the substance. 
 This peculiarity of the cheap mystery and detective story 
 we have already dwelt upon.^ 
 
 Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a plot that is very 
 weak when narrated in its natural order is not worth 
 pottering over. And, if strong in that order, its strength 
 is seldom increased by inversion. The rare exception is 
 usually of the second kind above mentioned; it is a 
 story of misunderstanding. In such a story, the domi- 
 nant character sometimes does what he does because he 
 supposes that something happened at a certain time; when, 
 as a matter of fact, it happened before or after that time 
 and under circumstances which give it a meaning unsus- 
 pected by the hero. In such a case, the story must be 
 told partly from the hero's point of view, in order that we 
 may sympathetically understand his behavior. 
 
 iCf. 160 etc. 
 
174 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 SUB-CHAPTER D. — THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 k 
 
 1. The confusion on this subject. This is the most 
 neglected of all technical questions, and the most confused. 
 The strangest medley of conflicting and vague opinions on 
 the subject fills the text-books. At one extreme, we hear 
 that 'the best method of narration, the simplest and most 
 natural, is to tell the story in the third person, as if 
 you were a passive observer.' ^ And at the other ex- 
 treme: 'Any way is good, if it is artistic; but some ways 
 are harder than others.' ^ Now, the former extreme is 
 false in every adjective; the third person is neither the 
 best nor the simplest nor the most natural point of view, 
 as will shortly be proved. And, as for the second ex- 
 treme, it is an empty phrase. It means nothing to say 
 that any way is good, if artistic; for 'good' means 'artistic' 
 here, so that the assertion comes to this : any artistic 
 way is artistic, and any good way is good. Of course, 
 what the critic is trying to say is that the point of view 
 depends upon the writer's personal taste and skill. But 
 this is demonstrably false, at least in most instances. 
 Truth is, the point of view is inextricably bound up with 
 the specific material and the desired single effect of each 
 particular story, and hence only an analysis of these 
 latter will throw light upon the angle from which the 
 story is to be told. 
 
 2. Two meanings of 'point of view.' Though the risk 
 of confusion is slight, it is well to distinguish at once two 
 senses in which one may speak of a point of view. People 
 say that Thomas Hardy's point of view is artificial, Haw- 
 thorne's ultra-puritanical, and Maupassant's cynically 
 
 1 Barrett, 131. 
 ^Esenwein, 109. 
 
IHE POINT OF VIEW 175 
 
 pessimistic. And they mean that what Hardy himself 
 sees and depicts is imreal, what Hawthorne observes is a 
 world mercilessly dominated by a cruel monster called 
 Virtue; and what Maupassant notes is that man belongs 
 to the animal kingdom. Now all this, of course, is not 
 what we refer to when we say that A Coward is narrated 
 from an objective point of view. It is the angle of narra- 
 tion which we are here thinking of, and not the effect of 
 the things which the author depicts. The difference, as 
 well as the relation, between these points of view is pre- 
 cisely that which we find in painting; and as the latter is 
 much more visible and simple, it may well serve as a 
 leading string into a sharper comprehension of the other. 
 Corot loved the blues and grays of springtime dawns 
 and rain-washed glades. Only where he found these 
 colors in all their freshness was he wont to stand his 
 easel. Now, in our fancy, let us follow him some soft 
 morning until he comes upon a dip in the land framed 
 with young poplars and cherishing the last wraiths of 
 night mist. The sight halts him, and he drops his kit 
 on the wet grass. In this act he expresses the first point 
 of view. He is doing what Hardy, Hawthorne, and 
 Maupassant do; he selects from the world those things 
 toward which he is acutely sensitive. Seeing tliem as other 
 men do not, he strips them of all those many entangling 
 qualities which obscure them and reports them as they 
 are 'in themselves.' But does he place his easel wherever 
 he happens first to perceive the view? Hardly. He 
 saunters around the dale, goes a way into it, then with- 
 draws to a considerable distance, climbs a nearby hill 
 and perhaps watches through all the morning hours. 
 He is hunting for the one best perspective. He knows 
 that the poplars and the tilt of the land, and the angle 
 of light and the mi^t and everything else combine in an 
 infinite variety of ways, according to the vantage of the 
 
 \/ 
 
176 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 observer; and that some few of these combinations 
 bring out the pure values of the much-sought blues and 
 grays much more faithfully than all the others. In 
 seeking one of them, the artist is doing the very same 
 thing that Maupassant does when he tells the story of 
 the Horla as the victim of the monster experiences it; and 
 the same thing that Hawthorne does when he narrates 
 The Birthmark as he himself senses the episodes. 
 
 The difference between the two points of view is pro- 
 found, and yet they are intimately related, as different 
 things often are. 
 
 The first point of view expresses the artisfs sensitivity, 
 wish or belief toward a s^ibject. The second point of view 
 expresses the arrangement of some particular material 
 which makes conspicuous some quality of the latter which 
 the artist wishes to report.^ This quality may or may not 
 happen to be one of those chosen by the artist for expression. 
 It may merely serve to express something else. 
 
 For clarity, then, we must give names to each. The 
 first I shall call the artist's attitude, and the second the 
 angle of narration. Concerning the former something 
 will be said in sections 5 and 6 below. We now turn to the 
 angle of narration. 
 
 3. The angle of narration. There are three typical 
 angles of narration: 
 
 a. The pure objective. 
 
 b. The angle of the inactive witness or hearer. 
 
 c. The angle of a participant. 
 
 i., A subordinate character. 
 
 ii. A dominant character. 
 a. The objective. This might be called the photog- 
 rapher's point of view, did not the epithet suggest 
 mechanical accuracy and inartistic realism. The truth 
 of the metaphor, however, is illuminating. In the first 
 place, like the working of a camera plate, objective 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 177 
 
 narrative seems wholly impersonal; and, secondly, the 
 narrator stands at a distance from the events he records, 
 no less than the photographer does. These are the sure 
 marks of the angle, and there is no other.) 
 
 Few stories have been told in this manner from start 
 to finish, though a host are predominantly. Maupassant's 
 The Piece of String and The Necklace nowhere reveal the 
 events or characters as they might have appeared to some 
 eye-witness or active participant in the action. The 
 feelings, thoughts, and deeds of Maitre Hauchecome and 
 the Loisels are chronicled as a physician on a filing card 
 might record the temperature, pulse and dehrium of a 
 fever patient. Indeed, the ending of The Piece of String 
 might well be an excerpt from a hospital report: 
 
 He gnawed his nails, and exhausted himself in vain 
 efforts. 
 
 He grew perceptibly thinner. 
 
 Now the jokers asked him to tell the story of The 
 Piece of String for their amusement, as a soldier who has 
 seen service is asked to tell about his battles. His 
 mind, attacked at its source, grew feebler. 
 
 Late in December he took to his bed. 
 
 In the first days of January he died, and in the delirium 
 of the death agony he protested his innocence, repeating: 
 
 ^'A little piece of string — a little piece of string — see, 
 here it is, m'sieu' mayor." 
 
 In all this you are not aware of the onlookers, nor do you 
 see the tragedy through Hauchecorne's eyes. You get 
 only the bald facts, and they speak for themselves. 
 JThdr intrinsic and immediate 'power is the measure of the 
 appropriateness of the objective angle of narration. This 
 is the almost invariable rule. The more obvious and the 
 more intense a story's events are, the more natural and 
 successful the objective treatment will prove (if it can be 
 employed at all). This becomes almost self-evident, once 
 you scrutinize an instance. A plot whose every develop- 
 
178 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 ment is as clear as day certainly calls for no interpretation, 
 no posing, in order to sharpen it. And if its single effect 
 is intense, what need is there of adding somebody's 
 feelings and thoughts toward it? The story tells 
 itself. 
 
 It is not strange, then, that the best authors have seldom 
 chosen the objective treatment without recourse to some 
 other perspective in conjunction with it. This casts no 
 reflection upon their technical skill; it only means that 
 they do not conjure up or at least dislike to write about 
 the obvious and the terrific. They are more interested 
 in complications and aspects of human nature which call 
 for diagnosis. Such affairs, not being self-evident, must 
 be put in their true light; they must be shown up by some- 
 body who perceives them from the one angle which most 
 effectively reveals their bearings. 
 
 A story told objectively throughout develops a speed 
 and a directness rarely attained in any other way. It 
 has no philosophical overture, no interpolations by the 
 narrator, and very few elaborate descriptive passages. 
 It also tends to employ only those events whose full 
 significance is visible or audible to any witness. Hence 
 it portrays no more of an emotion or a thought than 
 straightway manifests itself unequivocally in outward ac- 
 tion. For just so would a reporter write who had no 
 inner, secret knowledge of what was passing in the 
 characters' minds. 
 
 The limitations of the objective treatment now appear. 
 The consequences of fortune or misfortune upon a fixed 
 human type it can present with matchless brilliancy. And 
 the instinctive behavior of a fixed human type it can also 
 render well. But it cannot depict the great crises of 
 character. The invisible forces of life which do battle 
 against one another in the mind of one who stands at 
 a crossroads, the countering of impulse with impulse, 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 179 
 
 the still reasoning against vain pride or empty panic, 
 the trembling anticipations, and the sting of memories — 
 all these lie beyond its power. 
 
 Once more, for corroboration, turn to Maupassant. 
 Beyond dispute he is the master of masters in the realm 
 of the dramatic story; also he champions the objective 
 treatment with unreasonable pertinacity. He and all 
 his disciples extol the impersonal manner above every 
 other. And yet the master himself forsakes it, every 
 time he dips into psychological analysis. Look once 
 more to A Coward, and you will find many passages like 
 these: 
 
 A single thought hovered over his mind — 'a duel' — 
 without arousing any emotion whatsoever. He had 
 done what he should have done; he had shown himself to 
 be what he ought to be. 
 
 He examined these assembled letters, which seemed to 
 him mysterious, full of vague meaning. Georges Lamil! 
 Who was this man? What was his business? Why had he 
 stared at that lady in such a way? Was it not disgusting 
 that a stranger, an unknown, should cause such a change 
 in one's life . . . ? No, of course he was not 
 afraid, as he had determined to carry the thing through, 
 as his mind was fully made up to fight, and not to tremble. 
 
 Is it the narrator who says the viscount has done what 
 he should have done? No, that is the viscoimt's own 
 interpretation. Does Maupassant call it disgusting that 
 a stranger should upset another's life? No again. The 
 coward so construes the affair. And, what is still more 
 to the point, these are thoughts which no objective nar- 
 rator could observe or even infer, inasmuch as they find 
 no expression in the viscount's outward acts. 
 
 Maupassant wisely sacrificed his theory for art's 
 sake; he shifts here back and forth from impersonal 
 narrative to the viscount's point of view, to meet the 
 demands now of visible drama and now of the inner 
 
180 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 conflict. And so too does every skilled writer of psy- 
 chological stories. 
 
 )/The objective treatment also is ill suited to the at- 
 mosphere story, though not incompatible with it. Un- 
 like other types, the atmosphere story demands a certain 
 wealth and delicacy' of descriptive detail, inasmuch as it 
 secures its strongest effect in a unified sensuous impression. 
 Now, whether we are sharply aware of it or not, there 
 is in us a natural tendency to associate such an impression 
 with a person who is impressed; for the emotions that are 
 woven into every well wrought description of places or 
 people ar3 thoroughly human, which is to say highly 
 individual. Only one man in the world could experience 
 that particular and unique blend of colors and flitting 
 shadows and portentous little noises which filled the shop 
 after Markheim slew the dealer. Only one man in the 
 world could see and feel what Ligeia's husband did in his 
 will-haunted bridal chamber. And so it fits in best with 
 our long habituated expectations to let the report of 
 such opulent sceneries come from a character in the story 
 or, less appropriately, from an inactive witness. I cannot 
 recall any famous atmosphere story which has been 
 objectively told. And again let me cite the high priest 
 of the objectivistic cult: in Moonlight Maupassant nar- 
 rates the atmospheric movement (just before the de- 
 nouement) from the Abbe Marignan's point of 
 view. 
 
 b. The angle of the inactive witness or hearer. This 
 treatment is that which commonly yields an opening like 
 that of Turgenieff's The Jew: 
 
 "Pray tell us a story. Colonel," we said at last to 
 Nikolai Hitch. The Colonel smiled, emitted a stream of 
 tobacco smoke through his moustache, passed his hand 
 over his gray hair, stared at us, and meditated. 
 "Well then, listen," he began. 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 181 
 
 "It happened in the year '13, before Dantzig. I was 
 then," etc., etc. 
 
 In contrast to the highly artificial, sophisticated objec- 
 tive treatment, this one is naive and instinctive. In a 
 state of nature no man who has lived through an ad- 
 venture, waking or dreaming, detaches himself from it in 
 the telling. He says: *I saw the man strike down his 
 wife, and I heard her cry as she fell. I tell you! I went 
 faint at the sight!' As literature has grown out of just 
 such spoken narrative, it has inevitably brought over into 
 the more deliberate printed form this habit. 
 
 Bjedhg natural, the treatment is supposed to lend an 
 air of reality to the narrative; and doubtless it does so 
 when you know and trust the narrator, or when you have 
 some other reason to suppose that the report is a matter of 
 fact. A newspaper account of, say, a fire is likely to be 
 more convincing, if it quotes an eye-witness at length; but 
 it is, only because it purports to be true anyhow. Once 
 forsake this intention, though, and the device loses all 
 force. Thus it happens in literature. A novel or a story 
 does not pretend to give straight facts, and only very 
 young children fancy that it does. Fiction is fiction, and 
 need not bolster itself with pretenses. If, then, the writer 
 is to tell his story from the angle of the inactive witness or 
 hearer, he must do so, not for the sake of creating the 
 illusion of reality, but only in order to bring out the gen- 
 uine story values, namely the dramatic action or the single 
 effect. Now, under what circumstances are these height- 
 ened or clarified thereby? There are four conspicuous 
 cases. 
 
 i. The surest case is that in which the narrator's 
 mannerisms are an integral part of the single effect. 
 Joel Chandler Harris' Uncle Remus Stories illustrate this 
 perfectly (though most of them are not genuine short 
 stories). Half the charm of his queer tales from folk-lore 
 
182 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 resides in old Uncle Remus, his dialect, and his quaint 
 asides. So too with Kipling's Mulvaney stories, though in 
 less degree; and, were Mulvaney wholly inactive in them, 
 they would be a more pertinent instance for us. 
 
 ii. A second case is detective and mystery stories. One 
 of the method's gravest defects here becomes a virtue. The 
 defect is its tendency to break up the main action, either 
 by shifting the point of view back and forth between 
 that of a character and that of the narrator, or else by 
 cluttering the pages with the narrator's explanations and 
 personal interpolations. Insufferable as all this is in most 
 stories, it serves the mystery-monger well. It confuses 
 and distracts the reader by shunting his attention fre- 
 quently from the plot events to the thoughts of the 
 narrator. Thus the connection between events is ob- 
 scured, and they become more of a mystery than if they 
 were given bald and direct, — which is precisely what the 
 writer desires. We have already discussed this matter 
 under the head of indirect plot action; but it is well to 
 consider again the famous stories which exemplify the 
 above principle. In Ligeia, which, though vastly more 
 than a mystery story, is overhung with mystery, the 
 narrator is almost an inactive witness of the events. 
 The Gold Bug is narrated by Legrand's friend, who 
 plays such a trifling part in the plot action that we 
 scarcely have the right to esteem him a character. The 
 Purloined Letter is told by Dupin's acquaintance, who is 
 an absolute zero in the tale. Conan Doyle brings in 
 the passive Dr. Watson to twist and obfuscate the prob- 
 lems of crime which Sherlock Holmes confronts. William 
 J. Locke, too, lets himself narrate many of the Joyous 
 Adventures of Aristide Pujol The list might be lengthened 
 indefinitely, with some of E. W. Hornung's Witching Hill 
 Stories well toward the bottom of it. 
 
 Unfortunately, this method is too easy; for the inactive 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 183 
 
 narrator may jumble up the circumstances of the story 
 so that all the great detectives in Christendom could not 
 unravel it on his evidence alone. Realizing this, many 
 good writers are tempted to fall back upon it, just to 
 spare themselves the hard work of making the complica- 
 tions themselves mysterious. Probably half the stories 
 so told could be handled otherwise, and to great advantage. 
 How simple it would have been for G. K. Chesterton to 
 have cast his Father Brown stories in that mould! And 
 how refreshing to find them in another. How easy for 
 Henry Sydnor Harrison to have put his story of Mrs. 
 Hindi ^ into the mouth of a wayfarer who overheard these 
 amazing women in the Subway and followed them curi- 
 ously! And what a wonderful thriller he has produced by 
 not doing that! 
 
 iii. A third instance of the method's utility is that of the 
 story in which the dramatic quality of the plot can be 
 brought out only by an impartial interpretation of the 
 characters. The objective treatment will not suffice 
 here inasmuch as it does not interpret; and the point of 
 view of an active character will fail because, if consistent 
 and true, it will not be fair to the other characters. 
 There remains then only the method we are now consid- 
 ering. 
 
 A flawless specimen of this type is James Hopper's 
 Memories in Men^s Souls, which the student is advised 
 to study closely. Its theme does not appear directly in 
 the plot incidents; it is a thought which the romance 
 awakens in the narrator. Hence, if the story were told 
 objectively, we should get the romance, but not its 
 import; and it is this import which contributes heavily 
 to the single effect. On the other hand, were the romance 
 told as it was seen by the business man or his sweetheart 
 or her malevolent uncle, it would cease to be romance. 
 
 ^McCZwre's, Sept., 1911 
 
184 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 To the first two it was a sickening catastrophe from start 
 to finish; and from the uncle's point of \iew, only the 
 first brief movement could have been told at all, for he 
 did not witness nor hear of the climax. Half the power 
 of this exquisite narrative springs from the delicate 
 veiling of the lovers' feelings at the climax. They are 
 not suppressed — on the contrary, they are as clear as 
 day. They are revealed by the narrator's personal 
 conjectures as to what they must have been; and as he 
 conjectures, he recalls the manner of the hero when the 
 latter laid bare to him the whole adventure. No other 
 device could vie with this here. 
 
 iv. The fourth and last story type admitting of this 
 treatment is the atmosphere story. As we have seen, de- 
 scriptive events integrate best when frankly narrated 
 from the point of view of somebody who witnesses the 
 places and people described. The inactive witness or 
 hearer may be that somebody, whenever the atmosphere 
 does not figure so intimately in the plot action that its 
 part cannot be understood save from an active character's 
 point of view. For instance, the atmospheric effect in 
 A Descent into the Maelstrom is not a dynamic factor in the 
 adventure. That is to say, the fisherman was not sucked 
 into the vortex by the hypnotic power of its appearance; 
 nor is his behavior in any other way influenced by the 
 color of the insane waters, or their roar, or the horrible 
 shape of the gigantic funnel. Not these sensuous qualities 
 but the thought of the consequences of his position 
 finally brought him to that calm, almost disinterested 
 contemplative reflection which lies beyond fear and which 
 delivered him from the peril. Hence the atmosphere 
 is painted largely by the fisherman's visitor. In Mark- 
 heim, on the contrary, the ticking of the clocks in the 
 shop and the patter of rain on the attic roof and the scurry- 
 ing shuffle of wayfarers' feet outside are not mere scenic 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 185 
 
 trimmings. They lay hold of the murderer, they stir up 
 vague fears in him, they prod him to think hard over his 
 plight; and, of these thoughts the vision is born on 
 which the action of the whole story hinges. How im- 
 possible, then, to portray the fantastic interior save 
 through Markheim's own eyes and ears — and conscience! 
 
 c. The angle of a participant. In choosing the point 
 of view of an active character, the writer who has grasped 
 the principles above set forth will readily decide whether 
 he ought to see the events through the eyes of a minor 
 personage or in the dominant character's perspective. 
 For, once it is clear that some active character should 
 be chosen, the very reasons which settle that will also 
 designate the particular character to be employed. 
 Therefore we may discuss this narrative method without 
 regard to the status of the character in the story. 
 
 As usual, the ultimate criterion is the double ideal of 
 the short story. The aim being to bring out both the dra- 
 matic quality and the single effect, is it not self-evident 
 that an active character's point of view shall be chosen 
 only when it best reveals the particular swing and flavor of 
 the plot? And all we have to ask is : when and where does 
 it do that? We find two cases. 
 
 i. First and most conspicuously, it does it in every story 
 which aims primarily to depict the actual workings of 
 character in a moral crisis. For only the character him- 
 self can know and feel the forces at work; and it is nothing 
 but that interplay of forces which constitutes the story 
 material. Once more, Markheim may be passed out as a 
 perfect sample. 
 
 ii. The second type calling for this angle is the complica- 
 tion story which turns upon an active character's ig- 
 norance or misunderstanding. In The Tragic Years, 
 by B. Paul Newman,^ the main action is thus told, because 
 
 * Everybody's, May, 1910. 
 
186 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 every consequential turn in it happens as a result of the 
 lawyer's being ignorant of his son's nature. In that 
 charming piece of sentiment, The Poet Who Saved His 
 Youth, by Helen Sterling Thomas/ it is Peter's ignorance 
 about the one fervent admirer of his verse which helps 
 mightily to save his youth. And the whole point of 
 Old Johnnie, by Barry Benefield,^ turns upon Johnnie's 
 mistaking a dressmaker's dummy for a live and wicked 
 man. Hence again the participant's point of view is 
 correctly taken. 
 
 4. Angle of narration and grammatical form. In the lead- 
 ing text-books on story technique the angle of narration 
 and the grammatical form of narration (that is, the use of 
 the first or the third person) are hopelessly confused and 
 discussed as though they were identical. Esenwein even 
 goes so far as to classify the angles of narration as varieties 
 of the grammatical form, — which is about as absurd as to 
 classify the story characters with respect to the number 
 of syllables in their names. The truth is, there is no 
 significant connection whatever between the perspective 
 and the use of *I' or 'he'. And the absolute proof of 
 this is given in the fact that both the second and the third 
 angles of narration may he correctly indicated in either 
 the first or the third person. For instance, suppose that 
 Jones' valet saw Jones kill Smith, and that, for some 
 dramatic reason, the happenings that culminated in this 
 tragedy are best told from the valet's point of view. Then 
 the narrative may run thus: 
 
 Yes, I was Jones' valet when he killed that scoundrel, 
 Smith. A mysterious affair, sir; and though it's ten 
 years gone, I've not stopped wondering yet why my 
 master did it, etc., ad lib. 
 
 'McClure's, July, 1910. 
 ^Scribner's, Dec, 1911. 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 187 
 
 Or it may with equal accuracy run thus: 
 As he laid away Jones' shirts in the mahogany dresser, 
 the valet let his eyes wander to the half -open door through 
 which the sound of angry voices drifted. Yes, that was 
 Mr. Smith in there, swearing. Why had he been coming 
 so often of late? And why did Mr. Jones rage for hours 
 after the fellow had gone? The valet shook his head 
 . etc., and also ad lib. 
 
 The reader may perform a similar experiment with the 
 third angle V And he may do so even with the purely 
 objective story too, which, one might reasonably suppose, 
 could be narrated only in the third person. It is con- 
 ceivable, for instance, that a witness or minor participant 
 in an episode might recount the latter impersonally and 
 yet speak in the first person. He might say: ''I was 
 standing on the drug store steps when the messenger came 
 up. He thrust the letter into my hand and fell exhausted 
 . . . " Thisuseof 'I' is quite objective and impersonal; 
 it is merely a way of naming a participant in the story. 
 It does not bring with it the slightest distortion or artificial 
 arrangement of circumstances. It does not express feeling 
 or opinion. It is as colorless and transparent as ^John 
 Smxith' or 'he*. Cases like these prove that it cannot 
 be the perspective which decides the grammatical form. 
 On the contrary, the latter is properly determined by the 
 material of the particular story, even as the perspective 
 itself is. 
 
188 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Exercises 
 
 Find the angle of narration which will best bring out 
 the seriousness of the following episode. Find the angle 
 that shows up the harshness of the legal technicality 
 which holds a poor man imder such circumstance. Find 
 the angle which emphasizes the negro's foolishness. 
 
 Frank Ayers, a negro driver of the Street Cleaning De- 
 partment, wearing his uniform, was arraigned in the 
 Men's Night Court last evening on a charge of petty 
 larceny, and declared that the city's delay in paying 
 employes had driven him to steal. He pleaded guilty to 
 the theft of a bottle of catsup, three bottles of Oxford 
 sauce, one box of herring, a jar of jelly, and a package of 
 macaroni. 
 
 His wife and children were starving and he had also 
 been forced to go without food, he told Magistrate House, 
 because he could not get the money the city owed him. 
 His story so impressed Magistrate House that he asked 
 the complainant, William H. Dillon, a store detective, 
 if he intended to press the charge. 
 
 Magistrate House told Ayers he felt sorry for him, 
 but could not do otherwise than hold him for trial in 
 Special Sessions. 
 
 Street Cleaning Commissioner Edwards said last night 
 that there had been a delay of a week or two in paying the 
 employes of his department, because of a new system which 
 required the approval of the Civil Service Commission 
 before the pay rolls go to the Controller. Commis- 
 sioner Edwards said the men would get their pay in a day 
 or two. 
 
 What is the angle of narration in each of the following? 
 Is the angle well chosen? Explain your answer accu- 
 rately. Is the artist's attitude discernible at all? If so, 
 describe it. 
 
EXERCISES 189 
 
 1. Hamlin, Pauline Worth — The Gold Pot. {American j 
 July, 1912.) 
 
 2. Child, Richard Washburn — The Eyes of the Gazelle. 
 (Harper's, April, 1912.) 
 
 3. Freeman, Mary Wilkins — The Steeple. (Hampton's, 
 Oct., 1911.) 
 
 4. Dudeney, Mrs. Henry — The Secret Shelf. (Harper's, 
 July, 1912.) 
 
 In Vol. 8 of the collection entitled Stories by American 
 Authors (Scribner's) you will find a story by Elizabeth 
 Stuart Phelps called Zerviah Hope, which is hopelessly 
 botched because the author has not duly regarded the 
 angle of narration. Find what this angle should be and 
 rewrite the story from it, taking pains not to modify the 
 incidents and character traits. 
 
190 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 5. The artisVs attitude. We have now to consider 
 briefly that other kind of point of view which, at the close 
 of section 2 above, we distinguished from the angle of nar- 
 ration. About it we cannot say much, for it and its prob- 
 lems lie far beyond the province of this book. The artist's 
 attitude is not a matter of technique. It is what it is, and 
 all attempts to guide it by formulas are futile. I. do not 
 mean that a teacher cannot profoundly influence a stu- 
 dent's tastes and even his natural manner of expression. 
 He certainly can. But this influence cannot be charted, 
 and still less can it be located anywhere in the materials or 
 the methods of fiction. It works through discussions 
 about the nature of things, through debates over ideals, 
 through study of rights and wrongs. In short, it is 
 an influence of culture; and, like culture, it is neither 
 reading, writing, nor arithmetic, nor any other body of 
 fact or technique. It is the directing of appetities, likes 
 and dislikes, sensitivities and prejudices. 
 
 This cultural influence may be insignificant or enormous, 
 as we see from a comparison of the two types of literary 
 genius, the genius from within and the genius from with- 
 out. The former, of whom Poe is the perfect specimen, 
 is endowed with a unique fancy and a preference for cer- 
 tain thoughts and emotions to which his environment 
 neither adds nor takes away appreciably. The latter 
 type, which is best exemplified in our own country by 
 Hawthorne, likewise possess great native gifts; but 
 these, under the influence of his training and surround- 
 ings, are directed toward the familiar ideals and beliefs 
 of early New England. How far one's aptitudes may 
 thus be guided depends entirely upon the individual 
 and the themes to which he is to be turned. And, as his 
 choice of themes inevitably precedes his writing about 
 
THE ARTIST'S ATTITUDE 191 
 
 them, so his attitude precedes all literary manipulation. 
 
 6. The artistes attitude and his style. In ordinary discourse 
 'style' is a blanket term covering at least three things: 
 (1) the qualities of a narrative which are determined by 
 the theme and the plot action; (2) the qualities of grammar 
 and language, as such; and (3) the qualities which express 
 the author's attitude toward the theme or plot action. 
 In most cases these three may be distinguished readilj' 
 enough; but an illustration is not amiss. Suppose you 
 are writing a story in which, at a critical moment, the 
 heroine dropped her eyes demurely under the gaze of a 
 jealously suspicious admirer; and he, misunderstand- 
 ing her act, hurled an accusation or stalked off or caught 
 her hand or did something else which complicated affairs 
 vitally. If, now, you write: 'The girl gazed at the carpet, 
 feigning modesty' — the mere mention of the act would be 
 a case of the first 'style'. If you write 'feigning modesty', 
 instead of the neater adverb, 'demurely', this is the 
 second 'style'. And if, finally, your scorn for the heroine 
 runs away with you, and you let it speak out in the 
 sentence, thus: 'The sly-boots gazed at the carpet 
 feigning modesty' — then you are exhibiting 'style' 
 number three, provided that there is, in the plot itself, 
 no dramatic necessity for your calling the girl names. 
 
 The student may have been wondering throughout 
 this book why it does not preach style and tell how to 
 attain it. The explanation is now at hand. 
 
 Style, in the first sense, is the result of mastering story 
 technique; in the second sense, it is the result of mastering 
 grammar and rhetoric; and, in the third sense, it is the 
 residt of the artisfs attitude toward his material and all that 
 'pertains to it. 
 
 Now, this book is devoted to the problems of technique; 
 hence, what of style derifes from the manipulation of 
 dramatic material is to be attained only by becoming 
 
192 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 skilful in tKat manipulation. For, to repeat with another 
 accent, style is not a quality in the material, but a con- 
 sequence of handling the latter. In the second place, 
 linguistic style lies beyond the present undertaking. 
 The pursuit of it should largely precede technique, inas- 
 much as many structural problems — and, above all, the 
 producing of the single effect — call for considerable facility 
 with words. Finally, style that expresses the author's 
 point of view is gained only through that point of view. 
 But this is the result of natural disposition and culture. 
 To seek these in technique would be as foolish as to seek, 
 in elocution and stagecraft, the power of composing 
 Hamlet's soliloquy. 
 
ATMOSPHERE 193 
 
 Sub-Chapter E. — Atmosphere. 
 
 1. What atmosphere is. In the painter's art atmosphere 
 means 'the feeling or effect, as of air, light, space, or 
 warmth, given as an environment of any subject '. (Stan- 
 dard Dictionary.) Thus, the atmosphere of Rembrandt's 
 masterpiece, The Night Watch, is the quite indescribable 
 enrichening influence of a peculiarly mellow amber light 
 which suffuses the scene. In literature the word describes 
 a quality of the story setting and staging. It is the emo- 
 tional flavor of the place and time in which the dramatic 
 events unfold. For instance, in Stevenson's tale, The 
 Merry Men, it Is the feeling awakened by the Scotch coast 
 around Aros, where ' great granite rocks ... go down to- 
 gether in troops into the sea, like cattle on a summer's day.' 
 
 There they stand, for all the world like their neighbors 
 ashore; only the salt water sobbing between them instead 
 of the quiet earth, and clots of sea-pink blooming on their 
 sides instead of heather, and the great sea conger to 
 wreathe about the base of them instead of the poisonous 
 viper of the land. . . . 
 
 I have often been out there in a dead calm at the slack 
 of the tide; and a strange place it is, with the sea swirling 
 and coming up and boiling like the cauldrons of a linn, 
 and now and again a little dancing mutter of sound as 
 though the Roost were talking to itself. 
 
 Many students get the notion that environment is 
 atmosphere. And so they fall into the technical blunder 
 of trying to produce atmosphere by elaborate descriptions 
 of scenery. Their belief is false, and their practice only 
 occasionally sound. The atmosphere is, be it repeated, 
 the impression which environment makes upon the 
 
194 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 beholder and which the beholder, in writing, seeks to 
 convey to his readers.^ 
 
 It is, if you will allow the phrase, the rock-and-water 
 feeling which Aros aroused in Stevenson. This feeling 
 is not in the rocks and the sea; it is in their beholder. 
 They only stir him; the response is his own, private, 
 unique, and in some respects spontaneous. 
 
 This response is quite mysterious. Nothuig in the 
 scene clearly accounts for its precise quality, any more 
 than the known chemical structure of alcohol explains 
 the unique exhilaration that comes from drinking wine. 
 Poe has given perfect utterance to this fact in his match- 
 less atmosphere story. The Fall of the House of Usher, from 
 which we cannot cite too often: 
 
 What was it — I paused to think — what was it that so 
 unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher? 
 It was a mystery all insoluble; nor could I grapple with 
 the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. 
 I was forced to fall back upon the unsatisfactory conclu- 
 sion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of 
 very simple natural objects whi^h have the power of thus 
 affecting us, still the analysis of this power lies among 
 
 1 1 cannot resist cal ing attention to the error of some excellent 
 critics and scholars who give to the art of producing atmosphere the 
 name of Impressionism. Nothing warrants this designation. Im- 
 pressionism is the theory and practice of reporting scenes and events 
 in terms of their immediately sensed colors, sounds, forms, flavors, 
 and other primitive qualities. The impressionist's ideal is to render 
 only that much of the world which is given to him in raw sensation. 
 The ideal of the atmospheric painter or writer, on the contrary, is 
 to transmit the peculiar and full reality of scenes. To accomplish 
 this, he does not limit himself to his own immediate impressions. 
 He often draws upon his subtlest analogies and his most tediously 
 wrought reflections. Anything that will produce the desired effect 
 upon the reader is eligible. Of course, it commonly happens that a 
 writer of atmosphere uses impressionistic material, but this is only 
 because the latter chances to convey the desired effect. His very 
 next scene may be handled in a wholly different manner. 
 
ATMOSPHERE 195 
 
 considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I 
 reflected, that a mere different arrangement of the par- 
 ticulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be 
 sufficient to modify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity 
 for sorrowful impression. . . . 
 
 This conjecture of Poe's has been confirmed by modern 
 psychology in many fascinating experiments. Even in 
 simple geometrical figures, minute alterations produce a 
 complete transformation of one's feeling toward them. 
 Erase from a circle only a very small arc, and instantly 
 your perception of it is tinged afresh; and your thoughts 
 sent scurrying up strange little lanes and alleys of memory. 
 You may now say, with infinitesimal pain, that a perfect 
 figure has been marred; and the ruin of it may, of a 
 sudden, resemble C, or perhaps the ground plan of a 
 corral, or the cross-section of a bomb, or any of a thousand 
 other queer things. To physician and psychologist, this 
 hypersensitivity of the normal mind to microscopical 
 changes in objects perceived is a matter of absorbing 
 interest. To the story writer it is a source of immeasur- 
 able artistic possibilities. Thanks to it, the variety of 
 esthetic effects in the handling of even commonplace 
 scenes is prodigious. In comparison with it, man's 
 impressions of dramatic action are singularly few. 
 
 2. Atmosphere as the single effect of a story. This last 
 circumstance tempts many a novice to write atmosphere 
 stories. And almost inevitably he comes to grief, because 
 the atmosphere story is very different from a story with 
 atmosphere. This distinction, which wiser heads than 
 his frequently overlook, must now be explained. 
 
 Every story whose setting must be staged at all may 
 have atmosphere. A Lover of Flowers, or almost any other 
 of Mary Wilkins Freeman's New England sketches, has 
 it unmistakably. A Pair of Patient Lovers, like most of 
 Howells' stories, also possesses it in measurable degree. 
 
193 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Likewise with the works of nearly every experienced 
 author. Thin it may be, or unconvincing; yet it is there. 
 You receive a definite impression and feehng of the place 
 and time in which the events unfold. The two are not 
 merely reported to you. Something of their lights and 
 shadows reaches you through the printed page; the breezes 
 from the written hills cool you, and in your heart burns 
 warm the cheer of storied firesides. 
 
 But usually the atmosphere differs in emotional value 
 from the characters and the plot action. Sometimes it 
 stands in sharp contrast to the latter pair; as in Moon- 
 light, where the languorous, dreamy, bewitching mid- 
 summer night shines with a light most unlike that in the 
 hard face of the bigoted, woman-hating Abbe. And 
 when there is no such contrast, the atmosphere is almost 
 certain to play a subordinate part in toning the story, as 
 in The Piece of String, where the vivid picture of market- 
 day at Goderville harmonizes with the earthy Norman 
 thrift, slyness, and simple honesty of the people in the 
 tragedy. Now, in neither of these typical instances have 
 we an atmosphere story, because their setting does not 
 fix the narrative's tone, dominate it, and produce its 
 single effect. All of which is a negative way of saying 
 that the atmosphere story is one in which character and com- 
 plication are integrated with and intensify the setting, which 
 latter produces the single effect. As Stevenson puts it, in 
 his much-quoted conversation with Graham Balfour: 
 ''You may take a certain atmosphere and get action and 
 persons to express and realize it. I'll give you an example 
 — The Merry Men. There I began with the feeling of one 
 of those islands on the west coast of Scotland, and I 
 gradually developed the story to express the sentiment 
 with which the coast affected me." 
 
 3. Why the atmosphere story is difficult. A brief con- 
 sideration of this structural peculiarity reveals the in- 
 
ATMOSPHERE 197 
 
 trinsic difficulty of the atmosphere story. When the 
 setting of an episode fixes the tone, and the other dramatic 
 factors simply intensify it, obviously the emotions aroused 
 by the characters and by the events must resemble, in 
 some detectible measure, the emotions of the atmosphere. 
 If the scene is pervaded with gloom, the hero must stalk 
 up and down his dim apartment, gnawing his beard. If, 
 on the contrary, the hills clap their hands for joy, the 
 heroine must join in smartly. This sounds like a very 
 simple formula, but it is not. Two mighty obstacles con- 
 front the writer: (a) the narrow range of atmospheric 
 effects, and (b) the lack of harmony between man and 
 Nature, with respect to the feelings each arouses in an 
 observer. 
 
 a. The narrow range of atmospheric effects. In asserting 
 that the range of atmospheric effects is narrow, we seem 
 to be contradicting our previous statement about their 
 prodigious variety. Range and variety, however, do not 
 mean the same. Range means the extent of variation; 
 as when we speak of the range of the human voice. The 
 distance separating the extreme members of any class or 
 species is the range of that species. Variety, on the other 
 hand, refers to the number of distinctions within the 
 species. A moment's reflection on these terms will assure 
 you that no connection exists between the range and the 
 variety of anything in the world. For instance, the range 
 of a piano — seven octaves and a quarter — exceeds that 
 of a violin which covers about three octaves. But the 
 variety of a violin is many times as great as that of a 
 piano, for the piano can sound only twelve different tones 
 between each octave, while the violin readily sounds fifty 
 or more, whose differences only the most sensitive ear can 
 detect. 
 
 Now, this contrast appears in all the activities of the 
 human mind. The variety of odors which the normal man 
 
198 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 senses is very great, but it is slight beside that of the lights 
 and colors which he readily perceives. He distinguishes 
 a few thousand smells — four or five, at most; but his eye 
 reveals to him over thirty-six thousand hues. Neverthe- 
 less, the .ange of the odors is incomparably vaster than 
 that of colors. The difference between the smell of sandal- 
 wood and that of sour milk is wider than the difference 
 between the gayest yellow and the dullest dark blue. 
 Turpentine is more unlike roasted coffee than green is 
 unlike red. And so generally, even in those complex and 
 elusive feelings which the story teller stirs up. 
 
 Take as a well marked instance the emotions awakened 
 by the contemplation of scenery. No two landscapes 
 make quite the same impression upon the spectator, and 
 so there are truly as many distinct emotions as there are 
 combinations of sunlight, breeze, outdoor warmth, hills, 
 dells, and crags. But, on the other hand, between the 
 most terrible, most overwhelming of Nature's patterns 
 and the gentlest of her green fields and still waters, the 
 difference of quality is comparatively slight. But few 
 fundamental tjrpes appear; there is the f rightfulness of 
 the volcanic eruption; the sublimity of iceberg, mountain, 
 and roaring mid-ocean; the depressing dulness of a gray 
 prairie day; the slumbrous comfort of summer afternoon; 
 and a few other varieties. But all the pleasant impres- 
 sions resemble one another in some underlying character- 
 istic in which a simple animal joy predominates, 
 while all the unpleasant seem merely so many shadings 
 of three things: panic, temperature, and color feelings. 
 I do not believe that the latter reduce to such a simple 
 triad of factors. Air pressure and the movements of 
 physical objects certainly give rise to their own peculiar 
 feelings, although I seldom find myself able to distinguish 
 these in contemplating a landscape. Doubtless many 
 other forces are at work here too. But the question of 
 
ATMOSPHERE 19& 
 
 fact here is quite irrelevant to our inquiry, inasmuch as we 
 are dealing exclusively with the quality of impressions; 
 and beyond all dispute the latter show nothing of the 
 tremendous difference which everybody feels in con- 
 templating the deeds of men. 
 
 b. The lack of harmony between the two kinds of feelings. 
 Human acts seem to fall into great constellations which 
 are farther apart than the stars. Consider onlj^ those two 
 which most concern the writer of fiction: tragedy and 
 comedy. They have nothing whatever in common, inso- 
 far as the quality of their emotions is concerned. They 
 differ in that same profound manr^f^r in which hircine 
 odors differ from fragrances. It io a difference, not of 
 degree, but of kind. You cannot pass from one to the 
 other by slight gradations, as you can pass from the joy 
 of a noontide landscape to the melancholy of sunset simply 
 by reducing the amount of light that falls upon the scene. 
 A still sharper contrast might be drawn between esthetic 
 and moral feelings, which, in spite of an indubitable 
 kinship in their origins, fall quite apart in their mature 
 modes. But such analyses belong to esthetics, not to the 
 technique of fiction; so we must waive them. We have 
 made our point, that the range of atmospheric effects is 
 slight; and, in bringing this out, we have also indicated 
 the wider scope of emotions drawn from human conduct, 
 which is the subject matter of dramatic narrative. 
 We now return to our technical issue : what trouble does 
 all this make for the writer of atmosphere stories? 
 
 The trouble is that, because of the naturally wide range 
 of dramatic qualities (those of character and complication, 
 I mean), these cannot he forced to intensify the quality of the 
 story setting except by our artificially narrowing them. And 
 this narrowing can generally bo accomplished only through 
 the use of abnormal or imposdble characters and compli- 
 cations. But to work up such material into coherent 
 
200 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 action is a task of exceeding difficulty, calling for the 
 highest order of creative imagination. In the final analy- 
 sis, it is hard because both the purpose of it and the pro- 
 cedure run contrary to our habits of life. For an elucida- 
 tion of these points, let us once more inspect The Fall of 
 the House of Usher. 
 
 The 'insufferable gloom' which is the single effect here 
 has been intensified with consummate skill by the char- 
 acter delineation of Roderick Usher and his sister and by 
 the insidious, mystifying catastrophes befalling them and 
 their domicile. But observe at what cost this has been 
 accomplished. "Gloom is deepened only by whatsoever 
 produces gloom. ^And the only thing in human nature 
 which produces it is the mood itself, or at least some of 
 its bodily manifestations. In Nature, the gray of low- 
 hung clouds or of a winter sea may evoke that hue of 
 melancholy; but the gray of aged hairs or of anemic cheeks 
 will not. In other words, the causes of the mood in Nature 
 and in man are disparate; the former induces it through 
 simple colors and sounds and forms, while the latter does so 
 only through sympathetically affecting his beholder. -^ The 
 beholder must perceive such lineaments and behavior as 
 the guest of Roderick Usher noted in his host. Then will 
 the feelings associated with them well up in their witness.^ 
 It is by a sort of instinctive interpretation — or shall we 
 say an imitation? — that this happens, whereas, in the 
 
 ^This is not what happens in perceiving a humorous character; 
 for what amuses the spectator of a man who is doing something comi- 
 cal may not be comical to the man himself. It may be humiHating 
 and painful. But this exception does not detract from its present 
 appUcation to the atmosphere story. And the reason is that the 
 comic cannot be used as the single effect of an atmosphere story, inas- 
 much as there is no humor in mere Nature. It is never the setting 
 which supplies that pecuUar and baffling incongruity that moves us 
 to laughter. The comic exists only in thought about intents, ideals, 
 and achievements. 
 
ATMOSPHERE 201 
 
 melancholy brought on by natural scenes, there seems to 
 be nothing more than a little understood chemical process 
 which certain light waves, air pressures, and temperatures 
 set up in the nervous system. 
 
 Now, it happens — probably by the merest coincidence 
 — that some of the feelings caused by these chemisms 
 closely resemble those associated with certain thoughts. 
 J?hus the melancholy of a dull landscape is much like the 
 melancholy attending Usher's thought of Lady Madeline's 
 approaching dissolution. Hence it is that the latter may 
 be used to intensify the former. But there are very few 
 thoughtful feelings which resemble the other kind sufficiently 
 to he so employed. The feelings of dramatic action and the 
 still larger, more alien class of ethical emotions have no 
 counterpart in mere scenic effects ; at most, they remotely 
 suggest a few of the latter. Therefore, they cannot serve 
 to intensify atmosphere. And because of this a character 
 which is used to this end must almost invariably be depicted 
 so as to present, in strong exaggeration, some undramatic, 
 non-ethical, and even passive trait. Roderick Usher per- 
 fectly illustrates this limitation. In mien and behavior 
 he is a mortal the like of which never walked this earth 
 of ours. 
 
 . . . The character of his face had been at all times 
 remarkable. A cadaverousness of complexion; an eye 
 large, liquid and luminous beyond comparison; lips some- 
 what thin and very pallid, but of a surpassingly beautiful 
 curve : . . . these features, with an inordinate expan- 
 sion above the regions of the temple, made up altogether a 
 countenance not easily to be forgotten. And now in the 
 mere exaggeration of the prevailing character of these 
 features, and of the expression they were wont to convey, 
 lay so much of change that I doubted to whom I spoke. 
 The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now miracu- 
 lous lustre of the eye, above all things startled and even 
 awed me. . . . The silken hair, too, had been suffered 
 to grow all unheeded, and as, in its wild gossamer texture, 
 
202 SHORT ^It^xiY WRITING 
 
 it floated rather than fell about the face, I could not, even 
 with effort, connect its arabesque expression with any idea of 
 simple humanity. 
 
 Please note this very last clause, which I have italicized. 
 To my mind it indicates that Poe comprehended and 
 deliberately practiced the very principle of character 
 drawing just laid down. For the sake of deepening the 
 insufferable gloom of the setting, he sacrificed the very 
 humanity of Usher. Every succeeding paragraph of the 
 story confirms this a little more. Ask yourself about 
 Usher's conduct. Think of his fluctuating voice, "vary- 
 ing rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the animal 
 spirits seem utterly in abeyance) to that species of ener- 
 getic concision — that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, smd 
 hollow-sounding enunciation — that leaden, self-balanced, 
 and perfectly modulated guttural utterance, which may be 
 observed in the lost drunkard . . . " Was there ever 
 such a voice? And does the lost drunkard possess it? 
 I do not believe it, and neither did Poe. Usher's 'morbid 
 acuteness of the senses', on the other hand, is commonly 
 found, but always in neurasthenics and other ailing folk. 
 Likewise with his vague, objectless fears. But his wild 
 improvisations on the guitar, his phantasmagoric paint 
 ings, his spontaneous poetizing, and the wild reading from 
 insane books, — all these in combination can belong only 
 to a dream-creature. He is the passive victim of circum- 
 stances. He is stripped of all moral power, as far removed 
 from virtue and vice as the lowest brutes are. And there 
 resides in him no other impulse, no other appetite, no 
 other idea, no other purpose save such as are born of his 
 morbidity. In short, he is not a man — as Poe says can- 
 didly — ^but a commiserable lunatic, and such a one ay 
 alienist never looked upon. 
 
 If, now, intensification of the setting requires that 
 human nature be thus falsified, does not the discomfiture 
 
ATMOSPHERE 203 
 
 *^i the would-be writer of atmosphere stories appear with- 
 out further ado? Just as it is easy to lie magnificently 
 but very hard to lie persuasively, so it is simple enough to 
 twist the stuff of human life into terrifically sombre or 
 horrible or exciting fictions but almost impossible to make 
 the people in such fictions coherent enough to produce the 
 illusion of life. The ultimate cause of this difficulty we 
 have already mentioned. It is the very fact to which 
 Poe alludes with such timely acumen: the quality of each 
 individual object we perceive does not reside in its parts 
 or elements, as such, but in some elusive peculiarity of 
 their combination and interrelating. To speak in the 
 tongue of psychology, each entity has its own unique 
 form-quality; and what this is, no man can deduce from 
 the thing's isolated constituents. It follows, then, that 
 the writer who disintegrates, in imagination, a human life 
 and then integrates some of the fragments, to heighten 
 the atmosphere's quality; must proceed blindly and by 
 the merest guess-work, nine times out of ten. 
 
 Few are the men who have triumphed over this obstacle, 
 and even they bear witness to its stubbornness. Their 
 pages show many a scar of battle with the all-but-impos- 
 sible. Poe's heroes and villains, marvelously constructed 
 though they are, are not people at all. Stevenson's are 
 vastly more human and comprehensible, although often 
 either puppets with only clothes and mien to match the 
 atmosphere — as in The Merry Men — or else not intensi- 
 fiers at all — as in Will o' the Mill, where the love storj^ 
 of the miller's boy and the parson's Marjory, though 
 profoundly colored and shaped by the environment, 
 nevertheless takes its own course and turns the reader 
 from the wonderful atmosphere. Even more instructive 
 than Poe and Stevenson, though, is Joseph Conrad, who 
 certainly ranks as the master of masters in the narrow, 
 lofty kingdom of Atmosphere. His finest work, Almayer^s 
 
204 . SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Folly, certainly equals the best of Poe, who is Conrad's 
 only serious rival. To quote a recent reviewer: ''What 
 impresses one most in re-reading this tragedy of a Bornean 
 river is the wonderful color-effects that lie hidden in its 
 words. The story is almost subordinate in interest to the 
 tawny Oriental landscape, with its loneliness, treachery, 
 and hint of life's brevity. . . . Over against the ineffec- 
 tual littleness of the men who creep along the lonely 
 river's banks is set the mighty majesty of nature. It is 
 this element which lends the story grandeur and helps 
 it to outwear time."^ This comment accurately touches 
 both the strength and the weakness of Conrad, and so of 
 the atmosphere story as a species. The landscape sub- 
 ordinates the story, as it should; but in doing so it mini- 
 mizes dramatic movement and integrity of character. 
 Hence the result is, if nothing worse, sluggish; and it is 
 very likely to give us, instead of people, fantastic frag- 
 ments and jumbles of human traits. Now, by sheer 
 genius, Conrad shuns this graver catastrophe, but he 
 falls victim to the lesser one. Let the student read care- 
 fully — and sympathetically — Conrad's collection of short 
 stories entitled Tales of Unrest.^ He will find that, while 
 the dramatic conceptions are strong, they drag, at times 
 most painfully. The very shadows on the ground are 
 stumbling-blocks to the people here, the breezes halt 
 their speech, and the day's heat wilts their judgment. To 
 be sure, all this is not enough to mar the special beauty 
 of Conrad very much, and it is a slight failure in compari- 
 son with his awe-inspiring power of description. But it 
 exemplifies the atmosphere story's supreme difficulty 
 where this difficulty has been most nearly overcome. 
 3. The natural theme of the atmosphere story. The 
 student who has thoughtfully followed the above com- 
 
 iConingsby Dawson, in Everybody's, September, 1912. 
 
 "^Scrihner's. 
 
ATMOSPHERE 205 
 
 ments will doubtless discover for himself that there is at 
 least one subject and one type of plot which can turn to 
 profit all the inconveniences of the atmosphere story. It 
 is the story of the triumphant environment; of which 
 there ^re two opposite types. The first is the story 
 wherein we see men and women moulded by the blind 
 forces of Nature, and human beliefs and aspirations shown 
 to be vain delusions, empty hopes in a hopeless world. Of 
 this sort is everything that Thomas Hardy has written. 
 His minor tales, such as Lifers Little Ironies, smoothly fit 
 Prosser Hall Frye's characterization of their author's theme : 
 
 But with him this varied region (Egdon Heath, the 
 locus of The Return of the Native) . . . is no longer 
 mere scenery, the spectacular decoration of an indifferent 
 comedy, wherein man moves untouched save for some 
 occasional vaporous sentimentality. On the contrary, 
 it has been promoted to a fatal and grandiose complicity 
 in human affairs, of a piece with destiny, overpowering the 
 minds of the actors, tyrannizing over their lives and for- 
 tunes, and appearing in any one locality as but the par- 
 ticular agency and manifestation of a single consistent, 
 universal power.^ 
 
 The other type of story theme is Hawthorne's. Here 
 again, something in the setting dominates events and the 
 people in them; but it is no longer blind Nature, it is the 
 Moral Law — or, if you like, God — and on the other side, 
 the Devil. Every reader of Hawthorne is perfectly 
 familiar with this supernatural drama; but it will do no 
 harm to quote from Frye's admirable interpretation of it : 
 
 The Puritans themselves, his ancestors, were dominated 
 by a single idea . . . the idea of duty and guilt, of 
 something owing God and of man's inability to redeem the 
 debt by his own efforts. Under the influence of this idea 
 their life had undergone a momentous transformation. . . . 
 To all appearances it was with the inclemency of the 
 
 ^ Reviews and Criticisms, 107. 
 
206 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 weather, the hostiHty of the elements, at most the enmity 
 of the savages that they were contending. In reahty this 
 was all but a veil; it was the devil and his ministers, the 
 forces of darkness and evil, the powers of hell that disputed 
 with them for the salvation of their souls. And so to their 
 excited imagination the conflict took on a solemn and 
 grandiose significance. . . . Nothing was too small or 
 remote to remain aloof or unaffected; there were signs in 
 heaven and on earth, omens and portents and fore- 
 warnings, earthquake, meteor and eclipse, or dream and 
 vision. . . . The world of spirits was divided in their 
 quarrel, while reality itself was a mask, which might serve 
 indifferently for the covert of a friend or the ambush of a 
 foe.i 
 
 Is it not plain why stories spun around such a world- 
 view heighten their atmospheric effect less disastrously 
 than the more realistic variety of fiction does? It is 
 because their dramatic factors are not In the people but 
 in the setting itself, and hence the weaker, illusory crises 
 in the thoughts and feelings of hero and heroine which the 
 atmosphere tends to dampen are not a true part of the 
 deeper complication. They are puppets, not through the 
 writer's clumsy portrayal but because they really are 
 nothing more than the creatures of some Hidden 
 Showma.n. They are inactive through no sluggishness of 
 the author's style but only because they are, by inmost 
 nature, passive victims of cosmic circumstance. In 
 short, the active force which, in ordinary dramatic narra- 
 tive, wells up only in men and women now displays itself 
 as a potency of the environment, which therewith becomes, 
 so far as the emotional effect upon readers is concerned, a 
 character. Be it blind Nature or be it a god, in either 
 case this environment is endowed with a kind of person- 
 ality having aims and human ways of doing. Its plans 
 may be past understanding, but only by reason of secrets. 
 
 * Reviews and Criticisms, 122 ff. 
 
ATMOSPHERE 207 
 
 withheld from us and not because their logic and their 
 emotional springs are alien to our minds. 
 
 We may finish the matter with a paradox : The atmos- 
 phere story is easiest in which the setting is not setting 
 at all but the dominant character in a drama without 
 setting. In Stevenson Nature is often the leading lady; in 
 Poe, Conrad, Hardy and most other atmospherists, it is 
 the villain; and in Hawthorne it is sometimes the hero's 
 silhouette. But in all these realms of fancy, it is the great 
 original man without a country. Nature has no environ- 
 ment, and God is without a dwelling place. Beyond 
 them, there is neither time nor place. 
 
 4. Atmosphere as an intensifier. Thougn the genuine 
 atmosphere story has narrow range and presents all but 
 insuperable obstacles, the story with atmosphere is mod- 
 erately easy to manipulate, plastic, and highly adaptable 
 to all moods. By the story with atmosphere I mean, of 
 course, a narrative wherein the tone of the setting is made 
 to reinforce either the theme of a thematic development, 
 or the dominant character of a character story, or the 
 complication of a complication story. Almost every 
 good author employs atmosphere thus, with some degree 
 of skill and charm. And its emploj^nent is governed by a 
 few rules which can be formulated with some accuracy, 
 though not with as much as we might wish. In the main, 
 they are merely special applications of principles we have 
 already become familiar with. 
 
 a. The intensifying effect is conveyed best hy a charac- 
 terization of the effect itself rather than by a description of 
 the objects which, in assemblage, give rise to it. At first 
 reading, this may sound either meaningless or at least 
 improfitable. Of course the effect is most vivid when 
 characterized, you may say; so the advice is idle. But 
 such an observation misses the point, which is that char- 
 acterization of causes is by no means the same as characteri- 
 
208 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 zation of their effects. This is one of the most important 
 facts in all artistic technique, be it the technique of story 
 writing or of sculpture or of etching. It is no peculiar 
 secret of art, but a general fact true of all causes and all 
 effects. The physicist may describe to you ever so faith- 
 fully the nature of electricity and especially the differ- 
 ences of potential that go with differences of temperature. 
 But all this will not give you a picture of the thunderclap 
 which follows the flash of lightning. For here, and every- 
 where else, there is some unique quality in the effect which 
 the cause does not possess and which therefore^cannot be 
 described in terms of the cause. Illustrations from fiction, 
 however, will doubtless guide the learner more surely; 
 so let us press into service that master of happy charac- 
 terization, Daudet, and then contrast with him the least 
 happy of all characterizers among writers of repute, 
 namely Mary Wilkins Freeman. 
 
 In The Lighthouse of the Sanguinaires Daudet is depict- 
 ing at the outset the coast of the island where the 
 episode unrolls. In the midst of the picture comes this : 
 
 . . . When the mistral or the tramontana did not blow 
 too hard, I would seat myself between two rocks at the 
 water's edge, amid the gulls and blackbirds and swallows, 
 and I would stay there almost all day in that sort of stupor 
 and delicious prostration which are born of gazing at the 
 sea. You know, do you not, that pleasant intoxication 
 of the mind? You do not think ; you do not dream. Your 
 whole being escapes you, flies away — is scattered about. 
 You are the gull that plunges into the sea, the spray that 
 floats in the sunlight between two waves — the white smoke 
 of yonder steamer rapidly disappearing. . . . 
 
 Here you have an extreme instance, in which the details 
 of the scene are either ignored or baldly mentioned, and 
 the whole quality of it made known through the mental 
 effect the place makes upon the narrator. Powerful this 
 device is, provided the reader is familiar with the hypnotic 
 
ATMOSPHERE 209 
 
 drowsiness which the sea induces; but it fails sadly, if he 
 has never experienced it. In the latter case there always 
 remains a second method, namely that of describing the 
 material effect of the setting upon persons or things in it. 
 Thus, in The Little Pies: 
 
 It was a magnificent morning, one of those bright, 
 sunny May mornings which fill the fruit-shops with clus- 
 ters of cherries and bunches of lilac. 
 
 Or again, in The Pole's Mule: 
 
 He who never saw Avignon in the time of the Popes has 
 seen nothing. . . . Ah! the happy days! the happy 
 city! Halberds that did not wound, state prisons where 
 they put wine to cool. No famines; no wars. 
 
 And, as a last sample, the fine handling in The Elixir of 
 Father Gaucher: 
 
 Twenty years ago, the Premontres, or the White 
 Fathers, as we Provencals call them, had fallen into utter 
 destitution. If you could have seen their convent in those 
 days, it would have made your heart ache. 
 
 The high wall, the Pacome Tower, were falling to pieces. 
 All around the grass-grown cloisters, the pillars were 
 cracked, the stone saints crumbling in their recesses. 
 Not a stained glass window whole, not a door that would 
 close. In the courtyard, in the chapels, the wind from the 
 Rhone blew as it blows in Camargue, extinguishing the 
 candles, breaking the leaden sashes of the windows, 
 spilling the water from the holy-water vessels. But- 
 saddest of all was the convent belfry, silent as an empty 
 dove-cote; and the fathers, in default of money to buy a 
 bell, were obliged to ring for matins with clappers of 
 almond-wood. 
 
 These are all perfect, and because Daudet has clearly 
 grasped and applied the profound truth that we judge 
 things most acutely by their consequences. Notice 
 especially the simple skill of the first quotation. Instead 
 of drawing an elaborate picture of a May morning, Daudet 
 
210 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 simply tells you the effect it had upon the fruit-shops. 
 Here his technique is clear as day, whereas in the second 
 citation it is not. The reader probably will have to stop 
 and think that, when the author says: "Halberds that 
 did not wound, state prisons where they put wine to cool," 
 he is deftly naming the results of the peaceful rule of the 
 Popes in Avignon. But, once you think about it, there 
 can be no doubt that this is precisely what he is doing. 
 
 Contrast with these exquisite passages the opening 
 description of the Munson house, in Mrs. Freeman's 
 A Symphony in Lavender. Before criticizing it, we 
 must recall that, in this story, the setting ought to 
 integrate naturally with the dramatic action; for the 
 sight of the house and its adornments indirectly leads 
 the narrator into contact with the heroine and, as the title 
 indicates, sets the tone of the story. 
 
 . . . The first object in Ware, outside of my immediate 
 personal surroundings, which arrested my attention was 
 the Munson house. ^Then I looked out of my window the 
 next morning it loomed up directly opposite, across the 
 road, dark and moist from the rain of the night before. 
 There were so many elm trees in front of the house I was 
 in, that the little pools of rain water, still standing in the 
 road here and there, did not glisten and shine at all, 
 although the sun was bright and quite high. The house 
 itself stood far enough back to allow of a good square yard 
 in front, and was raised from the street-level the height 
 of a face-wall. Three or four steps led up to the front 
 walk. On each side of the steps, growing near the edge of 
 the wall, was an enormous Ulac-tree in full blossom. I 
 could see them tossing their purple clusters between the 
 elm branches; there was quite a wind blowing that morning. 
 A hedge of lilacs, kept low by constant cropping, began 
 at the blooming lilac-trees, and reached around the rest 
 of the yard, at the top of the face-wall. The yard was 
 gay with flowers, laid out in fantastic little beds, all 
 bordered trimly with box. The house . . . had no 
 beauty in itself, being boldly plain and glaring, like all 
 
ATMOSPHERE 211 
 
 of its kind; but the green waving boughs of the elms and 
 lilacs and the undulating shadows they cast toned it down 
 and gave it an air of coolness and quiet and lovely reserve. 
 I began to feel a sort of pleasant, idle curiosity concerning 
 it . . . and after breakfast ... I took occasion 
 to ask my hostess . . . who lived there. 
 
 The student is urgently requested to study this passage 
 minutely, comparing its turns with those of Daudet's. 
 If he will do this, he will discover a most important struc- 
 tural difference between the techniques of the two authars. 
 Daudet describes by noting the effects of the described 
 thing upon something or somebody else. Mrs. Freeman 
 describes directly and then notes the cause of the described 
 thing. Thus, she tells us what made the Munson house 
 look dark and moist, instead of telling us how the darkness 
 and moisture of it affected her or something or somebody 
 in the story. She explains why the pools of rain-water 
 did not glisten, but she does not tell how they impressed 
 her or what change or quality they wrought in the scene. 
 She sees the lilac-trees tossing their blossoms; but Daudet 
 would have told you what the motion made him think 
 about and feel, or perhaps described the odd little shadows 
 it caused to flit pendulously across the sward. 
 
 Now, it is just this difference which marks art off most 
 sharply from science and other practical ways of thinking 
 and doing. The scientist and sometimes the business man 
 are concerned seriously with causes and reasons; for, 
 knowing these, they are enabled to control the effects and 
 thus to manage the world according to their liking. But 
 the artist does not care to dominate finance or shape poli- 
 tics or explain the ultimate nature of carbon and bacteria; 
 he aims only to depict various human affairs, especially 
 the natural problems of life and human nature's way of 
 coping with them. For his purposes, therefore, events 
 and objects exhibit themselves with clearest contour in 
 
212 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 their influence upon man and man's natural environment. 
 For it is this very influence, and it alone, which makes them 
 factors in lifers drama. To narrate causes, while develop- 
 ing the setting of a story, is to forget the very nature and 
 ideals of art itself; it is to become, for the nonce, practical 
 or scientific or, perhaps, merely garrulous. 
 
 Much less offensive, of course, is flat, unexplaining de- 
 scription of details, such as one encounters all too fre- 
 quently in the pages of most American local-color artists, 
 whose technique is generally no less stiff than their paro- 
 chial ideas. To call a spade a spade, a black horse a 
 black horse, and so on, is a sin of omission only. It does 
 not name causes, it merely fails to name effects. It is 
 therefore a neutral method; at times serving admirably 
 but generally so weak that it is more to be pitied than 
 censured. 
 
 The reader is particularly warned against misconstruing 
 the above. He must not think that I am there condemn- 
 ing the supposed virtue of simplicity. To rate low the 
 description that does not characterize effects is by no 
 means the same as to say that the parables of the Bible, 
 for instance, are ill written because they do not character- 
 ize. It is true, their descriptive passages will be searched 
 for in vain, while their occasional descriptive words are 
 as bald as mountain granite. But this is precisely as it 
 should be; for the parables, as we have said elsewhere, are 
 not short stories at all, but fables like ^Esop's (though less 
 ingenious than the latter), and they are not fables with 
 atmosphere. Nor could they have been such, without 
 complete surrender of their purpose. Their aim was, of 
 course, to bring home to some barbarians certain pro- 
 found moral and religious themes. Now, the emotional 
 quality of the latter is utterly alien to that of landscapes, 
 town sights, architecture, furniture, weather, and all the 
 ^ther elements which figure in the setting of narrative 
 
ATMOSPHERE 213 
 
 and whose effects constitute atmosphere. How futile it 
 would have been, then, to have essayed intensifying the 
 idea in, say, the parable of the prodigal son by descanting 
 upon the calm and comfort of his old homestead or upon 
 the filth of the courtyards where he devoured husks in 
 the last days of folly! Doubtless such word-painting 
 would have a power all its own — but this very excel- 
 lence would have here become a vice, for it would have 
 muffled the still, small voice of the sermon. One might 
 as well try to accentuate the richness of human song with 
 an accompaniment of thunder-claps and surf tumult. 
 Wherever atmosphere distorts or obscures the single 
 effect, description should be as flavorless and as unsugges- 
 tive as possible. It should vanish behind the story, even 
 as it does in all great thematic narratives turning around 
 ethical and religious ideas. But all such stories, be it 
 repeated, are not stories with atmosphere, either by 
 right or in fact. Hence what we have been saying about 
 the handling of description does not apply to them. 
 
 b. Atmosphere is integrated intensively by letting the 
 action of characters in the story he directed toward or other- 
 wise involve such elements of the setting as are intimately 
 connected with the tone of the latter. We saw, a moment 
 ago, that one way of securing effective atmosphere is to 
 characterize its effect. We have now to ask the more 
 special question: which effect, if any, lends itself best to 
 such characterizing? Broadly speaking, the answer runs 
 thus: the best effect is the one to which the people of the 
 story respond in a manner that affects the course of the 
 story somehow. For such an effect is most closely woven 
 into the texture of the plot itself. 
 
 Good literature abounds with instances of this, but there 
 is none superior to Markheim. A great technician in 
 every fictional problem, Stevenson was at his best in 
 integrating atmosphere. Where can you find anything 
 
214 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 more iBnely wrought than the events ensuing upon Mark- 
 heim^s murder of the dealer? 
 
 The thought was yet in his mind, when, first one and 
 then another, with every variety of pace and voice — one 
 deep as the bell from a cathedral turret, another ringing 
 on its treble notes the prelude of a waltz — the clocks began 
 to strike the hour of three in the afternoon. 
 
 The sudden outbreak of so many tongues in that dumb 
 chamber staggered him. He began to bestir himself, 
 going to and fro with the candle, beleaguered by moving 
 shadows, and startled to the soul by chance reflections. 
 In many rich mirrors, some of home design, some from 
 Venice or Amsterdam, he saw his face repeated and 
 repeated, as if it were an army of spies; his own eyes met 
 and detected him; and the sound of his own steps, lightly 
 as they fell, vexed the surrounding quiet. And still, as he 
 continued to fill his pockets, his mind accused him with a 
 sickeningiteration,of the thousand faults of his design. . . . 
 
 Observe that Stevenson has chosen those very objects 
 and sights and sounds which most naturally might play 
 into just this dramatic situation. Clocks whose striking 
 impresses the murderer as though they were alarums 
 sounding his crime abroad and summoning the inhabit- 
 ants of the earth to his pursuit. Mirrors which fling 
 back into his face that very face itself, but so shadowed 
 and shrunken in perspective and so fleeting that its 
 innumerable manifestations impress him as an army of 
 spies, and send him off into a cold panic. These dis- 
 turbers of his fancied seclusion prey upon his mind, stir 
 up fears that otherwise would have slumbered um.ocuously, 
 and finally drive him into a turmoil of conscience and 
 sophistry which precipitates the crucial situation. Here 
 we find the ideal handling; the setting is much more than 
 the place where things happen, it plays a part in the march 
 of events, even as the dominant character does. It 
 makes him think, it harasses him, it helps lead him to 
 confession. 
 
ATMOSPHERE 215 
 
 c. Those elements of the setting figure most effectively in 
 the action which enter into the latter most frequently, rather 
 than most decisively. This rule must be carefully con- 
 strued. It is a generalization which story factors some- 
 times restrict and obscure. The theme, for instance, may 
 include the thought that one little sight or sound turns 
 a man from an evil course; and then, of course, this one 
 little sight or sound must be played up tremendously at 
 the dramatic instant. But usually stories do not demand 
 such manipulation, for their settings only reinforce some 
 emotional quality that runs through their entire actions. 
 In all such cases, the writer's task is identical with that 
 of the musical composer, who, starting with a certain 
 simple combination of notes (his theme), endeavors to 
 sustain, evenly yet without monotony, their unique melody 
 and feeling values throughout the whole composition. 
 Now, it is a matter of easy observation that a series of 
 relatively slight impressions harmoniously related pro- 
 duces an intenser mood in us than the same impressions 
 when condensed into one or two terrific instants of appre- 
 ciation. Thus, a symphony one hour long brings to life 
 more throbbingly its theme than the most exquisite two 
 or three bars of music could. And, in a story, the most 
 magnificent picture of the setting- crowded, let us say, 
 into the opening paragraph, will heighten the single effect 
 much less potently than a hundred little significant 
 glimpses of tree, sky, and brook scattered loosely up and 
 down the whole narrative. 
 
 A host of young writers seem unaware of this elementary 
 psychological fact. They cram all their landscapes into 
 the opening event and leave the body of the story as bare 
 of pictures as a ledger. The result is twice disastrous. 
 In the first place, the setting has scarcely time, in the 
 opening event, to integrate closely with the other factors 
 of the story; so there it sits, like a dainty bonnet on the 
 
216 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 head of an ill-favored woman, all too painfully not of a 
 piece with her. In the second place, such a story, moving 
 from fine scenery to none at all, is almost certain to pro- 
 duce a declining effect — at least slightly. This danger, 
 to be sure, diminishes as the dramatic intensity of the 
 complication and character drawing waxes. Yet it is 
 ever present. 
 
 d. // possible, depict the setting from the point of view of i 
 the dominant character. Should some co7nplication make 
 this awkward, choose the point of view of some other char- 
 acter. If this, too, is impossible, employ that of a non-par- 
 ticipating narrator. Only as a last resort, depict atmosphere 
 objectively. (By point of view we here mean, of course, the 
 angle of narration.) The reasons for this rule have 
 already been set forth in our discussion of the angle of 
 narration.^ 
 
 »a. 175 etc. 
 
EXERCISES 217 
 
 Exercises 
 
 1. Analyze minutely the manner in which the settings 
 of the following stories have been integrated so as to 
 produce atmosphere. State precisely which of the above 
 rules have been adhered to and which have not. Can 
 you suggest better manipulation anywhere? 
 
 Haines, Donald Hamilton — Who Only Stand and Wait. 
 (Everybody's, Oct., 1910.) 
 
 Stringer, Arthur — The Man Who Made Good. (Every- 
 body's, Dec, 1910.) 
 
 Oppenheim, Jas. — Slag. (Everybody's, June, 1911.) 
 Hibbard, Geo. — The Skyscraper. (Scribner's, Jan., 1911.) 
 Dreiser, Theodore — The Mighty Burke. (McClure's, 
 May, 1911.) 
 
 Post, Melville D. — The House of the Dead Man. (Satur- 
 day Ev. Post, Sept. 30, 1911.) 
 
 2. Take the characters and the complication of some 
 one of the following stories, discover the single effect, 
 and then alter the author's treatment of the setting so as 
 to make it intensify that effect better than it now does. 
 
 Krog, Fritz— Die Wanderlust. (McClure's, Aug., 1911.) 
 
 Gerould, Katherine F. — The Wine of Violence. (Scrib^ 
 ner's, July, 1911.) 
 
 Humphreys, Mary Gay — For East is East, and West is 
 West.' (Scribner's, Oct., 1911.) 
 
 Singmaster, Elsie — The Rebellion of Wilhelmina. (Cen- 
 tury, Sept., 1911.) 
 
 3. Here is a list of settings. Designate with great care 
 the emotional qualities of each one with which you are at 
 all familiar; and, if any stories suggest themselves to you 
 which those qualities intensify, sketch the plots. 
 
218 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Times Square, Manhattan, at seven o'clock Sunday 
 morning. 
 
 An abandoned church in the Berkshire hills. 
 
 Noon hour in a knitting mill. 
 
 An old-fashioned New England parlor. 
 
 Threshing day on an Iowa farm. 
 
 A clear winter day in the Canadian woods. 
 
 The council chamber of some American city, during a 
 session of aldermen. 
 
 A camp meeting in the back counties. 
 
 A sailors' supply store in an American seaport. 
 
 A village drug store. 
 
 Around a baseball bulletin before a newspaper office. 
 
 4. In each of the following adages is the germ of a 
 hundred tales. Choose the one that appeals most strongly 
 to you and write a thematic story around it, working as 
 below prescribed: 
 
 What's worth doing at all is worth doing well. 
 
 A stitch in time saves nine. 
 
 Half a loaf is better than no loaf at all. 
 
 Take care of the pence and the pounds will take care of 
 themselves. 
 
 God helps them that help themselves. 
 
 A small leak will sink a big ship. 
 
 It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright. 
 
 Having chosen your adage and the theme which your 
 story is to exemplify, proceed as follows : 
 
 1. Write your theme (or story germ) in a few declara- 
 tive sentences. 
 
 2. Pick out each phase of the idea and represent it by a 
 person (or by many persons) acting. For instance, if 
 your theme is: 'A weak, cowardly man is more terrible 
 than a brave one in a desperate situation,' depict a weak 
 man, a brave man, and a desperate situation in which the 
 
EXERCISES 219 
 
 coward does something more courageous or more fool- 
 hardy than the brave man would do. Then find an 
 incident exhibiting the coward as a coward, and another 
 revealing the courage of the brave man. 
 
 3. Write a brief narrative account of such situations, 
 paying no attention to anything save clarity. If possible, 
 keep the natural order of events. 
 
 4. Test the consistency and lifelikeness of the resulting 
 rough story by thinking through all the episodes from 
 the point of view of each character involved in them. 
 
 5. Eliminate scenes and character delineation that are 
 not strictly necessary to convey the story. Whenever 
 possible, make one episode develop two or three essential 
 ideas. 
 
 6. Test the order of events. If they do not move with 
 even or rising effectiveness, recast them so that they do. 
 This may be done either by giving them a new order or 
 else by intensifying. 
 
 7. Fix upon the dominant emotional tone of the story 
 as a whole. With this clearly in mind, re-write from start 
 to finish, echoing the tone whenever possible. Begin 
 this not less than a week after the preceding task has been 
 finished. 
 
 Warning, Do not suppose that this is the model way 
 of writing stories. After you have found yourself, you 
 may go at the work in any of a dozen other manners. 
 But this exercise, though artificial and difficult, is valuable 
 because it sharpens the fundamental issues of technique. 
 
 5. Pick out from the following abridged fairy tale the 
 theme, the complication, the characters, and the action. 
 Having done so, write a 1,000-word story outline preserv- 
 ing the idea and the typical line of action and the outcome 
 of the original, but substituting human beings for the 
 characters. 
 
220 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 Next alter your version so that it will become a genuine 
 short story, and then finish it as such. 
 
 There were once a mouse, a bird, and a sausage, who 
 formed a partnership. 
 
 They had set up housekeeping, and had lived for a 
 long time in great harmony together. The duty of the 
 bird was to fly every day into the forests and bring home 
 wood ; the mouse had to draw water, to light the fire, and 
 lay the table-cloth; and the sausage was cook. 
 
 It happened one day that the bird had met in his road 
 another bird, to which he had boasted of their happiness 
 and friendship at home. 
 
 The other bird repHed scornfully, "What a poor Httle 
 simpleton you are to work in the way you do, while the 
 other two are enjoying themselves at home!" When the 
 mouse has lighted the fire and drawn the water she can 
 go and rest in her little room till she is called to lay the 
 cloth. The sausage can sit by the stove while he watches 
 that the dinner is well cooked, and when the dinner time 
 arrives he devours four times as much as the others of 
 broth or vegetables till he quite shines with salt and fat." 
 
 The bird, after listening to this, came home quite dis- 
 contented, and, laying down his load, seated himself at 
 the table and ate so much and filled his crop so full that 
 he slept next morning without waking, and thought this 
 was a happy life. 
 
 The next day the little bird objected to go and fetch 
 wood, saying that he had been their servant long enough, 
 and that he had been a fool to work for them in this way. 
 He intended at once to make a change and seek his living 
 in another way. 
 
 After this, although the mouse and the sausage were 
 both in a rage, the bird was master, and would have his 
 owTi way. So he proposed that they should draw lots, 
 and the lots fell so that the sausage was to fetch the wood, 
 the mouse to be cook, and the bird to draw the water. 
 Now what was the consequence of all this? The sausage 
 went out to get wood, the bird lighted the fire, and the 
 mouse put on the saucepan and sat down to watch it till 
 the sausage returned home with the wood for the next 
 day. But he stayed away so long that the bird, who 
 
EXERCISES 221 
 
 wanted a breath of fresh air, went out to look for him. 
 On his way he met a dog, who told him that, having 
 met the sausage, he had devoured him. 
 
 The bird complained greatly against the dog for his 
 conduct, and called him a cruel robber, but it did no 
 good. 
 
 The little bird, full of sorrow, flew home carrying the 
 wood with him and related to the mouse what he had 
 seen. They were both very grieved, but quickly agreed 
 that the best thing for them to do was to remain together. 
 
 From that time the bird undertook to prepare the table, 
 and the mouse to roast something for supper, and to put 
 the vegetables into the saucepan, as she had seen the 
 sausage do; but before she had half finished her task, 
 the fire burned her so terribly that she fell down and died. 
 
 When the little bird came home, there was no cook to 
 be seen, and the fire was nearly out. The bird, in alarm, 
 threw the wood here and there, cried out, and searched 
 everywhere, but no cook could be found. 
 
 Meanwhile a spark from the fire fell on the wood and 
 set it in a blaze, so that there was danger of the house 
 being burned. The bird ran in haste to the well for 
 water. Unfortunately, he let the pail fall into the well, 
 and, being dragged after it, he sank into the water and 
 was drowned. 
 
 6. Each of the following stories typifies its author ^s ^ ech- 
 nique. To acquire intimacy with the latter, carry out 
 the following program faithfully. On it the average 
 student ought to spend not less than 400 hours. 
 
 1. Transcribe each story three times. 
 
 2. Reproduce it from memory three times, as best you 
 can, never looking back to the original for aid. These 
 trials should not be made on successive days, but at longer 
 intervals. 
 
 3. Invent a new setting for the plot and write a story, 
 adhering as closely as possible to the style of the original. 
 Repeat this at least three times. For variety, choose a 
 fresh setting at each practice. 
 
 4. . Invent a plot considerably different from the original 
 
222 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 and write your story in the model style. Repeat this at 
 least five times. (Note. For ordinary class work this 
 exercise must be greatly .shortened. In this case it is 
 advisable to concentrate on one author's style. By all 
 means avoid a little experimenting with several authors. 
 This is worthless and confusing.) 
 
 The stories to be experimented with are: 
 
 1. Poe — The Cask of Amontillado. 
 
 2. Maupassant — The Necklace. 
 
 3. Stevenson — The Sire de Maletroit's Door. (In New 
 Arabian Nights.) 
 
 4. Wharton — His Father's Son. (In Tales of Ghosts and 
 Men.) 
 
 5. 0. Kemy—The Gift of the Magi. (In The Four 
 Million.) 
 
 7. The following is an underdeveloped story. Discover 
 its theme (or other single effect). Then estimate which 
 dramatic factor of the plot is weakest. Suggest improve- 
 ments in it. Next criticize the angle of narration and, if 
 possible, improve it. Finally rewrite the story in not less 
 than 3,500 words. 
 
 Five hundred, — one thousand, — three thousand dollars 
 for the head of Sarafan! He sank upon his doorstep, the 
 paper slipping from his hand. Motionless, yearning, he 
 looked to the west, — always to the west, — and over their 
 beer they would say: — 
 
 " Old Hamlin, he waits for his boy. " 
 
 In just such a twilight he had pleaded for her love, — 
 and when the moon was high, she promised. 
 
 All the long May day they danced at their betrothal, 
 and when the evening came, she had danced into the heart 
 of Pierre, a rough but dashing soldier. The wise heads 
 nodded : — 
 
 "He is handsome". 
 
 The young heads whispered: — 
 
 "She looks not unkindly on the stranger "o 
 
 Hamlin said nothing. 
 
EXERCISES 223 
 
 One evening at parting, he held her hand longer than 
 usual: — 
 
 '*It is Pierre you love", — and she answered:— 
 
 "Yes". 
 
 That night young Hamlin, listless, stolid, laid upon 
 the parson's table a few thumb-worn bills: — 
 
 "There will be no wedding". 
 
 In the morning, Pierre had gone and with him Hamlin's 
 love. 
 
 The years that followed brought no word from Ham- 
 lin's love, neither did he make an effort to hear from her. 
 Sometimes in the hushed voices as he passed, he could 
 catch rumors of wretched poverty, of a brutal husband, 
 and once it seemed to him that they spoke of her as a 
 widow. Hamlin dreamed strange dreams. 
 
 She was coming back, — always coming back. Some- 
 times he trembled at her footstep. Sometimes his tired 
 eyes drew her from the darkness. But always when the 
 moon was high, he strained her to his aching heart. 
 
 Returning one evening, he found upon his doorstep a 
 huddled mass of rags, half buried in snow, and beside it a 
 whimpering child. Filled with apprehension, he turned 
 the body. It was she. 
 
 He stared stupidly at the unconscious face. Suddenly 
 he seized her wrist and felt her pulse. Frightened, he tore 
 away her shawl and laid his ear above her heart. He rose 
 reassured, and carried her into the house, the little one 
 toddling at his heels. 
 
 Beside the hearth, he piled up for her a bed. He 
 gathered the rough twigs and built her a fire. 
 
 For three miles he waded through the snow to bring 
 back with him the village doctor. With the devotion of 
 an ill-used cur, he watched beside her, and when the moon 
 was high, she closed her sightless eyes. 
 
 Three days after there was the funeral, a trustee of the 
 orphanage came to relieve him of the child. Hamlin 
 kept the boy. 
 
 From this day, the tavern saw him no more. All day 
 he toiled in the fields. His nights he spent at home, 
 mending shoes. 
 
 When some father's heart would overflow with pride 
 in his son, Hamlin said nothing. He looked at the 
 
224 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 towsled head of his boy, and in his eyes there glowed a 
 far-off vision. 
 
 As soon as the boy could understand, Hamlin would 
 take out for him the silver hoard that grew so slowly. 
 He would tell him of the wonderful schools in town, of 
 the learning and honors that would be his. Every morn- 
 ing he drove him five miles to town that he might have a 
 better schooling than the humble village could afford, and 
 when, showered with honors, he entered the university, 
 old Hamlin sat at home worn, triumphant, counting the 
 last dollar that was needed to complete his dream 
 
 As he passed through the village, he could catch again 
 the hushed whispers. This time they were speaking of 
 the boy and well they might speak. If only — Ah well, 
 perhaps it was a fancy. Yet Hamlin felt that in his boy 
 there was growing more and more powerful the lawless 
 spirit of his father. Twice he had been caught in some 
 wild escapade, and was spared only because of his brilliant 
 scholarship. 
 
 Time and again he wrote for the money that Hamlin 
 sent him with a trembling hand, — the money he needed 
 for his studies — the money that found its way into some 
 pit of hell. 
 
 For months at a time he would absent himself from his 
 studies. 
 
 In his supposed senior year he came home one night to 
 stay. Nervously Hamlin questioned him. No, he had 
 met no one in the village. 
 
 Hamlin beseeched him to return. He argued, pleaded, 
 threatened. He learned the whole crushing truth. They 
 quarreled. The lad disappeared and with him the last 
 of the silver hoard. 
 
 Hamlin laid his snowy head on the empty box. 
 
 ''His father's blood, — only his father's blood". 
 
 Still looking to the west, — always to the west where his 
 boy had gone, — Hamlin was startled from his dreaming. 
 Some one was stumbling up the garden path. Someone 
 fell upon him with a sob. ' His boy'. 
 
 Wild-eyed he pointed to the west. 
 
 ''There, — there! They're coming for me" 
 
 "For you"? 
 
 "I am Sarafan". 
 
EXERCISES ^ 225 
 
 Hamlin was motionless. "Who knows that Hamlin's 
 son is Sarafan"? 
 
 "Only you". 
 
 His hands closed upon the lad's throat. He dragged 
 him down into the cellar. They struggled fiercely. Ham- 
 lin was the stronger. He held him down until he breathed 
 no more and then, smiling, he went out to meet the pur- 
 suers. 
 
 That night when the moon was high he dug the grave 
 in a lonely thicket, and there he laid 'His Boy'. 
 
PART II: 
 fHE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 
 
 Crown the heads of better men 
 
 With lilies and with morning glories! 
 I'm unworthy of a pen — 
 These are Bread-and-Butter stories. 
 Shall I tell you how I know? 
 Strangers wrote and told me so. 
 
 He who only toils for fame 
 I pronounce a silly Billy. 
 / can't dine upon a name, 
 Or look dressy in a lily. 
 And — Oh shameful truth to utter I — 
 I wonH live on bread and butter. 
 
 Gouvemeur Morris. Dedication of It. 
 
 The so-called practical advice purveyed to persons who 
 wish to make money at fiction writing reduces pretty 
 much to a few cynical propositions about Mammon, 
 prejudiced editors, catering to the mob, and the ignominy 
 of being an unknown writer. And when it does not, it 
 swings to the other extreme, as in the case of O. Henry's 
 recipe of success: "Write what pleases you. There is no 
 second rule.'' Now, both these views are absurd. The 
 affair is not so simple; neither is it so desperate nor so 
 bright. It resembles every other business in that it 
 depends upon many independent circumstances; over 
 many of these the individual author has absolutely no 
 control, and many others editors are powerless to direct. 
 Reduced to its simplest terms, it is a 'problem of three 
 bodies': (a) the reading public, (b) the author, and (c) 
 the pubhsher. From this triad there is no escape, unless 
 
 229 
 
230 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 the writer chooses to emulate the minstrels of old, wander- 
 ing from house to house, reciting his wares, and gleaning 
 dimes from the pleased and kicks from the wroth. The 
 contemporary variation of this scheme is publishing at 
 one's own expense; but this is generally less successful 
 than out-and-out minstrelsy, for the volumes have to be 
 given away to friends and creditors. 
 
 Probably, there are not over ten men in the world who 
 analyze this 'problem of three bodies' with approximate 
 completeness and accuracy; and these men are the 
 shrewd veterans of the great publishing houses. It can 
 be outlined here, though, with sufficient detail to assist 
 the average story writer a little. I shall not explain the 
 why and wherefore of all the following assertions. Some 
 of them I do not understand, and others depend upon very 
 complex, lengthy and difficult factors of social psychology, 
 while still others are too obvious. 
 
 1. There is not one reading public, hut many. This 
 fact is one of the self-evident, but many a young writer 
 (and many another) ignores it and pays dearly for the 
 oversight. Yet the most casual inspection of magazines 
 indicates it, and a ten-minute study of the U. S. Census 
 demonstrates it. There are some ninety and odd million 
 people within our borders. Of this multitude, nearly 
 seven out of every ten live on farms or in small villages. 
 Hundreds of thousands of these know only their fields 
 and the hamlet church and the Saturday night gossip 
 around the crossroads. Another hundred thousand or 
 two are shrewd, prosperous Americans of the older type; 
 they have been through high school, and perhaps through 
 the State college; they read the President's Message and 
 The Country Gentleman, they study the World Almanac 
 winter evenings, and after bumper crops they send their 
 families to Europe, while they stay home and loan money 
 to river-bottom farmers at fifteen per cent. Then there 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 231 
 
 is the Progressive Villager, one of the most characteristic 
 American types, who, from his elm-shadowed cottage, 
 judges the world cannily with the assistance of the Cir- 
 culating Library and the magazines. More than any 
 other single class, he has shaped American culture; and, 
 though his influence is swiftly waning, it still is a power 
 in the land. Now, we might go on naming intellectual 
 types, working from the back counties toward the East 
 Side of Manhattan. And we should find hundreds of 
 species, ranging from housewife to chorus girl, from old- 
 school Methodist to Italian atheist, from neurasthenic 
 bank clerk to professional safe-blower, from the new 
 Puritan of Southern California to the anarchist who night- 
 ly bawls his creed in the beery basements of East Broad- 
 way. Some of these classes live three thousand miles 
 apart, as far as Paris is removed from Timbuctoo; and 
 the intellectual gulf between Paris and Timbuctoo is no 
 greater than that which intervenes between such Ameri- 
 cans. 
 
 That all these people are interested in very different 
 affairs, is self-evident. That people read what they are 
 interested in, is also axiomatic. Therefore, there are 
 many reading publics. And this conclusion is richly con- 
 firmed by each month's output of literature and news- 
 papers. There is one public for the New York Call, and 
 another for the New York Times, and a third for the New 
 York Journal. Mrs. Wharton counts her adherents by 
 the thousand, and Robert W. Chambers reckons his by 
 the ten thousand, while Laura Jean Libbey scores her 
 multitudes in numbers of six figures. Outside of all 
 these hordes many millions live serenely indifferent to 
 metropolitan journals and the Best Sellers and the muck- 
 rakers. What they peruse is pretty much of a mystery 
 except to the sales departments of the large publishing 
 houses; but that they do read, and that they have peculiar 
 
232 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 and very decided tastes, is well known tb the book 
 trade. An interesting morsel of testimony on this 
 matter is offered in a valuable anonymous book, en- 
 titled A Publisher's Confession.^ The writer, who is 
 the head of one of our most prominent publishing 
 houses, says : 
 
 But stranger than the popularity of very popular novels, 
 or than the utter failure of merely 'literary' novels, is the 
 moderate success of a certain kind of commonplace 
 stories. I know a woman of domestic tastes who every 
 two years turns off a quiet story. She has now written a 
 dozen or more. They are never advertised. . . The 
 'literary' world pays no heed to her. Her books are not 
 even reviewed in the best journals. They lack distinction. 
 But every one is sure to sell from ten to fifteen thousand 
 copies. No amount of advertising, no amount of noise 
 could increase the number of readers to twenty-five thou- 
 sand ; and there is no way to prevent a sale of from ten to 
 fifteen thousand copies. Why this is so is one of the most 
 baffling problems of psychology. 
 
 I must confess that I find nothing baffling in the fixity 
 of such a clientele. There is a definite number of people 
 who like red cravats with small black polka dots. There 
 is a definite multitude which enjoys slow music in D 
 minor best. There is a public that dotes on cantaloupe 
 with pepper and salt, and another which revels in canta- 
 loupe sugared. But what is there strange in this? Take 
 any imaginable thing on earth, offer it to any human 
 being, and he must either like it, dislike it, or be indifferent 
 toward it. With only three possible ways of behaving, 
 it is therefore a simple matter of arithmetic to show that, 
 in a group of, say, forty million adults, there will be a 
 pretty definite number liking any given object. And this 
 number will remain nearly constant throughout the life- 
 time of the group, ^because adult tastes and appe- 
 
 iDoubleday, Page, 1905. 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 233 
 
 tites change very slowly. Thus, in each generation 
 there will always be a vast number of different read- 
 ing publics; and the writer who pleases one of them 
 once can probably repeat the trick for a number of 
 years. 
 
 2. The novel may successfully appeal to a single reading 
 public; the short story must appeal to many. Please 
 notice the wording of this statement carefully. It is 
 not asserted that a novel should appeal to only one class, 
 nor yet that a story which does this is devoid of genuine 
 merit. The greatest novels certainly please scores of 
 classes, while some unmarketable stories — for instance, 
 the racier French sort — are excellent in every respect save 
 the commercial. (I am, of course, speaking only of 
 American commercial conditions.) What I do assert, 
 though, is that the novelist may prosper, may carry 
 his message or impart his fun to a very sharply de- 
 fined group of readers; but this is almost impossible 
 for a story writer except insofar as he has previously 
 won his group of readers by writing novels. Why 
 is this? The origin of the modern magazine ex- 
 plains it. 
 
 3. The magazine is supported chiefly by its advertising 
 pages. The value of these pages depends upon the num- 
 ber of readers who are potential buyers of the advertised 
 commodities. Hence the most successful magazine is the 
 one which pleases some very large class, or, as is usually 
 the case, many classes. Now, the short story writer 
 who is not a novelist of repute is almost wholly de- 
 pendent upon the magazine for his current sales. He 
 cannot publish his tales in book form unless most of them 
 have appeared in periodicals and won applause there. 
 Twenty years ago and before, when the editing of a 
 magazine was more an art and a profession than a busi- 
 ness, things were quite different. An editor could then 
 
234 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 print what he liked and trust in the existence of a few 
 thousand Hke-minded readers who would buy. All his 
 competitors were doing the same thing; and so they 
 were not competitors at all, in the modem, sanguinary 
 sense. Furthermore, all periodicals of those days were 
 high-priced and catered to the upper classes; if not to the 
 rich, at least to the cultured. And these readers did not 
 scrimp in matters literary; they bought all magazines that 
 interested them, just as people of the same starrp do 
 today. How different with the business-ruled m?^azine 
 of the twentieth century! Not content to re&.ch the 
 easy chair of him who of old pored over LittelVs Living 
 Age and the Atlantic Monthly, it fights its way to the 
 table of the man who can afford only one magazine a 
 month; to the office of the 'Tired Business Man' and the 
 weary housewife's kitchen; to the seat of the commercial 
 traveler on a dull journey. The result of this tremendous 
 expansion of circulation may be read off by the most inex- 
 perienced observer. The popular magazine shuns every 
 topic which deviates much from the tastes of the supposed 
 majority of the class or classes to viiich it appeals. (I 
 emphasize the participle, please not^!) And this means 
 that, as Mr. H. G. Wells recently jhrased it, 'Hhe editor 
 of the magazine that strives to please a million families has 
 to deaden down the conception of what a short story might 
 be to the imaginative limitation of the common reader."* 
 All material which can be appreciated only by one who 
 has been to Europe, or has studied chemistry, or has 
 perused the vital statistics of the Mississippi Valley, or 
 
 1 In the introduction to his collection of short stories entitled 
 The Country of the Blind (Nelson, 1912). The entire diatribe is 
 well worth reading, n spite of some fanciful theories in it (from which 
 Wells is temperamentally unable to abstain). It gives a fairly 
 accurate picture of the plight of story writers in Great Britain 
 today and voices a wholesome protest against the absurd formalism 
 which sways many critics, readers and editors. 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 235 
 
 has been sentenced to the gallows, or has compared the 
 texts of Macbeth, or has analyzed the tariff schedule, or 
 has experienced any other thing which the average man 
 has not, — all such material is forbidden to the writer of 
 tales. Furthermore, all material which can be appreciated 
 only by a person of exceptional mental powers, or with an 
 extraordinary sense of humor, or with prodigious subtlety 
 is even more strictly taboo. And the reason for the prohi- 
 bition is always the same. It is not because the topics 
 which exceptional people understand are intricate or 
 audacious ot radical or improper; it is simply because the 
 largest reading public does not grasp them with the sym- 
 pathy of insight. 
 
 4. Because of this, three types of short stories' are 
 unsuited to the average magazine: satire, allegory, and 
 the 'fate drama'. They are but rarely accepted and 
 then for some special reason which does not impair our 
 general rule. Satire is either incomprehensible or weak 
 to many intelligent people. Its appreciation demands 
 an alertness of imagination considerably above the 
 average. Occasionally a newspaper of the cultured 
 classes, like The New York Evening Post or The Boston 
 Transcript, cannot resist the temptation to wax ironical 
 over some topic of the hour; and the result is ever the 
 same; a sackful of protesting letters pours in from indig- 
 nant subscribers who have taken the editorial words at 
 face value. Now, it is just this element of irony in all 
 spicy satire that militates against the latter. To make 
 satire first-class, you must flavor it strongly with irony; 
 but if you do, then you narrow your audience, ad- 
 mitting only those who are so familiar with the object 
 of your attack that they can read it off through the ironic 
 veil of double meanings. 
 
 As for the unpopularity of allegory, its difficulty is, at 
 bottom, that of satire. Allegory, too, is saying one thing 
 
236 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 and meaning another. And genuine intellectual skill 
 is all too frequently required in the perceiving and en- 
 joying of its twin significances. At best, allegory is not 
 easy reading for the average man; and when it is fashioned 
 in profound cogitation, it is little more than a riddle. 
 I venture to say that not more than one magazine reader 
 in four could understand all of the allegory in van Dyke's 
 Half-Told Tales, which Scrihner^s had the courage to 
 publish for its select clientele. And this casts no reflec- 
 tion upon reader or author. The former may be very 
 intelligent in his own way and well educated, too, 
 and yet lack that peculiar nimbleness which allegory 
 calls for. To lack it is no more disgraceful than to 
 lack the power of following the texture of a Bach 
 fugue. It is as much an endowment as the color of 
 one's eyes. 
 
 As for the 'fate drama', the term itself requires defini- 
 tion. I refer to the opposite of the 'uplift story', 
 after which so many editors are sighing. It is the story 
 which depicts man as the victim of circumstance or 
 — what is really the same thing — as the victim of some 
 uncontrollable trait in himself. Maupassant's The Piece 
 of String, perfect though it is as a fulfilment of its own 
 artistic purpose, presents such a picture, — Maitre Hauche- 
 corne killed by his own exceeding thrift, by his pride, 
 and by the mere chance of being observed picking up 
 something; hence the story would probably have been 
 rejected by most American magazines, though not by all. 
 And why? Simply because it is not pleasant reading. 
 Most men and women are a little depressed by the thought 
 that they are not the captains of their souls; and they do 
 not wish to pay fifteen cents, still less thirty-five, for the 
 depression. They get more than enough of it gratis, 
 every day, They read fiction, especially magazine fiction, 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 237 
 
 either for pure pleasure or else for agreeable informal 
 instruction. 
 
 Here is a fate drama which illustrates all the unpopular 
 features of its species. A student's story, written with 
 excellent style and technique, has to do with the effect 
 which the religious services in a great cathedral exert 
 upon a glass worker who is engaged in repairing some of 
 the windows. The glass worker is a rabid atheist, bent 
 upon converting everybody to his own views. The action 
 begins with a scene in which he is mocking the religion's 
 mummery which he has just been witnessing, and proving 
 that those who respect this are fools. Soon after, his 
 little boy is injured by an automobile. A clergyman 
 comes to console him and the glazier turns him away with 
 wrath. The boy dies and ''at the funeral, out of the dark- 
 ness and bitterness of his heart, Joe spoke his hopelessness 
 to the little group of mourners gathered in his parlor." 
 Back to his work in the cathedral he goes, still reviling 
 the chanting priests far below his scaffold and sneering 
 at the superstitious old women who go through the motions 
 of worship. 
 
 As the days passed, working at his solitary task, he 
 began to get a certain companionship from the regular 
 recurrence of the services. The solemn peal of the organ 
 and the measured cadence of the incantations, even the 
 hushed restlessness of the changing congregations, com- 
 bined to soothe his wounded spirit which was sore op- 
 pressed in those days while little Bub's death was so new. 
 Once he caught himself envying those hundreds of people 
 whose faith could pass beyond the barriers of the grave. 
 For that he took himself to task. Too well he knew they 
 were hypocrites. 
 
 But as the days went by he shook off less easily the 
 awesome effects of the services. The music began to 
 exert its hypnotic influence. More and more, a sense of 
 the great reahty on whom he might call pressed upon him, 
 
238 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 "Play ball"! he impatiently exclaimed aloud, ''you're 
 measuring that vault. That's what you are doing". 
 
 For a moment he had thought himself part of that wor- 
 shipful assemblage, standing with bowed head above. 
 By a strong effort of will he tried to bend his mind to the 
 minutia of his task, but like a mighty flood the irresist- 
 ible influence of the place surged upon him. His spirit 
 was awed with a sense of invisible power and sublimity. 
 He felt the actual presence of the spirit of the Almighty. 
 The sound of the chanting ceased, and the priest's voice 
 was raised in suppHcation. Moved by an irresistible 
 impulse, Joe Barry sank to his knees, his lips moving in 
 prayer. 
 
 Some editors would reject this story simply because it 
 deals with a religious theme, which is now-a-days con- 
 sidered not only bad taste but also bad policy. The more 
 serious objection to it, however, is not the theme but the 
 moral, which is that the religious influence is hypnotism 
 by sights and sounds and ancient mummeries, and that 
 they are strong enough to vanquish a man's deepest con- 
 victions. The reader does not have to be an unbeliever 
 in order to feel the depressing effects of this moral. 
 Whether Joe Barry's philosophy was true or false, cer- 
 tainly it was sincere ; and what is more discouraging than 
 to see a genuine persuasion defeated by mere music and 
 incense and fancies? 
 
 5. This last fact is one on which we must dwell at once, 
 so persistently is it ignored or underestimated or — worse 
 yet — misconstrued. Authors who have not yet caught 
 their bearings are wont to berate now the editor and 
 now the pubHc for a singular perverse unwilHngness to 
 take 'serious stories'. By a 'serious story' they mean 
 the 'fate drama', which, by the way, is much loved and 
 attempted by beginners. They declare, in their invective, 
 that the editor and his public 'don't know real art when 
 they see it'. Unfortunately, some excellent literary critics 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 239 
 
 and other authorities encourage this belief by sneering at 
 the low grade of current short fiction. Now, such a ver- 
 dict carries well in a class room of sophomores ; also, it is a 
 balm to the proprietors of rejected MSS. But it is 
 founded upon a fatal misconception and upon false stand- 
 ards. It is not merely perfectionism; it is bad arith- 
 metic. The perfectionism consists in restricting the 
 name of art to half a dozen masterpieces and condemning 
 as 'mere journalism' everything inferior to They and 
 A Coward and Markheim. Not long ago I heard a pro- 
 fessor of English Literature pour scorn upon a distant 
 colleague who lectured to undergraduates on Mrs. 
 Wharton, 0. Henry, and Jack London. There are, said 
 the scorner, only six story writers in the world worthy of 
 academic attention. Now, here we see perfectionism in 
 its most preposterous hypertrophy. The average per- 
 fectionist is a shade more liberal; and yet his error is 
 great. In demanding that the monthly magazine accept 
 only what measures up to the very best, he not only sets 
 an impossible standard, but also misunderstands the 
 function of magazines. This function is not the pub- 
 lishing of masterpieces; it is the disseminating of in- 
 structive, critical, and entertaining articles and fiction. 
 People want such, and they want them much more than 
 they want masterpieces. They want life and the affairs 
 of life exhibited to them in many phases and moods and 
 bearings; and these infinitely exceed art in their variety 
 and quality of form and content. 
 
 Art, in the perfectionist's meaning of the word, is only 
 one of life's many pleasures and tonics. It is less impor- 
 tant than food, less true than school-books, less influential 
 than the weather, less progressive than chemistry, less 
 moral than common sense, less human than politics, 
 and less refreshing than a dip in the surf. And it always 
 will be, so long as people remain sane. Hence the artist 
 
240 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 may not arrogate to himself the right of telling people 
 what they should read. People will read what they like 
 to read; and, if healthy, they will be literary pluralists, — 
 to borrow the speech of philosophy for a moment. One 
 day Smith will hmiger for Mark Twain, while Jones 
 craves Bunyan. The next morning Smith digs into the 
 history of Standard Oil, and Jones samples Landor with 
 gusto. And thus appetite shifts to the year's end. 
 Now you may call it fickleness or shallowness, if you 
 choose; and you may extol the truly artistic reader who 
 would be content to be cast away upon a desert island 
 with nothing but Paradise Lost and Shakespeare. But the 
 truth remains that real life, in all its vigor and contempt 
 of rigid form, is a perpetual hunt after new things. Little 
 does it care what it finds, if only the find be novel, agree- 
 able, or instructive. It tastes, sucks the sweet, takes 
 on strength from the day's kill, and moves on after 
 quarries fresh and flavors strange. Perhaps this habit 
 is but the subtlest form of the instinct of self-preser- 
 vation; it may be the effort to get one's bearings toward 
 all things and thus to learn how to cope with the latter. 
 Be that as it may; the fact itself looms mountain-like, 
 in the realm of books and papers no less than every- 
 where else. And, whether he likes it or not, the story writer 
 must reckon with a public that is forever demanding new 
 manners and many of them, new tales and strange ways 
 of telling them. It is a public which agrees whole- 
 heartedly with Bacon that ''there is no excellent beauty 
 that hath not some strangeness in the proportion"; 
 and it exceeds Bacon in its belief that strangeness, whether 
 of form or of content, is the better half of art.^ 
 
 1 These remarks seem to contradict the one made a moment ago, 
 that people's tastes are fixed. But there is no conflict here. An 
 adult's likes and dislikes are fixed pretty definitely with reference to 
 each type of object artistic or othervnse. But this does not mean that 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 241 
 
 Here, then, is the editor's impregnable defense against 
 those authors who curse him for shipping back to them 
 their stories which are as swift as Maupassant's, as 
 analytical as James', and as pyrotechnic as Poe's, and 
 yet unacceptable. It is his defense against the critics 
 who damn him for printing mere anecdotes, plotless 
 character sketches, smartly shallow dialogues, clownish 
 humor, and news items disguised as fiction. He may 
 always say: "Indict me, but first indict life itself." 
 And to that there is no answer. 
 
 6. Another aspect of the 'serious story' must be con- 
 sidered. People say that current fiction is shallow and 
 empty of ideas; and so it falls short of being fine art, 
 for fine art always gives us something to think about. 
 Now, as a bald statement of contemporary fact, this is 
 more true than false; but, as a criticism of the magazine 
 short story, it is unsound. For, in the field of magazine 
 literature, there are many specialized forms, each striving 
 to convey a distinct type of information or effect; and 
 the short story, which is one of these forms, specializes in 
 entertaining, not in conveying ideas. Hence, it is only 
 incidentally that a story with an idea is printed. This 
 happens, not because authors cannot produce such fiction, 
 but only because editors elect to separate fact from 
 fiction more sharply than ever.^ And the editors do this 
 
 the man unswervingly pursues some one thng which he happens to 
 enjoy. It does not mean that his attention is directed forever to 
 it and to nothing else. He may love his red cravat with black polka 
 dots, but this does not prevent him from worshipping Maeterlinck. 
 In other words, every person has a large number of tastes, each of 
 which is directed toward its own peculiar material; and, while each 
 taste may be changeless, the person may shift frequently from one to 
 another. This is just what happens in everyday life, and most 
 conspicuously in reading. 
 
 ^ One apparent exception to this rule appears in the editorial 
 policy of the Saturday Eveming Post, which pubhshes many news 
 
 ^ 
 
242 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 because the whole world is doing it. It is one minor 
 feature of that specialization which is characteristic of 
 twentieth century life. It is also a symptom of advancing 
 intelligence. The artist faces the very same predicament 
 which the physician, the manufacturer, the attorney, 
 and the scientist confront. Like them, he can achieve 
 most by attempting least; by concentrating upon some 
 one theme, upon some single dramatic pattern, upon some 
 set of characters, he can acquire a familiarity with their 
 possible effects and an ease in producing these which will 
 enable him to write more stories and better stories. This 
 is the policy of most contemporary story writers. It is, 
 however, the least profound aspect of literary specializa- 
 tion. The more momentous one we discern in the con- 
 spicuous tendency of these same writers to leave preaching 
 to preachers, fine metaphor to the poets, statistics to the 
 sociologist, and generally all matter-of-fact argument and 
 all serious philosophizing to essayists. We observe it in 
 their effort to entertain, to be dramatic, to romance 
 freely. Nine out of every ten stories today have no 
 message, for they are not messengers; they are enter- 
 tainers. If you wish a message, go to the specialists in 
 messages; go to the writers of serious articles. 
 
 Were we indulging ourselves in a critique of the 
 age, we might linger long over the question whether 
 this extreme division of literary labor makes for the 
 good in the long run. And we should come to the con- 
 clusion that, while it greatly improves middle-grade 
 fiction, it stifles the highest. The reasons for this view 
 cannot be here presented, inasmuch as we are concerned 
 with the commercial problem only. It will perhaps suffice 
 to hint that the fundamental hindrance which com- 
 
 articles and essays on social problems in the form of stories. But 
 in its genuine fiction this periodical follows the modern custom 
 quite strictly, serving up only entertainment pure and simple. 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 243 
 
 mercialized story writing raises is the rapidity of work and 
 bulk of material required. Stories with messages, 
 stories with big ideas cannot be ground out by recipe, 
 nor yet in bulk. No amount of technical skill calls them 
 into being; though of course when the idea comes, such 
 proficiency enormously hastens its consummation. The 
 big idea comes in its own season; to some persons often, to 
 others but once in a lifetime, and to most of us never. 
 Upon its arrival no man can reckon, and he who hopes to 
 earn his bread by it hopes foolishly. The wish is contrary 
 to human nature, and the career of almost every literary 
 genius bears pathetic witness to the fact. Hawthorne, 
 in his entire life, had possibly ten big ideas for stories. 
 Poe had about the same number. Stevenson had not 
 more than four (some critics might say only two). And 
 most excellent authors of today have not come upon as 
 many. All of which goes to prove that, in the business 
 of story writing, the big idea is not worth figuring over. 
 If it comes, it comes; and if it doesn't, it doesn't. As in 
 every other commercial enterprise, so here; the worker \/ 
 gains most hy raising the average quality and the gross r 
 quantity of his output. 
 
 This brings us to an observation which must have im- 
 pressed everybody who has compared the magazines 
 of today with those of twenty-five years ago. Specializa- 
 tion and increased commercialization have not ap- 
 preciably increased the number of top-notch stories, but 
 they have enormously increased the multitude of good, \ j / 
 well constructed, entertaining, psychologically true stories. 11 
 Let the student consult the files of French, English, and 
 American magazines of 1880 and earlier, and contrast 
 them with current periodicals of the same type. He will 
 discover story after story in the former which even 
 Lippincotfs and Ainslee^s would now reject with loathing. 
 The improvement is astounding. 
 
244 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 7. On the side of technique, specialization is not new) 
 certainly Poe and Maupassant concentrated narrowly and 
 developed to the utmost the possibilities of a few story 
 types. But on the side of story-telling, the intenser way 
 of doing things in a product of recent years. It dates 
 from the rise of the fifteen-cent magazines. An enter- 
 taining article might be written on the business devices 
 now employed by professional short story writers; the 
 card catalogue, the 'follow-up system' whereby one story 
 which has pleased a public is announced as the first of a 
 
 J series; the news clipping bureau, through which the 
 \^l specialist in high society stories receives raw material 
 
 I and the specialist in detective tales receives his matter, 
 finished except in its dramatic form; and so on. But it 
 is not important to instruct the learner in all these tricks 
 of the trade. It is enough to disabuse him of the notion 
 that he may achieve success by sitting at his midnight 
 desk and thinking and writing as the spirit moves. 
 True, some admirable fancies are thus coaxed into 
 existence; but we are concerned here, not with the oc- 
 casional happy idea but with the steady output, which 
 alone makes story writing a profession and profitable. 
 Nine stories out of every ten are suggested, in one manner 
 or in another, by real episodes; and the variety of real 
 episodes in any field or of any flavor is immeasurably 
 richer than the range of any one man's fancy. These 
 two indisputable facts set the first rule of specialization, 
 
 , which is this: Get in touch with some phase of life; become 
 1 intimate with something that is going on in the world. 
 They also shape the second rule, which is this: Study 
 one and only one emotional quality of your chosen phase of 
 life, for a long time. ^ Master its dramatic texture. If, 
 for example, you wish to find stories in the high cost of 
 living, look only to the comic aspect of it, or only to the 
 grim tragedy of it, or only to the high adventure of it. 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 245 
 
 The facts have all these sides and as many more as an 
 apple. Their artistic quality shines forth only insofar as 
 each feature is isolated and exhibited by itself. And the 
 writer can isolate them most artistically who has long 
 studied them in isolation. 
 
 How one shall go to work in detail depends upon the 
 topic selected and upon the emotional tone. It depends 
 too upon the mental habits of the individual writer; 
 where one might systematize to a nicety, another might 
 blunder along with the sure blindness of instinct. It is 
 therefore idle to recommend the scrap-book, the card 
 index, the press bureau, and the slumming expedition 
 to all prospective writers. We may, however, insist upon 
 the broad principle that each learner should aim to order \ 
 his work so as to produce the largest possible number of i/ 
 fairly good stories about his special subject. For it is by 
 much writing that the power of good writing grows most 
 swiftly. The most pernicious habit is the imitation of 
 Flaubert; the day-long search for the perfect word, the 
 month-long wait for an ingenious turn of the plot. In 
 the long run, the greater gain comes to the man who 
 masters, not the minutiiB of expression, but the nature 
 of things written about; and to the man who is not afraid 
 to produce a score of mediocre works, while on the way 
 to finer achievement. The advance is greater, both 
 commercially and artistically. The lower grade of 
 fiction produced in the course of practice generally finds 
 a market, albeit a cheap one; and thus, as we have else- 
 where said, the learner's education pays for itself. On 
 the other hand, heavy production of carefully worked 
 out second and third rate stories indubitably hastens 
 the writer toward the high goal of every artist; namely 
 toward that degree of proficiency at which technical manipu- 
 lations become habits. The first moment of genuine 
 artistry arrives when the writer begins to use, without 
 
246 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 thinking of them, all the cautions and principles which 
 we have been discussing in this book.i Now, nothing 
 lifts one so speedily to this pitch of skill as sheer quantity 
 of drill — intelligent drill, of course, and not mere dull 
 repetition of rules. The facility with which newspaper 
 reporters turn to fiction writing is due in no shght measure 
 to the steadiness and magnitude of their narrative prac- 
 tice. The number of fictional performances which some 
 of them turn out annually proves that they have learned 
 to compose and narrate plots in much the same way that 
 a person frames ordinary conversational sentences. 
 And this is as it should be. 
 
 8. In connection with incessant exercise, there is one 
 task which surprisingly few beginners discharge, and 
 that is imaginative ex'periinenting. There is a superstition 
 abroad that first thoughts are best, and that therefore 
 one should dash off a story idea just as it flashes upon one. 
 And, as a corollary, the only way to get good ideas is to 
 sit back and wait for them to bob up. This is a very 
 easy and pleasant fashion, but alas! highly unprofitable; 
 and it soon brings its victim to a state of comatose laziness 
 out of which nothing short of starvation will goad him. 
 It is, in unfamiliar guise, the classic sin of waiting for 
 something to turn up. 
 
 I have watched several hundred writers (of all degrees 
 of skill); and, with very few exceptions, the successful 
 experiment no less thoroughly than the chemist does, 
 while the most dismal failures are nearly all incurable 
 j&rst-thought writers. 
 
 1 A few fortunates early acquire this ease without orderly help. 
 To them technical instruction seems futile. They say they cannot 
 think of the thousand and one precepts, nor do they have to. This 
 is true. Technique is only a means to establishing habits of be- 
 havior. Once the latter are in full swing, thought of the mechanism 
 drops out. 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 247 
 
 Now, what is imaginative experimenting? Well, it 
 consists in the deliberate manufacture of many com- 
 binations of characters and situations, in various orders 
 and with various dramatic movements. Of the many 
 resulting plots, usually the two or three best will alone 
 prove worthy of writing; the rest go into the waste 
 basket. Roughly speaking, there are two types of com- 
 bination. First, you may invent a situation and then, 
 keeping it unaltered, put different people into it and com- 
 pare their behavior. Or, secondly, you may begin with 
 a definite person — or with a character trait — and you 
 may try it out in many situations, seeking that one 
 which brings out most vividly the chosen quality of 
 human nature. (Stevenson, it will be recalled, suggests 
 in a different connection a third method, that of choosing 
 an environment and fitting into it persons and events 
 which harmonize with its own peculiar emotional tone. 
 But, for reasons elsewhere discussed, this type of story is 
 so rare and difficult that we may here ignore the experi- 
 menting it calls for.) 
 
 Not until you have gone through these operations 
 several times, will you realize how prodigious is the host 
 of widely differing stories which lurks potentially in a 
 single character or in one situation. And after you have 
 experimented much, you will perhaps turn the method 
 to profit, by finding a character and a small field of 
 situations which yield a dozen, or even a score of stories. 
 This is the richest of all finds. For each story in such a 
 series helps to sell the next, and — what is still more 
 valuable — the collection will be accepted more eagerly 
 for publication in book form than a miscellany will. 
 Almost every prominent professional writer of brief 
 fiction today is producing such series; there is scarcely 
 a magazine that is not always seeking them; and there 
 are few fiction publishers who are not making favorable 
 
248 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 offers for the book rights. Thus the stories sell twice, 
 bringing double profit; they associate the author^s name 
 with a familiar character or theme and thereby add to his 
 reputation; and, through the imaginative experimenting 
 they force him to, they ripen his technical skill wonder- 
 fully. 
 
 We must not shut our eyes, though, to the dangers of 
 such specialization and its imaginative experimenting. 
 They always tempt the writer to become mechanical, 
 to overwork certain technical tricks which he happens 
 to hit off peculiarly well, and soon to reduce his once live 
 characters to puppets. The more successful he is with a 
 series, the stronger this temptation grows, for publishers 
 then urge him to grind out 'more of the same stuff* 
 and pay him in advance for stories yet unconceived. 
 Now, to write conscientiously and with full vigor, after 
 one has spent all the money the story brings, requires rare 
 moral fibre, which literary folk do not possess more 
 commonly than ordinary mortals. Were it not needless 
 cruelty, we might name a dozen authors who, writing 
 under contract with advance payments, have given their 
 editors stuff beneath contempt. And, in a few instances, 
 they have, except in the narrowest legal sense, swindled 
 the magazine. 
 
 Theoretically, two preventives suggest themselves: 
 the abolition of the contract system, or at least of advance 
 payments determined prior to inspection of MSS.; 
 or, if not this, then a stricter conscience in authors. 
 But both schemes, I fear, will long remain in the realm 
 of pure ideas. So long as publishers compete among 
 themselves, each will do his best to outbid all rivals in 
 the quest of stories; and so long as authors compete, for 
 bread-and-butter's sake, they are going to accept the 
 highest bid. 
 
 9. There remains one practical question: what are the 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 249 
 
 story writer's prospects? The answer is hard; for, when 
 all is said and done, the chief factors of success and failure 
 are the individual and his opportunity, both of which defy 
 rules and calculation. There are fashions in fiction, 
 as everybody knows; and they are sometimes as capricious 
 as the fashions in women's rigging. The last decade has 
 seen the story of the stupid life (miscalled realistic fiction) 
 give way to half a dozen more thrilling types, such as the 
 high-life story, the muck-raking story, the whimsical 
 story of every-day life, and even the story of high ad- 
 venture (which Stevenson revived with such exquisite, 
 even too exquisite, touch and which today Jeffry Farnol 
 and others are shabbily counterfeiting). Now, over 
 these fluctuations of manner and stuff, only the excep- 
 tionally powerful and prolific author exercises appreciable 
 influence. Public taste, a very vague thing but as real 
 as it is vague, controls them ; and it is controlled by a host 
 of shifting circumstances, by new discoveries, by the 
 deeds and preachings of dominant personalities, by 
 political affairs, by social unrest, and everything else that 
 goes to make up life in its full reality. 
 
 In estimating the chances of an author with average 
 endowments, we must therefore reckon with the proba- 
 bility of his being more or less out of key with the favorite 
 mood of the hour. There is ever the danger that, in a 
 generation which revels in slaughter and red glory and 
 desperate hazards, he may be sighing to write of simple 
 country folk or tea-table comedies. And yet this perilous 
 coincidence is not fatal. For, as we have seen, there is 
 not one reading public, but many; and the demand for 
 nearly all types of stories is approximately constant. 
 The change of fashions affects only the relative cash 
 value of them. What the hour approves is worth from 
 two cents a word upward (there being no maximum). 
 The untimely story, however beautiful, brings newspaper 
 
250 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 rates or even less (except when the value of the author's* 
 name is added to it, or when the author turns it in on a 
 contract). 
 
 Now, even the best writer cannot produce steadily- 
 fine specimens of the more profitable style; and the fairly 
 skilful one may count himself fortunate if he can hit it 
 off once in four tries. Hence there are only two roads 
 to money-making: the author may make his few fine 
 stories so very fine that they earn him a reputation which 
 will be added in dollars and cents to his less admired 
 output; or, on the other hand, he may invent an enormous 
 number of stories, write them without much attention 
 to finish, and make * quick sales and small profits'. 
 Most professional writers choose the second course in the 
 beginning of their careers, and by sheer bulk of produc- 
 tion acquire a facile technique, a sense of story values 
 and of public taste, and a variety of information about 
 life which, sooner or later, enable them to enter upon 
 the other, pleasanter path. This may not be the course 
 of genius, but it is that of the craftsman; and it is to the 
 craftsman that this book is directed. 
 
 In the light of all this, we may estimate the writer's 
 chances of success as follows: 
 
 The earning power of an author depends upon three 
 
 \J factors: {!) his sympathy with contemporary tastes and 
 
 \ thought; {2) the quantity of his monthly output; and (-5) 
 
 \ the ease of his technique. A marked decrease in any one 
 
 ^ of these must he offset hy an increase in one or both of the 
 
 others, if success is to he assured. 
 
 Figures are dangerous here; but I venture to say that 
 the person who, after a thorough study of technique, cannot 
 write every month at least two stories of average magazine 
 length (4,500 words, say) should not aspire to become 
 a professional. I do not say that he must be able to 
 sell two stories a month, nor that all that he writes at this 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 251 
 
 speed shall wholly please him. The measure is adjusted 
 only to his narrative composition. If he can hold the 
 pace, he probably has his technique well enough in hand 
 to justify further efforts; and also his imagination is Hkely 
 to be moderately vigorous. If he cannot hold it, he still 
 may join the great majority, who write occasionally. 
 This course may turn out to be quite advantageous. 
 If a school teacher, let us say, can sell only five good 
 stories a year, that adds from five hundred dollars to a 
 thousand or more to the annual income. 
 
 10. The writer who has difiiculty in placing his stories 
 finds two parties eager to accelerate his rise into pub- 
 licity. There is the pay-as-you-enter publishing house, 
 and there is the literary agent. The former agrees to 
 put the author's collection of stories on the market, if 
 the author will kindly pay all the costs and a handsome 
 profit to the publisher. Usually the contract he is asked 
 to sign is so worded that the author does not foresee the 
 sums he will owe. Also, he will not discover until too 
 late that printing a book is not the same as publishing it. 
 The former process can be done by anybody having access 
 to type and presses; the latter is possible only to those who 
 have access to the public. To reach readers is not at all 
 simple; indeed, it is intricate, expensive, and largely a 
 matter of having a long-lived reputation back of the firm 
 name. The decline of the small bookstore has made it all 
 the harder, and so too has the huge expansion of book- 
 advertising campaigns. Now, with possibly one exception, 
 all those publishers — so-called — who offer to print at the 
 author's expense lack some one or more of the requisites 
 of genuine publicity; and the vast majority of them are 
 mere job printers preying upon ignorant writers. 
 
 As a rule all publishing houses worthy of the name refuse 
 to produce fiction at the author's expense. They can 
 better employ their staff in finding and publishing works 
 
252 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 which warrant their assuming the natural business risks 
 of investment in them. This practice not only con- 
 tributes to their reputation and profits, in the long run, 
 but it also serves society well. For a book which is 
 worth publishing at all is worth its cost to the publisher 
 and the venture of it. And there are so many good pub- 
 lishers and so many acute judges of all orders of literary 
 merit assisting them that the chance of a meritorious 
 volume being rejected by all of them is probably less 
 than one in a thousand. The beginner may safely 
 conclude that something serious is the matter with his 
 collection of stories (or whatever else he may offer), if 
 it has gone the rounds of the large publishing houses in 
 vain. At the very least, the MS. is untimely. 
 
 11. The story writer, however, is not interested so 
 deeply as is the novelist in pay-as-you-enter publishing 
 schemes; for his natural avenue to fame is the magazine. 
 He accordingly gives more thought to the advertisements 
 of the literary agent, who claims to market his wares 
 more expeditiously and more profitably than he can. A 
 little experience, though, shows that the agent's services 
 are usually confined to (1) collecting the author's rejec- 
 tion slips, thereby sparing him much agony; and (2) 
 typewriting his MSS. and doing it over and over, as 
 fast as the poor things become frayed and thumb-branded 
 under much editorial handling. In fairness, be it added 
 that some agents do more than this, in that they sell 
 great quantities of inferior material to fourth-rate peri- 
 odicals, to the newspaper syndicates, and to picayune 
 sheets in the back-country, the very names of which are 
 known only to the compilers of the Pubhsher's Directory. 
 The prices secured in these markets sometimes 
 cover the cost of paper, postage, and typewriting. Never- 
 theless, the beginner may be thankful for this much, 
 which is more than the learner in painting, sculpture, 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 253 
 
 and music can earn. In all seriousness, I believe that 
 the literary agent who renders such service is a benefactor 
 of youth. Only let youth understand that the MSS. 
 so disposed of are school exercises, nothing more. They 
 are not potential ornaments of The Atlantic Monthly or 
 Everybody's Magazine or Collier's Weekly. 
 
 In gaining entry to periodicals of quality, the literary 
 agent can accomplish nothing that the writer cannot do 
 for himself with persistence. The editor will buy from 
 the agent only what suits the purposes of the magazine; 
 and he would buy it, whether it came to him through the 
 mail or through the window. Furthermore, he is quite 
 competent to discover good stuff in the midst of the 
 stream of trash which pours in upon him daily from the 
 Post Office. The better the magazine, the more thorough 
 its system of reading contributions and appraising them. 
 Several magazines hold conferences over MSS. about 
 which some of the office readers are doubtful ; and not a 
 few stories are inspected half a dozen times before ac- 
 ceptance or rejection. What cause, then, has the author 
 to complain of inattention and to invoke the literary 
 agent to plead his case? Nothing save his own unbusiness- 
 like habits drives him to that course. If he allows a re- 
 jection slip to discourage him; if, having received one or 
 two, he sends the MS. no further; and if he sends it on 
 and on without having observed the preferences of each 
 recipient periodical, then he ought to fall back upon the 
 literary agent. For the agent is at least a shrewd drummer. 
 
 12. In closing, I shall list a few elementary rules and 
 warnings which the beginner must respect quite religiously. 
 
 1. Typewrite all MSS. (on one side of the paper). 
 Handwriting is little short of an insult to the editor. 
 
 2. At the top of the first page print your name and 
 address. 
 
V 
 
 / 
 
 254 SHORT STORY WRITING 
 
 3. Enclose stamps for return of MS. 
 
 4. Forward MSS. to the magazine, not to some in- 
 dividual on the editorial staff (unless you have unusual 
 reasons and warrant). 
 
 5. Study the various periodicals; learn what they prefer 
 and what they discard. Before sending out a story, ask 
 yourself whether it is suited in theme and in treatment 
 to the magazine it is addressed to. 
 
 6. Never retire a MS. to the waste basket until you 
 have sent it in vain to every publication which might 
 be expected to consider it. Fifteen editors may reject, 
 and the sixteenth accept it. 
 
 7. Keep a memorandum of all comments passed upon 
 each storj^ by editors. This will help you to grasp the 
 editorial policy of many a periodical, in time. 
 
 8. Do not work too long consecutively upon a story 
 that refuses to come out right. Put it aside for a few 
 weeks or months, then return to it fresh. This rule 
 holds good for all kinds of intensive intellectual work. 
 Many a man handicaps himself heavily by making a 
 virtue of sticking at a task until it is finished. Modern 
 psychology has proved that this is the wrong way to 
 work, and modern business experts have confirmed the 
 proof in practice. 
 
 9. Form some habit of regular work. What it shall 
 be you alone can decide; only let it be strenuous. Prob- 
 ably four hours of writing every day is the least you should 
 content yourself with during the years in which you are 
 mastering technique. 
 
 10. Shun classic literature as a source of story ideas. 
 Study it only for the pleasure of it and for information 
 about technique and rhetoric. 
 
 11. Read current magazines carefully, even those 
 which you dislike. Watch the work of the more success- 
 ful writers. Compare their themes with those which 
 
THE BUSINESS OF THE SHORT STORY 255 
 
 / 
 
 are being discussed by essayists, journalists, politicians, 
 social workers, and other men of the world. Observe 
 to what extent fiction draws upon science, reform, and 
 practical affairs for its underlying thoughts. 
 
 12. If you have the slightest difficulty in expressing your- 
 self, study the dictionary and a good thesaurus persistently. 
 
 13. Practise self-criticism. Try to read your own 
 MSS. coldly and with detachment. But, better still, 
 find a friend or some professional critic who will pass honest, 
 frank judgment upon them. The value of such criticism, 
 even though it be inexpert, can scarcely be over-estimated, 
 provided you take praise and blame in the right spirit. 
 
 14. Keep some record of every story idea that pops !/ 
 into your head, no matter how silly or highflown or 
 clumsy it may be in its original form. Infinite are the 
 possibilities of combining, weaving, and twisting thoughts; 
 and what the result will be no man can foretell. Some 
 great stories have had trivial, even ludicrous origins. 
 
 15. Expect to spend at least ty^qjiard years on tech- 
 'nique before acquiring noticeable facility of story con- 
 struction. Not one writer in fifty spends less than 
 that period, though many deceive themselves into be- 
 lieving otherwise. To some the warning should be given 
 that their writing will deteriorate sadly during the first 
 year. In this there is no cause for alarm or despair; it 
 is a very natural consequence of shifting one's point of 
 view toward what one is doing. The very same seeming 
 disaster overtakes the person who, having learned to 
 play the piano by ear and without instruction, takes a 
 thorough course in fingering and sight reading. For a 
 while he cannot even play his old familiar pieces. 
 
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