THE SHORT STORY x

THE SHORT STORY

THE SHORT STORY

This is really a specific type of short story.

THE short story may be defined as an interpretation of a crucial point in a human life. 5By interpretation is meant a presentation so effective in its appeal to the feelings that it will force the reader to undergo, imaginatively, the experience under consideration, and to divine much of the meaning of the early and later years of the complete life.

Such a crucial test may be almost wholly physical; or it may be mental, as in "The Murders in the Rue Morgue, " in which the crucial test is not the murders but the solution of their mystery; or it may be spiritual, that is, involving either the moral nature or any of the powerful feelings that govern the actions of men, as in "The Luck of Roaring Camp" and in "The Great Stone Face. " Or it may combine any two or all of these. "The Gold Bug" combines the mental and the physical; "The Revolt of Mother" the spiritual and the physical; Mr. Kipling's "William the Conqueror" (in "The Day's Work") combines the physical, the mental, and the spiritual.

Such a crucial test may put to proof character, morals, executive ability, courage, mental or physical strength and alertness, judgment, or any of the other faculties and powers that every human being is called upon to use. It may involve only a single one of these, or may unite any number of them, as has been pointed out in the preceding paragraph.

The time covered by a supreme test that is adapted to short-story treatment may be only a few minutes, as in "The Lady, or the Tiger?" may be a day or two, as in "The Revolt of Mother;" may be a month or two, as in "The Gold Bug;" or may extend over many years, as in "The Great Stone Face" and in "The Man Without a Country. " As a rule, however, a crucial test occupying but a brief period of time is better suited to the short story. Of course it is often necessary to give preliminaries to the supreme test that cover an extended period, as in "The Revolt of Mother. " Such time, however, should not be considered as belonging to the test proper. Preliminaries of the kind referred to, if used at all, should be as few and as brief as possible. Stories practically without such preliminaries, as "The Luck of Roaring Camp, " are generally more artistic and consequently more effective.

Such a test, no matter what it deals with, must be so powerful that it will influence all the future life of the person concerned. Until a person has undergone such an experience it is not possible to know absolutely what manner of man he is. We may have confidence that under certain conditions he will do certain things; after such an ordeal, those who have seen it know, not only for the past but also for the future. All the previous years of the hero's life, all his acts and experiences, will help to determine the result of such a trial; and while these earlier years and experiences might, and perhaps should, be given at some length in a novel, only such glimpses of them as are absolutely essential to an appreciation of the crucial test should be given in a short story. What he does and says and how he acts in the test should reveal practically all that the reader ever learns of the hero's character; and this little should be suggestive of the whole character. All a man's after life is influenced by such a supreme test, but none of that after life should be detailed in the story. To suggest it by a search-light flash may be warranted, but nothing more.

In selecting a subject, then, for a short story, the first requisite is to find in life some such crucial test. It is practically impossible to evolve from the inner consciousness, to "think out, " such a supreme experience; it must have its foundations deep in a real experience. Such a subject will interest the reader, even though the story be poorly told. Given the story of a man who cursed his country and who in consequence lived a lifetime on its vessels without hearing it mentioned, without seeing a reference to it in print, without ever coming within sight of it, and a reader must be interested even though the telling be inartistic. So with the story of a babe that in a few fleeting months brings not only luck but also something of cleanliness and morality and even of msthetic appreciation into what had been a roaring mining camp. No such supreme artistic powers as Bret Harte had, are necessary to make a story of this kind chain the reader's attention.

Subjects much less improbable, such as "mother revolting" after forty years in a shed of a farmhouse and moving into the commodious new barn, or a girl going out with her brother to aid the famine sufferers (" William the Conqueror"), or a juryman standing out against his eleven fellows simply because he felt the accused could not be guilty ("Eli" by H. W. Chaplin), even such subjects will make the reader feel, though told with no consummate art; and the short story, like all other literature, must first of all appeal to the feelings. It must make the reader laugh or weep, hate or love, praise or condemn, and must force him to do so whether he wishes to or not. It will be only the thousandth reader that can get through "The Man Without a Country" or "The Luck of Roaring Camp" or "Marse Chan" without tears, or that can reach the end of "The Revolt of Mother" without wanting to cry "Bravo!" or that can finish "The Gold Bug" without having his interest in the outcome almost run away with him. The authors of these stories have compelled their readers to experience the feelings they are interpreting.

In order to accomplish this the writer must choose the strongest, most suggestive subject that he can find. To test its power, let him tell it to one who knows nothing about it. If in its unpolished oral form it is able to move, in all probability it will move no less when written.

In choosing a subject it is wise to throw aside the mere love story. Of course "falling in love" is the commonest crucial point in life; and that is just the reason subjects involving it should be avoided. A good short story is possible with suet' a subject, but it is far from probable. The subject has been dealt with so often that any new treatment of it is more than unusual, and for a young writer to treat an old subject in a commonplace way is merely to invite failure. Love may play a part in the subject chosen, but it should never be the all in all. Of the twelve stories

referred to but one is a pure love story, and at least eight have no love element.

The beginner in story writing should hamper himself as little as possible, and therefore should attempt to find a subject that is comparatively new. Such a subject, no doubt, is right under his eyes, but neither his neighbor nor he has realized its literary possibilities, or at least has not made use of those possibilities. Every community has within it the seeds of excellent short stories. The trouble is to find the soil in which the seeds may grow. If a literary aspirant cannot find stories at his elbow, he will probably not find them anywhere. Subjects are more frequent than artistic writers.

The sources of plot suggestions are numerous. The grandfather or uncle who in any way has touched the world, who has crossed the sea, who has lived on the frontier, who as an attorney has been the confidant of clients of all classes, who has again and again known of the miscarriage of justice, who has seen life's crises in numberless forms, one who has had such experiences is a veritable storehouse of short story seeds. So with the papers; it is not possible to scan the columns of any great daily without finding something that will grow into a story if properly nourished. The experiences of even a young person will often furnish subjects of no little power. Events in his own life will make children's stories, and events he has seen will furnish more general material.

Crucial tests are everyday occurrences in the great laboratory of life, and everyone who comes in touch with the toilers, whether mental or physical, must see them. The mill-worker and the miner, the locomotive engineer and the sailor, the lumberman and the city fireman, each is familiar with tests in which the physical and the spiritual join hands; the merchant, the banker, the broker, know of

mental tests requiring the solution of tremendous problems in the business world; the minister, watching the religious crises in human souls, has a field of study peculiar to himself; every physician in active practice must continually meet with stories having tremendous moving power. There is no young person but can get hold of some friend with a story worth telling.

The story as the friend tells it, however, will not be a short story; it will be only a skeleton on which the writer must put flesh and into which he must breathe life. To do this he will have to use his imagination. He will have to live again the experience of the various characters involved. He will have to select and perhaps insert the vital suggestive details; he will have to omit the unnecessary details; he will have to add occurrences for color and contrast; he will have to change the sequence of events in order to secure stirring climaxes; he will have to introduce some new characters and leave out unnecessary characters; he will have to introduce motives for doing this and reasons for not doing that, and yet have his characters forced by conscience to go contrary to motives and reasons; he will have to put general statements into the form of natural conversation; he will have to go into the inner lives of the characters and think with them and feel with them, be tempted with them and struggle with them, and then he will have to make these experiences vital for the reader; in short, he will have to plant the seed given him, water it, nurture it, dig about it, enrich its soil, spend weary hours caring for it, and in the end have, perhaps, only an unworthy, unlovely thing. But the joy in the work will repay the time spent, even though the result is far below expectation.

In what has been said it is implied that a subject must be selected that involves action. This fact, however, is 80 important that it must be stated directly. The very life

of a short story depends upon action. Something must happen. A story must have something dramatic. The something may happen in the physical, the mental, or the spiritual realm, but it must happen. So, too, it must be done in such a way that the reader is seeing it rather than being told about it; it must be the stage, not the chimney corner or the fireside. The experiences must be made so vivid that the eye of the imagination sees every movement if the events are of the outer world; while if they are soul experiences they must be no less plainly discerned by the spiritual eye.

If things must be done, they must be done truthfully, and this means that the writer must deal only with the things he knows. If the story takes place in a rolling mill and the writer has never been inside one, he is not likely to appeal very strongly to his reader. It is perhaps possible to know too much about a subject, so much that one has lost its crispness and raciness. One knowing it less familiarly may appreciate more fully its flavor. It depends, however, upon the subject. An observant visitor could perhaps write a more illuminating Description of a coal mine than an educated miner could write; but one who has lived the artistic and literary life of New York for years could put that life into a story much more brilliantly than one who has read about it, or who has only browsed its edges for a few months. The safer side, undoubtedly, is to know the subject thoroughly. Only recently a story appeared that had its location on an ocean steamship. Its blunders were so ludicrous that the author was asked whether she had ever crossed the ocean. The expected answer came:

"Oh, no; I have never even seen the ocean!" Such confidence in the imagination is hardly safe!

Irving knew his Kaatskills and his Sleepy Hollow,

Mr. Page knows his Virginia, and Miss Wilkins her New England.

II

Nor must a story's local habitation be forgotten. Its events must occur somewhere. To say bluntly that the story is to be located in this place or in that, is of course a fact statement having no power in literature. In some adroit, indirect way it should be given a home, and if possible the peculiar, individualizing features of that home should be made to live for the reader. Such an individualization of a place is known as "local color, " and is a feature of short story writing calling for no little skill. Just what to picture; just what not to picture: again it is the task of the selection of the fittest.

"The Revolt of Mother" is thus located:

They were in the barn, standing before the wide-open doors. The spring air, full of the smell of growing grass and unseen blossoms, came in their faces. The deep yard in front was littered with farm wagons and piles of wood; on the edges, close to the fence and the house, the grass was a vivid green, and there were some dandelions.

The old man glanced doggedly at his wife as he tightened the last buckles on the harness. She looked as immovable to him as one of the rocks in his pasture land, bound to the earth with generations of blackberry vines.

In one of his stories entitled "The Wreck, " 1 Guy de Maupassant thus introduces a bit of local color:

It is certainly a fantastic city, La Rochelle, with a strong character of its own—streets tangled like a labyrinth, sidewalks running under endless arcaded galleries like those of the Rue de Rivoli, but low, mysterious, built as if to form a fit scene for conspirators, and making an ancient and striking background for those old-time wars, the savage heroic wars of religion.

In another, "The Piece of String, " 1 the same author thus opens and locates his story:

It was market day, and over all the roads round Goderville the peasants and their wives were coming towards the town. The men walked easily, lurching the whole body forward at every step. Their long legs were twisted and deformed by the slow, painful labors of the country, —by bending over to plough, which is what also makes their left shoulders too high and their figures crooked; and by reaping 'corn, which obliges them for steadiness' sake to spread their knees too wide. Their starched blue blouses, shining as though varnished, ornamented at collar and cuffs with little patterns of white stitch-work, and blown up big around their bony bodies, seemed exactly like balloons about to soar, but putting forth a head, two arms, and two feet.

Some of these fellows dragged a cow or a calf at the end of a rope. And just behind the animal, beating it over the back with a leaf-covered branch to hasten its pace, went their wives, carrying large baskets from which came forth the heads of chickens or the heads of ducks. These women walked with steps far shorter and quicker than the men; their figures, withered and upright, were adorned with scanty little shawls pinned over their flat bosoms; and they enveloped their heads each in a white cloth, close fastened round the hair and surmounted by a cap.

Mr. F. Hokpinson Smith colors thus in the opening lines of "A Day at Laguerre's":

It is the most delightful of French inns, in the quaintest of French settlements. As you rush by in one of the innumerable trains [to or from New York] that pass it daily, you may catch glimpses of tall trees trailing their branches in the still stream, — hardly a dozen yards wide, —of flocks of white ducks paddling together, and of queer punts drawn up on the shelving shore or tied to soggy, patched-up landing-stairs.

If the sun shines, you can see, now and then, between the trees, a figure kneeling at the water's edge, bending over a pile of clothes, washing, —her head bound with a red handkerchief.

If you are quick, the miniature river will open just before you round the curve, disclosing in the distance groups of willows, and a rickety foot-bridge perched up on poles to keep it dry. All this you see in a flash.

These selections show that the secret of successful local color is to find the few peculiar features and to paint them, leaving all the rest to be inferred. It is the same problem brought forward in the article on Description, and differs only in that it must be solved by some especially brief and telling method instead of in the conventional way. Its secret may be quickly fathomed by him of the quick eye and the painter's heart. Others will get something of it with unceasing observation and practice.

III

Having found a subject that seems to fulfill, at least in part, the short-story requirements, the beginner should next ask-whether there is any real reason for making a story out of it. The story that will interest and do little more is well worth telling; but the one that in addition to its interest has a purpose or theme is better worth telling. For the best short stories have, far beneath the surface, an exposition of some life principle, as has been shown in Chapter XVIII. Their attention is called to the theme of "A Man Without a Country. " The obtrusion of the theme should never be permitted to turn a good story into a poor sermon, or even into a good sermon. The theme should rather be so presented that it will in no manner interfere with the interest of him who reads merely for pleasure, and at the same time will be easily discovered by one who reads for something deeper. Dr. Hale's story was written solely to preach patriotism, but it is not a sermon; far from it. It is impossible to read it without finding its message; the message, however, is in no way repellent to him who reads merely to learn how it all comes out.

A story may be charming and artistic with only a slight theme or even without any manifest theme (some readers

of "Marjorie Daw" have not imagined that it has a noble theme); but, other things being equal, the more worthy the theme, the more worthy the story. Almost every reader will find greater satisfaction in a story that leaves him with a wish to speak a kind word, to lend a helping hand, to aspire to higher things, to avoid selfishness, to be full of sunshine, to despise deceit, to see only the silver lining, to appreciate more fully some world-wide feeling, to live more nearly the Christlife; or if it makes him understand more clearly the life of some particular time or section or class, as do the stories of Sarah Orne Jewett, Hamlin Garland, and Mary N. Murfree; or if it adds definitely to his knowledge of some subject, as, for example, the untangling of a cipher, in "The Gold Bug, " and the results of exact observation, in "The Murders in the Rue Morgue. "

The theme may be presented negatively as well as positively. To show the personification of deceit and what it leads to is probably more effective in making a reader long for openness and frankness than it would be to show the personification of candor.

IV

Having a subject which involves some crucial life moment, which will interest the reader, which is at least to a degree familiar, and which carries a theme, the writer should next arrange his material into as effective a whole as possible. After experience this arrangement will be largely made in the mind before any writing is done. The beginner, however, even though he strives his best to make an exact outline, will accomplish the properly interrelated whole only after many writings and rewritings.

First of all, the story should be planned as fully as possible. The beginning, the middle, and the end should be definitely in mind. Of course all these may be changed before the story is complete; but if they are not definitely in mind_ before the story is begun, the writer will in all probability be reminded of his folly by finding himself at a point from which he is unable to proceed any further.

Beginning

Middle

end

If the literary aspirant would succeed with the story he must have a beginning and an end full of life a spirit and movement, as well as a middle that rises to masterful climaxes. This is very easily said; the doing comes only with genius, by chance, or perhaps with midnight oil.

And how shall a story be told?

After all that has been said about style in preceding chapters it seems almost unnecessary to revert to it here. The short story should rest upon facts, and there the fact element should end. The task of the writer is to reproduce for his reader the experiences of his characters, to make him feel that it is his own crucial test that he is undergoing. It is not possible to accomplish this with fact writing. As in all other literature, so in the short story: Only feeling writing, —the Figurative and the Detail forms, —can make the work effective.

In all revision the writer should strive to discover the most suggestive word and phrase, the one which, more than any other, will kindle the sympathies of the reader. The attempt should be to use the exact word in the first draft, but often the thought will hurry the writer and he will not stop for close shades of meaning and for words full of association. Every sentence, clause, and phrase should be examined and re-examined in order to put into it all the meaning the most suggestive words carry. No other kind of work will lead to even partial satisfaction.

At this point, however, a word of caution is necessary. Do not let the style show the labor that has been put upon it. A common fault in the stories of writers is the manifest struggle after style. If the struggle leaves its traces it is of no value. It is surely a purpose of art to conceal art. The simple, unlabored style that impresses Everyone as perfectly true requires far more art than the style that just escapes—or entirely fails to escape—what is known as "fine writing. " And "fine writing" is the bane of any writer, young or old.

To make the reader feel is the prime purpose of all art. But to make him feel is not all. His feelings must be aroused in a refined and artistic manner. If a gentleman, in order to make me appreciate an incident he has seen in an art gallery, should deliberately thrust his walking-stick through a beautiful oil  painting on my library wall, I am sure that he would accomplish his purpose; but I am equally sure that I should not think him a very successful artist.

Perfection of technique is no less essential in writing than in painting.

VII

a short story must deal with a subject of general, vital interest. It must interpret a principle of life that touches close upon the heart of the world. Without such a subject it cannot capture the mind of the reader, it cannot make his heart really throb with anxiety about the result. That the reader should be thus moved is the supreme test of a short story. It is comparatively easy to arouse a passing curiosity about the outcome, a curiosity that will survive perhaps for a day if the reading is interrupted. But to secure an interest that will last, that will rise before the mind in the night season, that will haunt one in the city's rattle or in the forest's peace, —to secure such an interest is no slight task.

The necessity of such an interest may be illustrated by contrasting the outlines of two stories. ' One, "The Lady, or the Tiger?" is known to the world because in it the author touches a chord that vibrates in every heart; the other (even its name is forgotten) is unknown because its author succeeded in appealing only to a transient curiosity. To outline the former story is almost unnecessary. In it a semi-barbaric king conceives a unique means of judgment for those charged with high crime. In one side of a great arena are two doors, exactly alike. The accused, set down in the arena, must open one. He may open for the entrance of a most charming lady, whom he must at once marry; or it may be for the entrance of a starving tiger. The semibarbaric king has an equally semibarbaric daughter, and in time a youth, strong, handsome, heroic, comes under her charm. All goes well until the father learns of the youth's astounding boldness, and he at once condemns the ardent lover to the arena. The tiger is starved an extra day, the lady is thrice beautiful, in fact, is a rival of the princess, and of course is hated by her with all the malignancy of her hot, semi-barbaric jealousy. At the fatal moment the king sits smiling in the midst of the greatest crowd the amphitheatre has ever seen. At his side is his madly jealous daughter, whose ability and determination have fathomed the mystery of the awful doors. The grace of her lover captivates the multitude. He turns to salute the king, but he looks only at the princess. He knows her ability, and she realizes that he knows it. In his look she reads his question: "Which door?" Seen only by him she points, without an instant's hesitation. With no less hesitation, he steps to one door and throws it open. And here the author is pleased to leave the reader, with the statement, "Now, the point of this story is, which came out of the open door, the lady, or the tiger?"

In the other story a young scientist, believing that he has discovered the secret of suspended animation, determines to experiment on himself. Having entrusted his lady love with the revivifying elixir, he apparently dies and is buried. Three months creep away. His instructions are then carried out, the elixir vike being poured through an orifice in the coffin Then, in the presence of his friends, the lady, with trembling hand and chalky face, lifts the lid. She alone sees what is within. She utters a piercing scream. The others rush forward to learn the cause of her mood, whether it is joy or anguish, and the story ends.

The difference in these stories is not in construction, as the one is probably as well written as the other. The difference is far deeper than mere rhetoric; it is a difference of vital interest. The one story presents a problem of the widest significance and of the deepest import; the other appeals only to an idle curiosity. The study of the mind of man—the practical study—is of deep interest to every human being. Given certain conditions, what will a man do? The study of the mind will usually answer. Here the question is, will this madly-loving, madly-jealous, half barbaric princess reward her hated rival, or entrust her lover to the starving tiger? The answer can be found only by a study of her mind. And either answer may be defended vigorously and effectively; but whether the elixir brought the investigator back to life is a question exciting only a momentary interest and a passing curiosity. The one is a problem in human nature; the other is no problem at all.

The really successful short story must have intense human interest.

VIII

Some comparisons have been made that may help the beginner to understand more fully what the short story is. One writer has compared it to a pearl. The subject, the crucial test, is the grain of sand. About it is secreted by the author's skill that which makes it an artistic gem. The comparison has been carried further by adding that when the subject is unusually vital the accretion takes place about a grain of gold instead of about a grain of sand. In either case the necessity of the author's art is clearly illustrated. Another has said that a story in an author's mind is like molasses filling a quart measure: only a pint can be poured out. Everyone who has tried to write a story will realize the truth of this comparison. The story written is never so powerful as the story in the mind.

Zola says that a story is the report of an experiment. An author has a theory about life. He mingles with the people, watching life, in order to learn whether, when the chemicals are brought together, the expected result will take place. If he finds it resulting as his theory demands, he concludes that the theory is correct, and he is at liberty to put into a story what he has seen, to make a report of his experiment. Another critic asserts that the nearer a short story comes to being a drama and yet remains a story, the better it is. And the dramatic is a vital element; the characters must act, must do something. Professor Brander Matthews says that the short story is like vers de societe, in that both seem very easy to write and are very hard, and that both must have exquisite brilliancy, and originality. A wise man has said that the short story is "a true and august vision of profounder things, " which is not a bad definition of literature.

But whatever a short story is like, whatever it is, it is worth striving after with persistence. Professor Matthews says that it requires in an author originality, ingenuity, compression, and some fantasy; and, one might add, a quantity of happiness, of the milk of human kindness, is often helpful. Whatever seeds of these qualities are within one, will receive a valuable cultivation in the practice work that must precede any slight excellence in short-story writing.