CONTRAST

making meaning clear through comparison of one thing to another

CONTRAST

IN "An Unfinished Story, " 1 by Richard Harding Davis, one character, complaining that art is not true, says to a painter and a novelist, "You don't write and paint everyday things as they are. You introduce something for a contrast or for an effect; a red coat in the landscape for the bit of color you want, when in real life the red coat would not be within miles; or you have a band of music playing a popular air in the street when a murder is going on inside the house. You do it because it is effective; but it isn't true. "

It is a fact that many things are introduced into art work that are not literally true. Their presence, however, leaves an impression of truth that without them could not be obtained. . As will be emphasized in the chapter on Description, perfect painting is not reproducing things as they are; if it were, the photographer would be the most perfect artist. Perfect painting is rather selecting and reproducing such characteristic details as will suggest an impression similar to that made by nature. It is making the spectator feel as he feels when looking at nature.

In order to accomplish this it is necessary to introduce in a more or less exaggerated way whatever is especially suggestive of the desired emotion. In painting, a touch of color will often do it; or it may be a bit of shade. How to proportion with exactness the light and the shade is one of the difficulties the painter is always meeting. It is thesame in writing. To make the reader realize the horror of the murder, the band must play the popular air just without the window; for black always seems blacker when the background is white.

The critic in Mr. Davis's story is both right and wrong. Often the writer introduces an imaginary contrast because it is effective; but more often, probably, he finds an even better one ready at his hand; not infrequently the popular air is an accompaniment of the murder. To seize such an accompaniment, or to introduce it if it is not present, is one of the duties of the author. He must make his readers feel, and for the accomplishment of this end contrast often proves a serviceable tool.

It is difficult to find any literature in which contrast is not present. In "Macbeth" the beautiful repose of the sixth scene, where King Duncan and his retinue converse in so perfect an idyl before the entrance of Macbeth's castle, is in sharpest contrast with the stormy scenes that precede and with the cowardly murder that so soon follows. A little later, too, Macbeth's dreadful terror and dire remorse are interrupted by the knocking that causes the drunken porter's ribald jests. In "Hamlet" the revelation of the Ghost, made in the chill and gloom of the night, has as its background the brilliantly lighted windows of the palace. The spirit of the murdered King that "to sulphurous and tormenting flames must render up itself, " stands within hearing of the pleasures and revelries of the murderer King. And later the Clown sings as he digs the grave, and his song is immediately followed by the solemn funeral procession.

In "The Luck of Roaring Camp" the author uses keen but brief contrasts to set off the characters of his men:

The greatest scamp had a Raphael face, with a profusion of blonde hair; Oakhurst, a gambler, had the melancholy air and

intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet; the coolest and most courageous man was scarcely over five feet in height, with a soft voice and an embarrassed, timid manner. . . . The strongest man had but three fingers on his right hand; the best shot had but one eye.

In Mr. Henry Seton Merriman's volume, "In Kedar's Tents, " we hear of General Vincente as one of the most bloodthirsty of the Spanish Queen's adherents. When we first meet him, however, we see a small man, with a smile at once sympathetic and humorous, with manners most apologetic, with hands dainty and white, with voice admirably attuned to a lady's drawingroom, and with a laugh soft and musical. When he draws his handkerchief from his sleeve a faint scent perfumes the morning breeze. When Conyngham inquires about "the other fellow, " a traveler who came in with him the evening before, the General mildly replies, "He died this morning at six o'clock, " and smilingly adds, "Of the same complaint, " meaning that he has been shot by his orders. And throughout the story these contrasted sides of the General's character are consistently portrayed.

In "A Child of Nature" Mr. Hamilton W. Mabie uses this contrast:

When daisies were afield he was more active, but frozen rivulets and drifts of snow found him hardly less happy.

In "English Traits" Emerson speaks thus in contrast,

when telling of the nation that gives the book its name:

They are heavy at the fine arts, but adroit at the coarse; not good in jewelry or mosaics, but the best iron-masters, colliers, wool-combers, and tanners in Europe.

In "Compensation, " an essay by the same author, occurs this fine contrast:

Is a man too strong and fierce for society, and by temper and position a bad citizen, —a morose ruffian with a dash of the pirate in him; nature sends him a troop of pretty sons and daughters, who are getting along in the dame's classes at the village school, and love and fear for them smooth his grim scowl to courtesy. Thus she contrives to intenerate the granite and the feldspar, takes the boar out and puts the lamb in, and keeps her balance true.

Macaulay in "The History of England" makes vivid and real by means of a contrast the meaning of the lifting of a siege:

Not many hours before, half a pound of tallow and three-quarters of a pound of salted hide had been weighed out to every fighting man [in Londonderry]. The ration which each now received was three pounds of flour, two pounds of beef, and a pint of pease. It is easy to imagine with what tears grace was said over the supper of that evening

By means of contrast Hawthorne, in "The House of the Seven Gables, " enables the reader to see and hear Phoebe and the old lady with whom she is bargaining:

It was worthwhile to hear the croaking and hollow tones of the old lady and the pleasant voice of Phoebe, mingling in one twisted thread of talk; and still better, to contrast their figures, —so light and bloomy—so decrepit and dusky. . . . As for the bargain, it was wrinkled slyness and craft pitted against native truth and sagacity.

In Mr. Hamlin Garland's "Main-Travelled Roads" is a story called "A Day's Pleasure. " In it Mrs. Markham goes with her husband from the sordid, comfortless farmhouse for a day in the straggling prairie town. She rides on top of the bags of wheat, a tattered quilt about the baby and herself. The husband goes to the elevators to sell the wheat. She sits in the grocery till she is ashamed to sit longer; she walks the streets till her arms are ready to drop

the child; she goes into the drug store, but she cannot stay, for the soda water makes her so thirsty and she has no money to buy; she returns to the grocery and eats the dry lunch; then she walks the streets again with the baby.

The scene changes. In a cottage near the grocery two men and a woman are finishing a dainty luncheon, the woman clad in cool, white garments. Mr. Hall is telling his eastern guest of his strange clients; but Mr. Otis is not interested. He sees through the window a forlorn, weary woman He tells his hosts that he has seen her twice before during the day, and cannot get her disappointed face out of his mind. They go to the sitting room and light their cigars, when all at once Mr. Otis exclaims, "That woman came to town today to get a change, to have a little play spell, and she 's wandering around like a starved and weary cat. I wonder if there is a woman in this town with sympathy enough and courage enough to go out and help that woman? The saloon-keepers, the politicians, and the grocers make it pleasant for the man—so pleasant that he forgets his wife. But the wife is left without a word. "

Mrs. Hall drops her work and takes up her hat. The men go for a walk. "You look tired, Mrs. Markham; won't you come in a little while? I'm Mrs. Hall. " And Mrs. Markham finally consents. Mrs. Hall takes the babe despite dirt and dust, they go into "the little sitting room, so dainty and lovely to the farmer's wife, and as she sinks into an easy chair she becomes faint and drowsy with the pleasure of it. " The ache passes out of her back and the hot head ceases to throb. And there is some tea, and her eyes are soothed with the speckless housekeeping, the baby is shown so many, many pretty things, and catchy lovesongs and simple melodies follow the opening of the piano; before they know it the sun is at the horizon and they are startled by the rattle of a stopping wagon, and the baby

is carried to the wagon, and Mr. Markham is urged to bring his wife in oftener, and Mrs. Hall calls "Goodnight, dear, " as the wagon clatters off.

The whole story rests upon a foundation of contrast. Francois Coppee's story "My Friend Meurtrier" is constructed on a similar plan. The narrator tells of Meurtrier as he knows him in the government office: fierce, tall, hairyhanded, boasting ever of his tremendous feats, outrowing the champions, overthrowing half a dozen bullies in a street melee, jumping the farthest, running the fastest, drinking the deepest, always overflowing with bluff and bluster and bravado, brimful of stories of broken teeth, blackened eyes, ugly falls, whacks below the belt.

But the narrator walks into the suburbs on a Sunday afternoon. As evening falls he glances through an open window and is enraptured with the picture presented by a happy, peaceful old lady sitting in her armchair. As he watches, entranced, he feels sure that some dutiful daughter has so carefully arranged the pillow and the footstool. But in the midst of his reverie who steps into the room but the formidable Meurtrier, a tiny silver coffee-pot in his terrible hairy hand, a poodle at his heels. He hears him speak: "Mamma, here is your coffee. I am sure you will find it nice to-night. The water was boiling well, and I poured it on drop by drop. " The tone is ineffably tender. And he serves the saintly mother and comforts her as a dutiful daughter might have done.

The next morning, asked how he spent the evening before, Meurtrier tells a thrilling story of how he knocked down a terrible street rough with a single blow of his fist!

Guy de Maupassant's "Diamond Necklace" (in "The Odd Number" 1) is another story made up of contrasts. Mme. Loisel is the wife of a minor government clerk. She

is supremely unhappy. Her birth has compelled so modest a marriage, but her beauty and her nature call for the luxuries, the retinue, and the society that a wealthy marriage would have made possible. She dreams of these things, and of nothing else.

Her husband one evening brings an invitation to a magnificent government ball. It only adds to her despair. She has nothing to wear. His little savings will furnish a new gown. But she has no jewels. She borrows the diamond necklace of an old school friend.

The day of the ball arrived. Mme. Loisel made a great success. She was prettier than them all, elegant, gracious, smiling, and crazy with joy. All the men looked at her, asked her name, endeavored to be introduced. . . . She was remarked by the minister himself.

But it ends. She sadly climbs the home stairway. She takes one last look into the mirror to see her glory. She screams! The necklace is gone!

It cannot be found. At a jeweller's one just like it is discovered. It costs 36, 000 francs. The sum is borrowed and begged. The necklace is bought, and the owner knows nothing of the loss.

Then for ten years Mme. Loisel toils and drudges and slaves. Now she knows the meaning of need. She looks old, and her hands are red. Finally the debt is paid, and on a Sunday she takes a walk. She meets the old friend, Mme. Forestier. She speaks to her, but she is not recognized. She makes herself known, and tells her story.

"You say you bought a necklace of diamonds to replace mine?" "Yes. You never noticed it then! They were very like!"

And she smiled with a joy that was proud and naive at once. Mme. Forestier, strongly moved, took her two hands.

"Oh, my poor Mathilde! Why, my necklace was paste! It

was worth at most five hundred francs!".

The final illustration is a selection from the "Medea" of Euripides, as translated by Michael Wodhull. In it the awful suffering of Jason's bride is made the more terrible by contrast with the superlative joy in which she is portrayed only a moment before.

Medea has been put aside by her husband, Jason, in order that he may marry the daughter of King Creon, and with her sons she has been ordered into banishment. Determined upon vengeance, she sends to the royal maiden by her sons a gorgeous vestment and a golden crown, ornaments made most deadly by her drugs, and begs that the lads be set free from the decree of exile. A messenger comes and tells the results:

"Soon as the princess saw Thy glittering ornaments, she could resist No longer, but to all her lord's requests Assented, and before thy sons were gone Far from the regal mansion with their sire, The vest, resplendent with a thousand dyes, Put on; and o'er her loosely floating hair Placing the golden crown, before the mirror

Her tresses braided, and with smiles surveyed Th' inanimated semblance of her charms: Then rising from her seat, across the palace Walked with a delicate and graceful step,

In the rich gifts exulting, and oft turned Enraptured eyes on her own stately neck, Reflected to her view.

"But now a scene Of horror followed; her complexion changed, And she reeled backward, trembling every limb;

Scarce did her chair receive her, as she sunk, In time to save her falling to the ground.

One of her menial train, an aged dame, Possest with an idea that the wrath Either of Pan or of some god unknown Her mistress had invaded, in shrill tone

Poured forth a vow to Heaven, till from her mouth

She saw foam -issue; in their sockets. roll

Her wildly glaring eyeballs, and the blood

Leave her whole frame; a shriek, that differed far From her first plaints, then gave she.

"In an instant

This to her father's house, and that to tell

The bridgeroom the mischance which had befallen His consort, rushed impetuous; through the dome The frequent steps of those who to and fro

Ran in confusion did resound. But soon As the fleet courser at the goal arrives,

She who was silent, and had closed her eyes,

Roused from her swoon, and burst forth into groans Most dreadful, for 'gainst her two evils warred: Placed on her head, the golden crown poured forth A wondrous torrent of devouring flame,

And the embroidered robes, thy children's gifts, Preyed on the hapless virgin's tender flesh; Covered with fire she started from her seat Shaking her hair, and from her head the crown With violence attempting to remove,

But still more firmly did the heated gold Adhere, and the fanned blaze with double lustre Burst forth as she her streaming tresses shook; Subdued by fate, at length she to the ground

Fell prostrate: scarce could anyone have known her Except her father; for. . . that majestic face

Its wonted features lost, and blood with fire Ran down her head in intermingled streams. .

" 'Twas a sight

Most horrible: all feared to touch the corpse,

For her disastrous end had taught us caution. "

In life, as has been said, such contrasts do appear. In the theatre a woman weeps inconsolably at the misery pictured on the stage. As she passes to the car, her escort stops to give a coin and a kind word to a shivering, wrinkled, beggar woman. His companion pulls him away. "Oh, come on, come on! I don't see how you can bear to stand near such a miserably filthy creature, let alone speak to

her. " Byron's mother at one moment throws a fire shovel at the head of her son, and the next is caressing the lad and weeping over him. A high school boy has too much "night work" to do to read to Mother, but goes to skate at the "Gardens" withJais ehum. with'dut 'the least hesitation. A Decoration Day' i4peaker, a minister of unusual powers, uses as his own an aadrees printed in a 'volume by a famous orator. . ,

In a land where biographies, are printecl. under such titles as "From Rai17Splitter. 0 Presid, eni0, oi 'From Canal Path to White House" it is usekess toAruuLtipry illustrations. Contrasts are seen daily. by allliVho have eyes to see. Contrast is a part 'Of life, and is: Properly' one of the tools of the writer. It may be used to show different sides of a person's character, may be used to. se f, p' against one another the characters of different persons;'. maY be used to set up nature's mood in :contrast wit'h' Man's mood or actions, may set the acts of one 'class, in opposition to the acts of another class, may in any manner. set up black to be a foil for white, or vice versa. Its', U arertoo numerous to be catalogued. The writer should remember it power, and make frequent use of it.