Endings and beginnings in scenes and short stories

this article is primarily about short stories but is also applies to scenes or subplots within a longer work of fiction.

FIRST impressions and last impressions are generally the most definite; first, because the mind is free and ready to receive them; last, because nothing may follow to modify or to change them. It is natural, therefore, that the beginning and the end of any discourse are important structurally, and that of the two, end deserves the more careful handling. In the Short- story, end is far more important than is beginning; it marks the point of deepest impression. From the start, the end is kept in view. To it, one looks with greatest expectation. For it, all the momentum of the story gathers.

It is not a summation as is the end of a debate; it is rather the final enforcement of the single effect. If the end is sharp, it will intensify the single impression; if it is weak, it may dissipate it and leave the reader disappointed. A story should never promise more than it can fulfil. Unless the end is satisfactory, the whole story fails. A piece of pottery may be artistically modeled, but if it breaks in the last burning, it is worse than useless, for it represents waste. Unless a story fulfils one's expectations, it is but a waste of time and energy. It is the function of the end not only to bring a story to a fitting close, but to fill it out to completeness by presenting the single impression in its final intensity.

There is, of course, no one best way of ending a story. One must be guided by the nature of the story and of the single impression to be presented. One story may stop abruptly at the moment of climax; others must continue for a few sentences or for a few paragraphs. All, however, should end the moment the story is complete. All extra words at the last detract from the impression. A more simple, less prolonged end would have been possible in The Madonna of the Future. One feels satisfied after Mr. Theobald's death to know that he lay buried in his beloved Florence, and one rather resents in the story the further intrusion of the minor characters. There is a close harmony here between structure and the nature of the story. Long musing and idle dreaming would not have been well adapted to a hurried treatment. Some of the long and partially irrelevant portions can be excused on that account, — but not the end. Henry James was developing a situation. Yet with the passing of the dreamer passed also the dream, and there the story should have ended. Too long an end, however relevant, may lose by failing to be sharp. Too short an end may be, however, just as dangerous, if it fail to complete the story and leave the reader not fully satisfied.

An end may be, however, at once abrupt and complete. Climax and conclusion may be simultaneous. Nothing is left to be explained; the story is its own sufficient comment. The end is the natural and unmistakable outcome of the plot, yet it may be unsuspected until the last sentence or even until the last word. Progress towards climax may be furthered by devices so subtly concealed that they become evident only after the story is reviewed. Such construction attains the ideal of Short-story form in rapidity and directness. Notice the end of Stevenson's Markheim:

"He confronted the maid upon the threshold with something like a smile. "You had better go for the police,' said he: 'I have killed your master."

At the end of the first of these sentences, the reader is still in suspense. Is Markheim smiling, one wonders, at the thought of killing the maid, or at victory over his own evil nature? The last sentence relieves the suspense entirely by giving the answer. One cares to know no more. The story is complete. 0. Henry is a master of this sort of ending. The end of nearly every one of his stories is a surprise. Until the final paragraph of. After Twenty Years, one has had no suspicion that the policeman who first appears is Jimmy Wells. Yet when one reviews the story one recognizes indications of the outcome. When the policeman saw the stranger leaning against the door, he slowed his pace and walked up to him. He would have acted thus on his usual round. Yet in the light of the story's end one sees in this commonplace the action of a man eager to recognize in the stranger his former friend. Later, he asks of Bob, "Going to call time on him sharp?" Jimmy Wells is making his plan. Still later, the plain-clothes man impersonating Jimmy speaks of his "position in one of the city departments." These remarks seem only natural, yet as one looks back, they are especially significant. Without them, the story would be incomplete and unsatisfactory, for the end would seem an accidental, rather than a necessary, logical, outcome. Many stories with ends such as these are likely to become wearisome. One fails to appreciate surprises, once they have become frequent, and one turns with relief to a more gradual end.

Often the nature of the story is such that climax and conclusion cannot be made to coincide. The climax itself introduces new questions. Until these are answered, the story is not complete. Suspense may be relieved while interest in the effect of climax is sustained. This end simply gathers up loose strands and satisfies final curiosity. In The Revolt of Mother, several paragraphs intervene between climax and end. These are necessary to the completeness of the story. One needs to know the effect of Mrs. Penn's act on the neighborhood and especially on Mr. Penn. The full force of the climax for the two main characters in They does not become evident at once. In The Man Who Would Be King, the end is long and somewhat complex. After the climax three things are yet necessary to the completion of the story: the narrator must present the fulfillment of the latter half of the purpose ex- pressed at the beginning, and bring his story to a close; the reader must be satisfied as to the fate of Carnehan. Usually, an end is less complex. The more simple the end, the more forceful, as a rule, will be the single impression. This sort of end, too, may conclude with a surprise, as in Marjorie Daw. In this case, also, it is interesting to notice how the conclusion has been prepared for during the story. In the fifth letter, Edward Delaney says that Marjorie Daw seems "like some lovely phantom that had sprung into existence out of the smoke-wreaths." In the eighth letter, he calls her "a shadow, a chimera," and he speaks of himself as "in the incongruous position of having to do with mere souls, with natures so finely tempered that I run some risk of shattering them in my awkwardness." In the ninth letter, again, "it all appears like an illusion, — the black masses of shadow under the trees, the fireflies whirling in Pyrrhic dances among the shrubbery, the sea over there, Marjorie sitting on the hammock." Of course it appears an illusion to Edward Delaney, but it all seems real to every one else until the last sentence.

There is frequently found yet another sort of end. It is neither climax nor the result of climax. It answers no questions. It is simply an intensifier of single effect, or a narrative comment. It is easy to overdo this sort of ending. It is easy to make irrelevant remarks or unduly to prolong the relevant. It is possible, however, to make this end a means of deepening the simple impression and completing the story. A comment may but express the feeling already in a reader's heart, as in The Outcasts of Poker Flat where John Oakhurst is called "the strongest and yet the weakest of The Outcasts of Poker Flat." Mrs. Knollgs might have ended with the words, "She was living; he was dead; and she was two and forty years older than he." We should have been satisfied and have asked no further questions. Yet the longer end brings out more fully the pathetic sweetness of the story and realizes more completely the final triumph of hope. Notice the final paragraph of The Masque of the Red Death:

"And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood- bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Dark- ness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all." This end is unnecessary to the understanding of the story, but it intensifies mightily the impression of horror that pervades the whole.

In a story of perfect workmanship there should be harmony between end and beginning. Often it is noticeable between even the first and the last sentences. This harmony unifies the final impression as perhaps no other structural device can. Yet the device need not seem artificial, for it effects but a full close and manifests itself often so subtly as to be scarcely recognizable. It may appear as a correspondence of atmosphere, or in mood contrast, in identity of character, in the realization of some suggestion made at the beginning. In After Twenty Years, the first paragraph pictures the typical police- man; the last sentence shows the same conscientious guardian of the peace with the heart of a friend. The first sentence of The Outcasts of Poker Flat awakens expectations in regard to John Oakhurst; the last sentence stills them. In Mrs. Knollys, the closing sentence reverts to the glacier described at the beginning. The last sentence of They harmonizes with the vague, elusive atmosphere of an indeterminate dreamland suggested at the opening of the story:

"She left me to sit a little longer, only a little longer, by the screen, and I heard the sound of her feet die out along the gallery above." End and beginning may be so skillfully wrought into harmony that they suggest much of the intervening story. Notice the first sentence of The Cask of Amontillado, and the last three: "The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could; but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge."

"Against the new masonry I re-erected the old rampart of bones. For the half of a century no mortal has disturbed them. In pace requiescat." One does not know the circumstances of revenge, yet one knows the means. The end is the fulfillment of the beginning. The last sentence is particularly expressive. The revenge was complete, for the avenger had never felt remorse. Thus end and beginning should be considered not as separate entities, but as varying expressions of the dominant note of the story, set in the places made akin by their importance for emphasis.

Beginning, in the Short-story, is as indefinite in length as is end. It may be a sentence, a paragraph, several paragraphs, or even pages. It may shade off into the story proper so delicately that one fails to recognize its limit. As soon as the reader is thoroughly interested, however, — in short, when- ever he senses narrative complication, — a story may be said to be begun. One may thoroughly enjoy a narrative Description or exposition without being aware that anything is going to happen. Yet one does not sense a story, until one sees a possibility of plot ahead. Some additional factor offering a chance of resistance must present itself. One need not be able to hazard a guess as to the main complication of the plot; one need merely feel that something interesting may result from the situation as indicated. One may read the records of two football teams and the lists of the weights and heights of their respective men, but not until one sees the two teams on o field, does one sense a game. Thus characters in story may be described one after the other and no complication be indicated. If, however, they are shown, in a situation which will bring them into contact, one awakes to the possibility of interesting results. The introduction of new and different narrative factors always presupposes that something is going to happen. When plot thus begins to show itself, interest quickens, and the story is begun.

Although varying greatly in length and in content, beginnings are similar in their functions. A good beginning should set the emotional tone of a story, and should introduce its main characters. By set- ting the emotional tone at the beginning, much may- be accomplished toward a definite unity of impression; since a false or jarring tone will at once be felt as discordant and may then be excluded. emphasized at the beginning, it is fixed and helps to shape the reader's attitude toward all the incidents of the story. This tone may be fixed actively by a striking of the dominant note of a story; passively, by setting. An active influence is more rapid than a passive; hence the beginning in which setting is prominent is likely to be longer than that in which tone is fixed by the dominant note. As the tones of stories differ, so also will beginnings differ in length and in nature. Not all tones are capable of the same expression. Some may best be expressed actively, some passively. With regard to the, second. nction of the beginning, character must be present fore it becomes possible to sense complication. ince the limits of the Short-  story are restricted and since minor characters are introduced simply as they affect a main character or the details of plot development, it is natural that main characters should be presented first. Because of their importance they should be granted the emphasis of the initial position. It is not necessary that in the beginning characters be fully described, or that they appear in action; they may be merely mentioned sufficiently to make one sense a new situation. A skilful beginning involves more than the necessity of making a start; it should be in some way significant.

It is usual in stories of character that character is strongly evident at the beginning; in stories of action that action is from the start indicated; in stories of atmosphere that setting is emphasized at the first. Yet aside from their use in indicating the kind of story, these elements of action and character and setting are of value as forms of beginning. Of these forms, action is likely to be the most immediately interesting. It may, even in a single sentence, set the emotional tone and introduce the main characters. Even action may be presented, however, in several ways more or less forceful as they are more or less direct. One may listen to a detailing of a plan for future action, one may hear a record-like statement of past action, or one may actually witness action as taking place. Although many times action offers the quickest way of presenting certain preliminaries, it is not always the best way of beginning. The presentation of character or of setting, of necessity less definite and less immediately interesting, requires a more extended beginning than does action. Since character is necessary to complication, it may fittingly begin almost any sort of story. Yet character may be exceedingly interesting or exceedingly uninteresting, according as its presentation is of a living being or of an animated stick or company of sticks. Combined with action, character is much more natural and to that extent more effective as a form of beginning. Setting is used as a beginning, for the most part, in stories of atmosphere or in stories where atmosphere or setting is important as an influence. Since, however, it is valuable in effecting emotional tone, it may be used as a beginning for almost any sort of story. A gloomy Description makes one gloomy, a bright Description makes one joyous, a Description of things vague and but half- seen makes one dreamy. Rarely will any of these forms of beginning be present to the exclusion of all others. They will be mingled in varying degrees. Thus their advantages may be combined.

Sometimes one finds another sort of beginning — that which consists of generalizations on the theme or purpose of a story. Such an introduction is really a prelude to the actual beginning. In generalizations themselves, one can sense no complication. One must await the beginning of the application, which is not expository but narrative in method. This generalized form rarely adds to the force of a story; it is not vital. It may set the tone, but it cannot easily introduce the main characters. While in many cases introductory generalizations are mere commonplaces of mediocrity, sometimes they are so originally expressed that they are of real value in giving the spirit of a story. A dull and awkward beginning is a mark of a dull and inartistic story. Unnecessarily long or irrelevant introductions are foreign to the nature of the Short-story and but hamper progress.

A beginning, whether long or short, should from the first arouse interest of some sort. It should be so uniquely suggestive of character, of action, of setting, that it will awaken curiosity and stimulate to further reading. A first sentence need rarely set in motion a whole story. Yet it should win attention. It may arouse interest by any one of several slightly varying ways. Perhaps the simplest of these is to put the reader in a questioning attitude. The first sentence may -seem in- complete or vague: it does not tell all that one wishes to know. It stirs up in the reader's mind questions which it leaves unanswered. In the hope of satisfying curiosity, one continues to read. An opening sentence, however, may present no questions; it may in itself be mildly interesting and put the reader in a receptive mood in which he is willing simply to settle back in his chair and listen. Or it may create an unsatisfied longing for one knows not what — just as does an autumn day or a curve in the rpad ahead. It calls one away from the commonplace, and lures one on by its simple charm. Rarely, it becomes still stronger and irresistibly grips one with the intensity of its gloom or brightness. At times, the first sentence may be but a fact statement made impressive by the unusual significance of its content. Occasion- ally, too, an unexpectedly exact Description, in a first sentence, of something familiar, rouses not only one's admiration, but a question as to the reason for such exactness. All these forms are but slightly varying appeals to one's curious interest. The first sentence should have the power of stirring this interest; every sentence thereafter, that of sustaining it until a narrative complication is sensed and the story is under way.

In order to illustrate these principles, it may be worth while to examine several beginnings in their completeness. The one- sentence beginning of The Cask of Amontillado has been already quoted and its strenett suggested. Direct and vigorous as it is, it scarcely surpasses the opening words of The Revolt of Mother: ‘fatherl" "What is it?" "What are them men diggin' over there in the field for?" The first word makes one listen. It is insistent. The answer but continues the question in 'one's mind. The next sentence is still a question. It relieves one's anxiety. There has been no AaccIdent in the home. Yet it arouses more than curious interest. One wonders why so simple a question demanded so much urgency. The " diggin' over in the field" evidently means more than curiosity to the questioner. Something was going on which she had a right to know and did not know. She had not been consulted. A tone of wounded sensibility is felt. At this point, one may be said to sense complication. There is trouble of some sort in the air. In this beginning, the main characters are introduced, and the special anxiety of the questioner singles her out as of the two the more important. Though the beginning takes the form of action, both character and action are plainly indicated as entering into the story. Markheim begins: "Yes," said the dealer, "our windfalls are of various kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior knowledge. Some are dishonest," and here he held up the candle, so that the light fell strongly on his visitor, "and in that case," he continued, "1 profit by my virtue." The first sentence here puts the reader at once into a questioning attitude. To whom was the dealer talking? In what was he a dealer? Of what sort were his windfalls? What had just been passing in conversation? All of these questions arise from the first sentence. They are not all answered even when one has read the whole of the beginning, for as one reads, one's curiosity is turned to suspicion. The visitor's purpose becomes doubt- ful. Perhaps he is not a simple customer. Complication is sensed and the story begun. The main characters have been introduced, the dominant tone of restless suspicion has been set. The beginning fulfils all that is demanded of it. To these short beginnings that of Mrs. Knollys, comprising the whole of the first section, presents a contrast. More than a page is given to the Description of the Pasterzen glacier, more than two pages to a Description of Charles and Mary Knollys. Not until the end of the section, when Charles Knollys slips into the crevasse, is there any sensing of possible complication. Meantime, we have been made acquainted with the main characters and have seen the glacier slow and silent in its moving, "like a timepiece marking the centuries." As the shadows of the planets find reflection in the face of the glacier and the moonbeam in the face of Mrs. Knollys, so the tone of quiet strength of the one seems echoed in the changeless affection of the other. Character and atmosphere thus mingle in creating a single impression. The beginning is long because of the necessary harmony between structure and tone. The spirit of the glacier could not be expressed in a few short, hurried sentences. It must be impressed slowly and gradually. Here, too, the long waiting through five and forty years must find its counterpart. Notice even the first sentence:

"The great Pasterzen glacier rises in Western Austria, and flows into Carinthia, and is fourteen or seventeen miles long, as you measure it from its birth in the snow field or from where it begins to move from the higher snows and its active course is marked by the first wrinkle." Slow in movement, mildly interesting in content, this sentence puts the reader in a receptive mood during which he is willing to listen to anything which may follow. The first sentence of They provokes no questions. It does more than put one in a receptive mood; it creates an unsatisfied longing. Although one senses no complication until the appearance of Miss Florenqle, one is interested from the first in the beauty of shifting landscape. Like the narrator, the reader is called by a lingering curiosity from one view to another, from "one hill top to its fellow half across the county" — until one has passed over the Downs and along the coast and through the wooded hills to the ancient lichened house and has seen the children looking out from mullioned windows. Here is set a dreamy, vague atmosphere in which indeed a Shakespeare or a Queen Elizabeth might appear and call one in to tea. It is with quickened interest, then, that one greets Miss Florence and finds that she is blind. Surely one is about to encounter some unusual experience. Here, then, one may set the limit of the beginning. The tone of mystery has been set. Even the children are out of reach and seem of the atmosphere. The main characters, too, Miss Florence and the narrator, have been introduced. A long beginning was here made necessary by the elusiveness of the story's tone. The beginning of The Masque of the Red Death extends through the first sentence of the second paragraph. The opening sentence interests one because of the startling significance of its content: "The 'Red Death'• had long devastated the country." The remainder of this paragraph of expository setting, by thrilling one with its extreme awfulness, sets the emotional tone of horror. It is, however, not until the first sentence of the second paragraph that one senses complication. "But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious." This sentence sounds the note of alarm. Something is about to happen. After Twenty Years begins with descriptive character-sketching and setting. Until the third paragraph, when the policeman and the stranger meet in front of the hardware store, there is no possible chance for complication. Character and setting have both combined in giving the tone as one of security. The shops are closed for the night, the rain has driven the people off the street. A police- man alone is seen on his round. Then when he meets a stranger in the door of a darkened hard- ware store, suspicion arises. The first sentence here is different from any yet examined. "The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively." The Description at once appeals be- cause of its exactness move impressively is the manner of all policemen. Yet the picture presented is so familiar that exactness is unexpected and awakens immediate interest. From the first sentence to the last, the beginning is skilful. The Man Who Would Be King begins with a generalizing prelude which sets the "happy-go- lucky" tone of the whole story. The first sentence is not interesting. The motto to which it refers is, however, interesting. It is doubtful whether the first paragraph adds anything to the interest already awakened by the motto. The second paragraph suggests the rather unusual setting of a rather unusual story. It is not until the third paragraph, when the narrator and the huge gentleman in shirt- sleeves come in contact, that complication is sensed. The main characters of the outer story are introduced, and the story is begun. Within this first story, Daniel Dravot, who is to become the main character of the inner story, is introduced. When Carnehan returns to tell the story of his adventures, the inner story begins. The picture of the man now scarcely recognizable as a human being stirs curious interest, but when Carnehan says, "Kings we were, with crowns upon our heads — me and Dravot — poor Dan — oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take advice, not though I begged of him!" complication is sensed. One tone serves for both stories, for the two are after all one complete story. It is evident that beginnings may vary widely, yet be equally perfect. They may be long or short, descriptive or expository, indicative of complication in the first sentence, or but mildly interesting. They are whatever the nature of the story dictates as best. It should be yet more clearly evident, too, how close is the relationship between the end and the beginning. Until the end has been determined, the method of the introduction of the main characters cannot be determined or the tone settled upon.