Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924027194699 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PN 3373.W72 
 
 Handbook on story writin* 
 
 3 1924 027 194 699 
 
A HANDBOOK ON 
 STORY WRITING 
 
 BY 
 
 BLANCHE COLTON WILLIAMS, Ph.D. 
 
 ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGUSH, HUNTER COLLEGE OF THE CITY OF NEW YORJC; 
 
 INSTRUCTOR IN SHORT STORY WRITING, COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY 
 
 (extension TEACHING, AND SUUMER SESSION) 
 
 Author qf "Gnomic Poetry in Anglo-Saxon" 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 
 1917 
 
k 
 
 p 3>UI 
 
 Copyright, 1917, 
 By Dodd, Mead and Company, Inc. 
 
TO 
 
 HELEN GRAY CONE, 
 
 POET AND TEACHER, 
 
 PROFESSOR or ENGLISH 
 
 IN 
 
 HUNTER COLLEGE 
 
PREFACE 
 
 When in 19 lo I undertook the "teaching" of the 
 short-story to a class of undergraduates at Hunter 
 College, I found a dearth of books on the theory of 
 story writing. There were Poe's examples and his 
 body of criticism, from which help might be de- 
 duced; there was the pioneer "Philosophy" of Pro- 
 fessor Matthews, and there were two or three texts 
 whose chief valye lay in their exposition of the genre. 
 After no great length of time a growing suspicion 
 asserted itself that although my students could write 
 unusually well, frequently with suggestion of charm 
 and power, yet they were not always writing stories. 
 They fell short of modern narrative requirement. 
 As first aid they needed some formulation of the laws 
 of structure. By a frankly academic and deductive 
 process, that is to say, by study of the classic stories 
 and the best current examples, I found obvious un- 
 derlying principles, so obvious, my first reaction was 
 that nobody had written them down because of their 
 obviousness. But I gave them to my students, with 
 happy results in improvement of manuscripts. The 
 writers learned to direct their energies, with a dimi- 
 nution of diffuseness, to the accomplishment of 
 stronger stories. 
 
vi PREFACE 
 
 In the succeeding two or three years texts poured 
 forth, as a glance at the appended bibliography 
 (page 321) will inform the reader. Many of these 
 stimulated the student; most of them in one respect 
 or other helped the teacher. Yet about the time, 
 1 9 13, I took charge of the story writing course in 
 Extension Teaching, Columbia University, I could 
 find no volume which aided the amateur definitely 
 in construction. Here, again, the primary and fun- 
 damental laws of structure as I had evolved them, 
 proved useful to the men and women bent on learn- 
 ing the art of the short-story with an eye to publica- 
 tion. Their stories in The Atlantic, Scribner's, The 
 Century, The Metropolitan, Everybody's and a num- 
 ber of minor publications prove that they have ac- 
 quired a degree of expertness. And this fact leads 
 me to comment on a division of opinion which has 
 within recent years, and in the extended vogue of the 
 short-story, found proclamation. One camp asserts 
 that the short-story has no laws of technique, — 
 a statement made, without exception, by those who 
 have not set themselves to learn it. Members of 
 the opposite camp declare that technique or "for- 
 mula" has deadened the story. Truth would seem 
 to lie between these extremes. The first opinion 
 needs no comment; but It may be observed that 
 the lover of fiction who demands only something 
 under ten thousand words that is "interesting" will 
 be the first to find Interest faltering, though he may 
 not know why. If the structure Is Inadequate to sup- 
 
PREFACE vii 
 
 port the warp and woof of story material. The sec- 
 ond camp is right in this respect : the story is so much 
 a matter of form it can be learned. Conceivably it 
 can be learned by persons who are endowed with 
 no supreme literary gift. There are examples of 
 best literature which are not short-stories; there are 
 stories which are not literature. A great era of ad- 
 vertising made possible, if it did not demand, more 
 magazines and with them the cheap story. (But I 
 must not fail to state that the price frequently has 
 nothing to do with the value of the story for which 
 the price is paid.) The unworthy examples exist 
 by virtue of the worthier. Compare the stories of 
 Blackwood's of seventy years ago with those of the 
 present day, or compare the short-stories of the lat- 
 ter nineteenth century with those of the present, and 
 you can come to one conclusion only: this is the 
 golden age of short-story literature. 
 
 It will be perceived that wherever possible I dis- 
 cuss story technique in terms of the drama, and I 
 do so because the two terms, story and drama, are 
 so closely interlocked each can best be apprehended 
 through comparison with the other. Reciprocal 
 characterisation serves to convey the interdependence 
 of types. And in noticing the relations between these 
 type forms, I am moved to ask that terminology in 
 this volume be taken not as iron bound or hard and 
 fast. As Mr. Henry James has said in his "Art of 
 Fiction," "People often talk of these things [descrip- 
 tion, dialogue, incident, etc.] as if they had a kind 
 
vui PREFACE 
 
 of internecine distinctness, instead of melting into 
 each other at every breath, and being intimately asso- 
 ciated parts of one general effort of expression." 
 Yet it remains true that analysis reveals such varied 
 elements in composition, and also true that the young 
 writer or the amateur synthesises better if he is 
 aware they exist. Fusion, he must learn, occurs 
 when the spark of life kindles the elements into a 
 glowing whole. 
 
 Within the confines of this book I have indicated 
 By examples chosen to illustrate one thing or another 
 those authors who are the masters. Their art has 
 had the adequate purpose of representing the work- 
 ings of life, and it has had the beneficent effect of 
 entertaining. And if it satisfies in these two particu- 
 lars, it satisfies the chief requirements of the art of 
 fiction. 
 
 I desire to express my obligations and gratitude 
 to my assistant Miss Shirley V. Long for reading 
 the chapters of the book and giving valuable sug- 
 gestions. Thanks and acknowledgments are due cer- 
 tain authors and publishers for permission to quote 
 from works by way of Ulustrating and emphasising 
 definite technical features. To Messrs. Harper and 
 Brothers I am indebted for the passage from "The 
 Revolt of 'Mother' " ("A New England Xun and 
 Other Stories," by Mary E. Wilkins, copyright, 
 1891), and also that from "At Home to His 
 Friends" ("Seventeen," by Booth Tarkington, copy- 
 right, 1915, 1916, by the Metropolitan Magazine 
 
PREFACE ix 
 
 Company) ; to the George H. Doran Company for 
 the paragraph from Irvin Cobb's "Local Color" 
 (Copyright, 1916, by George H. Doran Company) ; 
 to the John Lane Company for the selection from 
 Neil Lyons's "Six-penny Pieces" (Third edition, 
 19 14) ; to Messrs. Doubleday, Page and Company 
 for the brief selections from Rudyard Kipling's 
 "A Second-Rate Woman" ("Under the Deodars," 
 edition, 1913), and "Mary Postgate" ("A Diversity 
 of Creatures," copyright, 1917), for the longer 
 passages from O. Henry's "The Whirligig of Life" 
 ("Whirligigs"), "The Furnished Room" ("The 
 Four Million"), and "Proof of the Pudding" 
 ("Strictly Business"), all from the Authorised Edi- 
 tion of O. Henry's works, and for the quotation from 
 Joseph Conrad's "The Art of Writing" (1914) ; to 
 Charles Scribner's Sons for citations from Henry 
 James's Prefaces (Collected Works, copyright, 
 1909), and from Henry Van Dyke's Preface to 
 "The Ruling Passion," copyright, 1901; from Rob- 
 ert Louis Stevenson's "Weir of Hermiston," copy- 
 right, 1896) ; and from "Plain Fin, Paper Hanger" 
 ("The Under Dog," copyright, 1903; to E. P. Dut- 
 ton and Company, and to Mr. Harold Paget for 
 the paragraphs from Leonard Merrick's "The 
 Tragedy of a Comic Song" ("Whispers about 
 Women," copyright, 19 12, by Mitchell Kennerley) ; 
 to the Ridgway Company for the selection from 
 Eleanor Hallowell Abbott's "The Mean Little 
 Town"; to the Curtis Publishing Company for the 
 
X PREFACE 
 
 passage from Norman Duncan's "The Last Shot in 
 the Locker," and to the Fleming H. Revell Com- 
 pany for the same passage which occurs, with cer- 
 tain changes, in "Billy Topsail, M. D.," copyright, 
 1916. 
 
 B. C. W. 
 New York City, 
 
 September 5, 19 17. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I Definitions and Characterisations . . i 
 
 II The Inception of the Story .... 21 
 
 III Plot: Preliminaries 43 
 
 IV Plot: Struggle and Complication . . 56 
 V Plot: Composition 82 
 
 VI Plot: Story Types Dependent on Plot 
 
 Order 97 
 
 VII The Point of View 121 
 
 VIII The Scenario 139 
 
 IX Characterisation 157 
 
 X Characterisation, continued . . . . 169 
 
 XI Dialogue 191 
 
 XII The Emotional Element 211 
 
 XIII Local Colour and Atmosphere . . . 242 
 
 XIV Problems of Composition: Beginning, 
 
 Body, and End 256 
 
 XV A Short-Story Type: The Ghost Story . 289 
 
 XVI Popularity and Longevity .... 309 
 
 Index 347 
 
A HANDBOOK ON STORY 
 WRITING 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS 
 
 Difficulty in defining this form of fiction; what the short 
 story is not ; anecdote, incident, tale, novel, sketch ; vari- 
 ous definitions quoted; sifting of these definitions; the 
 essentials of the short-story; essentials embodied in a 
 working definition; discussion of this definition; art in 
 general and in the short-story; value of struggle em- 
 phasised by a comparison of th" short-story and the 
 drama; exercises. 
 
 What is a short-story? In defining the term, 
 there is the temptation to limit it so closely as to ex- 
 clude narratives which may be regarded properly as 
 falling under this class of fiction; or there is the 
 corresponding danger of constructing too inclusive a 
 definition. In the second place,^ the short-story is 
 
 * Professor Baldwin has already pointed out, in his Preface to 
 "American Short-Stories,'' that Poe's "Berenice" (1835) represents 
 the arrival of the form in the English language. "Mateo Falcone" 
 (1S29) antedates Poe's story by half a dozen years. 
 
2 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 a comparatively recent development, and like all 
 young organisms, it is in process of growth, if not 
 of evolution; hence, any determining of its status 
 must be tentative. Again, there are many kinds of 
 short-stories. And in proportion as the critic pre- 
 fers, however catholic his taste, one class to another, 
 he drifts toward that class as his ideal. Or, guard- 
 ing against his individual preference, he chooses to 
 characterise rather than to define. 
 
 At the outset, therefore, let us consider the char- 
 acteristics from which we may formulate a working 
 definition of this genre, to-day the chosen medium of 
 the fiction writer. 
 
 First, then, by comparing the short-story with 
 closely related forms, the student should learn what 
 it is not. From the monograph of Professor Bran- 
 der Matthews,^ to the most recent texts, opinions 
 agree that the short-story is not a novel, a condensed 
 novel, or a novelette. Its plot is less complex, and 
 it creates a more unified impression. Nor is it a 
 sketch, for in a sketch nothing may happen ; a sketch 
 may be of still life only. It is not an anecdote ; for 
 the anecdote presents a situation and one brief dra- 
 matic instant. It is not a mere Incident ; ^ for the 
 Incident concerns itself with one line of interest; is 
 usually briefer; and, the best test, is of less mo- 
 ment or weight than the short-story. It Is not a 
 
 ' "The Philosophy of the Short-Story," Longmans, Green, and 
 Co., 1901. Written in 1884, revised later. 
 ° Capitalised for sake of distinction. See page 50. 
 
DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS 3 
 
 tale ; for the tale may lack proportion, may show no 
 progressive heightening, no nice adjustment to scale,* 
 and it may fail to produce a single emotional effect. 
 Yet it is clear that the short-story may approach in 
 length, if in no other particular, the novelette. One 
 artist of the brush may, because of his individual 
 manner, lay on twice as many strokes as another art- 
 ist painting the same subject. And whether made in 
 five hundred or five thousand strokes, the finished pic- 
 ture may fill a 2 x 3 frame. The present writer ad- 
 vises students not to suffer bewilderment from such 
 appallingly definite statements as, "I've material for 
 a three thousand word story." A two thousand word 
 O. Henry story would become one of ten thousand 
 for Henry James. For example, Henry James's 
 "The Turn of the Screw" and Edith Wharton's 
 "Ethan Frome" are long short-stories. Obviously, 
 also, the sketch or vignette shades gradually into the 
 short-story. Kipling's "The City of Dreadful 
 Night" is a sketch, — a series of pictures observed 
 in a night walk. But Hawthorne's "Wakefield," 
 also a sketch, co-ordinates action toward one de- 
 nouement; Professor Matthews's "In a Hansom," 
 though labelled "vignette," possesses unmistakable 
 story value. The word "tale" particularly annoys 
 one who would separate it definitively from the short- 
 story. Here, a critic declares emphatically that "Rip 
 Van Winkle" is a short-story; there, another rules 
 it out. Irving's Tales at least have place in the de- 
 
 * See Professor Baldwin's Preface, op. cit 
 
4 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 velopment of the modern form. He recognised that 
 the "sketch" or the "short tale" must be written word 
 for word more carefully than the longer story : "The 
 author must be continually piquant; woe to him if he 
 makes an awkward sentence or writes a stupid 
 page." ^ He recognised, that is, the "nicety of exe- 
 cution." But he approached the short-story only by 
 way of unconscious evolution. In the main, the same 
 thing is true of Hawthorne, who, however, pro- 
 gressed further. He wrote a few short-stories which, 
 though perfect specimens, are not typical examples 
 of his "tales." "Rappaccini's Daughter" takes high 
 rank as a short-story, but "Lady Eleanore's Mantle" 
 must be classed as a tale, strongly infused with fanci- 
 fully didactic allegory. The evolution of the short- 
 story shows that the tale is its progenitor. Boc- 
 caccio's "Decameron" and Chaucer's "Canterbury 
 Tales" are the great mediaeval predecessors. Apart, 
 however, from the historical significance and its in- 
 dication of type, the word "tale" is quite frequently 
 used by contemporary writers as synonymous with 
 short-story. Edith Wharton's "Tales of Men and 
 Ghosts" is an illustration of the word used inclu- 
 sively; for the volume contains examples of both 
 types. 
 
 Even the anecdote may assume the form of 
 the short-story, though with doubtful success. O. 
 Henry's "A Lickpenny Lover" and "The Girl and 
 
 ' See Irving's Letter to Henry BrevoorL "The Life and Letters 
 of Washington Irving," by P. M. Irving, Vol. II, page 327. 
 
DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS 5 
 
 the Habit" are instances of the anecdotal short- 
 story, which, by no means admirable, yet illustrate 
 the fact that the anecdote may be expanded into the 
 longer form. And, finally, the Incident, as its sub- 
 ject matter becomes of greater weight or its treat- 
 ment more elaborate, may be coalescent with the 
 short-story. 
 
 Not identical with any of these forms, the short- 
 story is separated from them by imperceptible di- 
 viding lines. And just as it recedes to one or an- 
 other of the allied types, so it departs from its own 
 ideal. In order to determine this ideal, let us ex- 
 amine the ground generally accepted as the province 
 of the short-story. And let us follow an approxi- 
 mate historical order. 
 
 Professor Matthews, in his essay, says: "An 
 idea logically developed by one possessing the sense 
 of form and the gift of style is what we look for in 
 a short-story." And he adds presently, "The short- 
 story is nothing if there is no story to tell," — ^thus 
 laying emphasis upon plot. He insists also upon 
 neatness of structure and polish of execution. "The 
 construction must always be logical, adequate, har- 
 monious." Elsewhere he says, " — ^the short-story 
 must do one thing only and it must do this com- 
 pletely and perfectly; it must not loiter or digress, 
 it must have unity of action, unity of temper, unity 
 of tone, unity of colour, unity of effect; and it must 
 vigilantly exclude everything that might interfere 
 with its singleness of intention." Totality of effect 
 
6 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 had been practised by Poe in his story writing; it 
 had been advocated by him as a poetic ideal in his 
 "Philosophy of Composition." 
 
 From Poe's theory, Professor Matthews evolved 
 in part his philosophy, upon which a number of 
 recent writers have based their definitions.® 
 , Mr. Charles Barrett declares that the term short- 
 story "is properly used only when it means a short 
 prose narrative, which presents artistically a bit of 
 real life; the primary object of which is to amuse." 
 To this he adds other qualifications. 
 
 Professor W. B. Pitkin regards the short-story as 
 a "fusion of two artistic ideals, the one American, 
 the other French." The American ideal is "The 
 Single Effect." The French ideal is the "Dramatic 
 Effect." He defines it accordingly, "The short 
 story is therefore a narrative drama with a single 
 effect." 
 
 Mr. J. B. Esenwein gives these essentials: 
 I. Singleness of impression. 2. A well-defined plot. 
 3. A dominant incident. 4. A dominant character. 
 5. A complication and its resolution. 
 _31r. Carl Grabo says, "A short-story aims at a 
 single effect: the writer, dominated by a single emo- 
 tion, endeavors so to devise his story as to convey 
 this and arouse an echo of it in his readers." 
 
 Another text offers this definition: "The short 
 story is a narrative producing a single emotional Im- 
 
 ° See Bibliography, page 321, ff., for works by these authors and 
 others. 
 
DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS 7 
 
 pression by means of sustained emphasis on a single 
 climactic incident or situation." '' 
 
 An editorial in The Metropolitan ^ gives a prac- 
 tical ideal: " — to make a real impression without 
 taking pages to accomplish it in, to reach the heart 
 in a human way, — to inspire in the reader by the 
 use of not more than two or three thousand words 
 a genuine emotion of love, awe, or pity," — to do 
 this is the business of the short-story writer. Sincer- 
 ity is enjoined, a quality which should be obtained by 
 direct observation. 
 
 Mr. T. L. Masson, in his introduction to "Short 
 Stories from 'Life,' " emphasises the value of strug- 
 gle, the giving to the reader a definite sensation, and 
 the conveyance of an Idea larger than the story Itself. 
 
 Features the definitions have In common are these : 
 I. The short-story Is a prose narrative. 2. It must 
 make one Impression or effect. 3. It deals chiefly 
 with one Incident or situation. 4. It shows increas- 
 ing recognition of the dramatic element. The aca- 
 demic Ideal emphasises form; the publisher's ideal 
 emphasises the human appeal, to which the reader 
 reacts emotionally. 
 
 In view of the accepted Ideals I justify the defi- 
 nition: The short-story Is a narrative artistically 
 presenting characters In a struggle or complication 
 which has a definite outcome. If the action occurs 
 In a brief time and in a closely circumscribed space, 
 
 '"The Modern Short-Story," Notestein and Dunn. 
 'August, 1914. 
 
8 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING , 
 
 the story approaches the extreme or ultimate type 
 form. "The Sire de Maletroit's Door," by Steven- 
 son; "Swept and Garnished," by Kipling; "The 
 Idiot," by Arnold Bennett; "The Three Strangers," 
 by Thomas Hardy, — these narratives, in their close 
 limitation of time and place, consciously or uncon- 
 sciously obey the laws of the "Greek Unities." 
 
 In order to effect a fuller and clearer understand- 
 ing, let us examine the definition just laid down. 
 "Narrative" needs no explanation. But it should be 
 repeated that although the action of the short-story 
 is told, not presented, yet modern writers usually 
 prefer to let the telling unfold itself as fully as pos- 
 sible through the characters themselves; prefer. In 
 short, to approach the dramatic form. The popu- 
 larity of Fannie Hurst's stories, for example, owes 
 itself in large measure to the skill with which she 
 makes the characters convey the action.^ "Artisti- 
 cally presenting," the next phrase In the definition, 
 offers opportunity for calling to the attention of the 
 student something of the principle underlying all 
 
 'Compare The Boston Transcript, January 8, 1916: "I must 
 affirm once more the genuine literary art of Fannie Hurst. The 
 absolute fidelity of her dialogue to life and its revealing spirit 
 . . - seem to me to assure her permanence in her best literary 
 work." The author, Mr. E. J. O'Brien, places three of her stories 
 (appearing in 1915) on his "honour roll" of ninety-on,e. These 
 were chosen from 2200 stories read and analysed. He also in- 
 cludes two of her stories in "The Best Fifty Short Stories of 1916." 
 See Bookman, February, 1917. Miss Hurst's power is one point, 
 at least, on which the present writer does not differ from Mr. 
 O'Brien. 
 
DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS 9 
 
 fiction. "What is art?" has been asked as many 
 times as that other sphinx question, "What is truth?" 
 It would be disproportionate, if not futile, here to 
 enter upon a formal discussion of art; but it will be 
 helpful to summarise its outstanding characteristics. 
 Art, then, is primarily human skill versus nature. 
 Art is an imitation,^" which succeeds by representa- 
 tion, by typifying, rather than by selecting the too 
 unusual object or event from life. "This must be 
 put into a story," the novice says; "this extraordi- 
 nary situation is too good to lose." Amateurs need 
 constant warning against this pitfall. Editor and 
 teacher and critic are used to hearing, "You say my 
 story lacks verisimilitude, that the occurrence is too 
 unusual. But I tell you, it really happened!" That 
 the account is from life makes no difference, or 
 rather may make the difference that is so much thd 
 worse for fiction. It may have happened in life; 
 it probably would not "happen" in fiction. For fic- 
 tion should represent the typical, not the exaggerated 
 or the bizarre. The artist in Henry James's "The 
 Real Thing" comments on his preference for the 
 
 ^" " 'Art imitates Nature,' says Aristotle, in a phrase that has been 
 much misunderstood. It has been taken to mean that art is a 
 copy or reproduction of natural objects. But by 'Nature' Aristotle 
 never means the outside world of created things, he means rather 
 creative force, what produces, not what has been produced. We 
 might almost translate the Greek phrase, 'Art, like Nature, creates 
 things,' 'Art acts like Nature in producing things.' These things 
 are, first and foremost, human things, human action." — "Ancient 
 Art and Ritual," by Jane Ellen Harrison, LL.D., Litt.D., Henry 
 Holt and Company, London, 1913. 
 
lo A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 "represented subject over the real one: the defect 
 of the real one was so apt to be a lack of represen- 
 tation. I liked things that appeared; then one was 
 sure." In this thematic narrative, the author enter- 
 tainingly and convincingly presents the defect of the 
 real. Major and Mrs. Monarch, "the real thing" 
 socially, failed to represent the society type, whereas 
 Miss Churm the Cockney model and Oronte the 
 orange vendor succeeded. 
 
 Do not suppose that a good real story will make 
 a good fiction story. Do not make the similar er- 
 ror of thinking a slavish copy will produce in fiction 
 the effect corresponding to that produced by the 
 original in actuality. "The beginner must take to 
 heart the truth that a close copy of life may fail to 
 represent life. Within his own world, the writer 
 seeks to imitate. That world is governed by laws 
 with which he must be familiar, the operations of 
 which he must understand, if under their dominance 
 he would successfully represent. The sequence of 
 details, for example, in a successful story may be 
 different from the sequence in real life. The writer 
 has worked out a problem in arrangement with a 
 view to correct effect." ^^ 
 
 "Life, as it happens, fails often to have a recog- 
 nisable pattern, like the orderly things called sto- 
 ries . . . for you may bleed your heart out and 
 finally die of the wound, and yet the pain of which 
 you die, the drama which caused your heart to 
 " "Short Stories in the Making," R. W. Neal, page 151. 
 
DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS ii 
 
 bleed, will have had neither logical beginning nor 
 definite end, and in the whole course of it, though 
 it has been life and death to you, there will have 
 been none of those first aids to the reader — suspense, 
 dramatic contrast, or plot. You have suffered and 
 died, but It hasn't made a story." ^^ 
 
 These two paragraphs emphasise that art must 
 be representative, that it is life plus something more. 
 Another requisite of artistic work is that it must 
 move the emotions. As science transmits knowl- 
 edge, art is a human activity transmitting feelings. 
 Art transmutes the truths of science from the region 
 of perception to the region of emotion. The artistic 
 finished statue of a child brings, a rush of tenderness 
 from the observer ; the sweep of opera exalts to high 
 ecstasy the sensitive soul; the actor forces laughter 
 or tears. "It [the drama] consists of passion, which 
 gives the actor his opportunity; and that passion must 
 progressively increase, or the actor, as the piece pro- 
 ceeded, would be unable to carry the audience from 
 a lower to a higher pitch of interest and emotion." ^* 
 If the reader of the short-story Is held in suspense; 
 if he is awed, thrilled, moved to tears, smiles or 
 laughter, then for him the author Is an artist. The 
 effect of the short-story is measured always by the 
 emotional reaction. Emotions are governed by 
 laws; an understanding of these laws will aid a 
 writer in his appeal to the emotions. The process 
 
 '' Mary Heaton Vorse, in "A Child's Heart." 
 " "A Humble Remonstrance," R. L. Stevenson. 
 
12 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 is not so simple, not so wooden, as the machinery of 
 puppet moving, but the mechanism is not the less 
 necessary. 
 
 "Fiction — if it at all aspires to be art — appeals to 
 temperament," says Joseph Conrad in "The Art of 
 Writing." "And, in truth it must be, like painting, 
 like music, like all art, the appeal of one tempera- 
 ment to all the other innumerable temperaments 
 whose subtle and resistless power endows passing 
 events with their true meaning, and creates the 
 moral, the emotional atmosphere of the place and 
 time. Such an appeal to be effective must be an im- 
 pression conveyed through the senses; and, in fact, 
 it cannot be made in any other way, because tempera- 
 ment, whether individual or collective, is not amen- 
 able to persuasion. All art, therefore, appeals pri- 
 marily to the senses, and the artistic aim when ex- 
 pressing itself in written words must also make its 
 appeal through the senses, if its high desire is to 
 reach the secret spring of responsive emotions. It 
 must strenuously aspire to the plasticity of sculpture, 
 to the colour of painting, and to the magic sugges- 
 tiveness of music — which is the art of arts. . . ." 
 
 Art, then, is representative, and it appeals to the 
 senses. Writers, dramatists, sculptors, musicians, 
 artists of the brush — all agree on these two essen- 
 tials. Perhaps the ultimate distinction between the 
 artist and the artisan lies in the principle of sugges- 
 tion. The distinctive genius of Kipling flashes out 
 in a daring economy, by which he conveys much more 
 
DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS 13 
 
 than his sentence or paragraph says. This principle 
 of suggestion may so operate as to secure effective 
 emotional reaction; it may stop short at titillating 
 the reader's fancy, or galvanising his attention. Its 
 use means a saving to the reader of energy required 
 to grasp or visualise the object or act. In "Mary 
 Postgate," for example, occurs an episode of bomb- 
 dropping. After the explosion, Mary and Nurse 
 Eden heard 
 
 "a child's shriek, dying into a wail. . . . Nurse Eden 
 snatched up a sheet drying before the fire, ran out, lifted 
 something from the ground, and flung the sheet round it. 
 The sheet turned scarlet, and half her uniform, too, as she 
 bore the load into the kitchen. It was little Edna Gerritt, 
 aged nine, whom Mary had known since her baby days. 
 
 " 'Am I hurted bad ?' Edna asked, and died between Nurse 
 Eden's dripping hands. The sheet fell aside, and for an 
 instant, before she could shut her eyes, Mary saw the ripped 
 and shredded body." 
 
 In this swiftly moving passage, restraint and sug- 
 gestion create for Kipling his emotional effect. When 
 he writes of a snake folding itself in oozy triangles, 
 he shocks attentioi. by the vivid picture. When he 
 says, in "Captains Courageous," that Harvey saw 
 a long line of portholes flash past, he suggests the 
 rapidity and the length of the ocean liner in a way 
 to dazzle the reader, and to compel the critic's ad- 
 miration for his lean economy. 
 
 Of the power of suggestion George Meredith 
 
14 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 writes illustratively in the early pages of "The Amaz- 
 ing Marriage" : "The man Charles Dump is no more 
 attractive to me than a lump of clay. How could 
 he be? But suppose I took up the lump and told 
 you that there where I found it, that lump of clay 
 had been rolled over and flung of by the left wheel 
 of the prophet's Chariot of Fire before it mounted 
 aloft and disappeared in the heavens above, you 
 would examine it and cherish it and have the scene 
 present with you, you may be sure ; and magnificent 
 descriptions would not be one-half so persuasive. 
 And that is what we call, in my profession, Art, if 
 you please." 
 
 Art is an imitation which so represents life as to 
 affect the reader's emotions. The greater the 
 writer's skill in suggestion, the more economically, 
 and hence vividly, will he produce his representa- 
 tion. 
 
 The definition further makes use of the plural 
 "characters." It would appear that a short-story 
 must contain at least two characters, for otherwise 
 there would be no struggle. But it should be re- 
 membered that in some stories characteristics or 
 traits take the place of the inclusive term, "char- 
 acters." For example, critics have an avowed 
 preference for "Markhelm," wherein the main 
 struggle Is between Markheim's conscience and his 
 inclination to evil. 
 
 In discussing the phrase "struggle or complica- 
 tion," let us make a momentary comparison of the 
 
DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS 15 
 
 short-story with the drama." Any student of the 
 play knows that there is no play without a plot 
 characterised by a struggle. "A good serious play 
 must therefore be founded on one of the passion- 
 ate cruces of life, where duty and inclination come 
 nobly to the grapple. "^^ This struggle may have its 
 modifications, — there may be a chase, purely physi- 
 cal; there may be a difficulty to overcome, an ob- 
 stacle to remove, a mystery to solve. In its highest 
 phase, the conflict is waged between intellects, or 
 between the opposing parts of one man's intellect. 
 Hamlet is at odds with himself, as with the world. 
 If now to the essential struggle is added entangle- 
 ment, the interest of the play is increased. The 
 relations of Hamlet and Ophelia, for example, 
 form one line of interest which will inevitably have 
 bearing on the main line of interest, Hamlet's 
 struggle to be revenged. Hamlet's relations to the 
 Queen will likewise be a cause of entanglement. 
 Besides these obvious relations there are others, all 
 of which unite in making the play a masterpiece of 
 entanglement as well as one of intense moral 
 struggle. In "A Half Hour," a Barrie tour de 
 force, the struggle is from start to finish in the mind 
 of Lillian Garson; but if there were not the en- 
 
 " "When Aristotle, in his 'Poetics,' undertook to lay down the 
 principles by which tragedy ought to be constructed, he gave the 
 common and essential principles for the construction of all fiction 
 — especially for the construction of the short-story." Melville 
 Davisson Post, in "The Blight" 
 
 " "A Humble Remonstrance," R. L. Stevenson. 
 
1 6 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 tanglement arising because of her relations with 
 Hugh Paton, the play-goer would scarcely sit so 
 enthralled. The struggle in this play, in its various 
 changing phases, is possible only because of the 
 entanglement. In the sombre tragedy by Tenny- 
 son Jesse and F. M. Harwood, "The Black Mask," 
 the struggle is lost in the entanglement. When 
 Vashti Glasson and her lover strive to get rid of 
 her black-masked husband, the husband manages to 
 exchange places with the lover. The revelation to 
 her is the close of the play, which the audience, hav- 
 ing already seen her failure in the struggle, awaits 
 as the outcome of the entanglement. 
 
 Now the plot of the short-story, no less than the 
 plot of the drama, demands a struggle or conflict. 
 "Struggle" will have consideration hereafter, as wiil 
 "complication"; but since the latter term has been 
 variously used by critics it should be remembered 
 that complication will be used in this volume in its 
 primary sense of "entanglement" or "intermingling 
 of parts." Entanglement suggests an intertwining of 
 threads ; It Is, in fact, a picture of entangled threads 
 which should be produced by the complication aris- 
 ing from two or more lines of Interest. For ex- 
 ample. In Mrs. Freeman's "The Revolt of 
 'Mother,' " the main Interest, or line of interest, has 
 to do with the struggle between Mr. Penn and his 
 wife; the second, or subordinate Interest, with 
 Nanny and her love affairs. The slight entangle- 
 ment results from combining these lines. In "A 
 
DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS 17 
 
 Day Off," by Miss Alice Brown, the main line of 
 interest is that developing the struggle in Abigail's 
 mind. The second line of interest, again, is that 
 limning Claribel's love story. The combination or 
 entanglement is the making of the story. In Clar- 
 ence Kelland's "Edwy Peddie — Scientific Humani- 
 tarian," the main line of interest represents an 
 attempt on the part of Mr. Crabb to get rid of his 
 wife's pet dogs. The secondary line of interest 
 d@als ,^jth' the love affair of the daughter, repre- 
 senting ,a©other struggle, — that of Mr. Coppy to 
 obtain posrisession of Jane Crabb. Again, the two 
 lines beccBne entangled, to the amusement of the 
 reader. 
 
 Struggle and complication connote other steps, 
 vi^ich W'U'ibe treated fully under Plot. 
 
 The^ffi^l clause of the definition, "which has 
 a definite outcome," is necessary, to suggest 
 that the action should be finished. The struggle 
 should be i terminated conclusively and with satis- 
 faction to the reader; the end — for which the first 
 part Is (Cjipstructed — should be attained. No reader 
 is satisfied] with a story which leaves the opposing 
 forces still struggling, or with a complication that 
 lacks loMkion.^" 
 
 i^" There are apparent exceptions to the requirement that the 
 struggle be ended, the complication untied. For, as Professor 
 Matthews has pointed out, the end of a story may be a conundrum : 
 witness, "The Lady or the Tiger?" But in such an instance the 
 trick of leaving the reader in the balance between two conclusions 
 must have compensation. Mr. Stockton flatters the deader by an 
 
i8 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Exercises for Chapter I 
 
 Study the following stories, observing the close circum- 
 scription of time or place or both : 
 
 Arnold Bennett's "The Idiot"; Hardy's "The Three 
 Strangers" ; Jacobs' "The Monkey's Paw," "In the Library," 
 and "The Lady of the Barge"; Stevenson's "Markheim," "A 
 Lodging for the Night," and "The Sire de Maletroit's 
 Door"; Kipling's "The Mark of the Beast," and "Wire- 
 less"; Strindberg's "Half a Sheet of Foolscap" ;«De Maupas- 
 sant's "A Coward" ; O. Henry's "Furnished Room" ; Edith 
 Wharton's "A Journey" ; K. F. Gerould's "The Toad and 
 the Jewel"; Poe's "The Cask of AmontiUado" ; Mrvin 
 Cobb's "An Occurrence up a Side Street"; W. D-fateele's 
 "Free"; Frederick Stuart Greene's "A Cat of | the Cane- 
 brake." a * 
 
 Test these stories by the various definitir* fiered in 
 this chapter. ^ 4 
 
 Try to discover the logic underlying the a^plici^ition to 
 the short-story of the law of the Greek Uniti^(tiHat the 
 unified action shall occur within twenty-four hours iin one 
 setting). .' 
 
 Study Ambrose Bierce's "An Occurrence at Owl ^.'reek 
 
 Bridge" for a tour de force treatment of the time elen.ait; 
 
 Fitz-James O'Brien's "The Diamond Lens" for a similar 
 
 treatment of the place element. 
 
 . What short-story characteristics has Sir Gilbftt'Tarker's 
 
 appeal to his judgment, by seeming to "talk over the matter" 
 with him. Moreover, the first time this trick was performed, it 
 was appreciated by the surprised reader. Its repetition even by 
 Mr. Stockton himself was not successful. 
 
DEFINITIONS AND CHARACTERISATIONS 19 
 
 "Cumner's Son"? Wherein does it depart from the short- 
 story ideal? Is his "Derelict" a short-story? Why? 
 
 Is the following narrative too condensed to make an 
 emotional appeal? 
 
 GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN 
 
 By Selwyn Grattan 
 
 The empty vial — the odour of bitter almonds — and in 
 the chair what had been a man. 
 
 On the desk this note: 
 
 "Farewell. From the day of our marriage I have knoivn. 
 I love you. I love my friend. Better that I should go and 
 leave you two to find happiness than that I should stay 
 and the three of us wear out wretched lives. Again fare- 
 well — and bless you. 
 
 "Robert." 
 {Life, July 6, 1915. Copyright, Life Publishing Co.) 
 
 Compare with the story just quoted this selection from 
 The New York Evetimp Post, June 11, 1915: . . . The 
 commercial short-story to-day is an affair of at least five 
 thousand words and a very sophisticated bit of v/riting. 
 The secret of success in that field has been described by 
 one successful editor as consisting in writing all round one's 
 subject. This we do with admirable technical skill in the 
 way of sustaining interest by the use of subsidiary incident, 
 suspense, and above all, by the force of style. . . . Jt may 
 be that the editors have discovered that betwe^ fiveTmla 
 seven thousand words is the proper length demarided by the 
 psychological necessities of the tired business mait^^ (Article 
 entitled "Short Stories in Verse.") I' 
 
20 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Montague Glass places "The Belled Buzzard" second 
 best of the stories he knows. Point out its good features. 
 He places O. Henry's "Municipal Report" first. Professor 
 Albert Wilson of New York University thinks "A Muni- 
 cipal Report" the finest example of the short story ever 
 produced in America. (See "O. Henry Biography," by C. 
 Alphonso Smith, page 231.) 
 
 See The Booknian for June, 1914, for ten lists of ten 
 preferred O. Henry stories. "An Unfinished Story" is 
 mentioned seven times. Account for its popularity. 
 
 In The New York Times, January 25, 1914, twenty- 
 four authors answered the question, "What is the best short- 
 story in English?" Stevenson's "A Lodging for the Night" 
 and Bret Harte's "Outcasts of Poker Flat" led the rest as 
 favourites. What are the elements in these stories which 
 make for longevity? 
 
 Read Professor Matthews's "Story of a Story," observing 
 the emphasis on the fight (physical struggle). 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 
 
 Three stages of story making; logical beginnings; sugges- 
 tions for treatment of situation; character as a starting 
 point; place as the germ; importance of situation or 
 incident; practical value of this exercise; the germi- 
 nating process; Stevenson; avoidance of the trivial and 
 hackneyed; value of the news column; method of using 
 it; testimony of short-story writers as to starting points: 
 Henry James; George Barr McCutcheon; Ellis Parker 
 Butler; Henry Van Dyke; Margaret Cameron; the re- 
 porters; Professor Matthews; H. C. Banner; Booth 
 Tarkington ; Kathleen Norris ; Algernon Blackwood ; 
 Frederick S. Greene ; Eleanor Hallowell Abbott. 
 
 "The short-story is a narrative artistically pre- 
 senting characters in a struggle or complication." 
 How shall one set about its production? Many 
 authors seem unable to retrace the genesis of their 
 narratives. Seemingly, they have only to obey an 
 inner voice which commands them, "Write 1" But 
 for others the process is one of growth, sometimes 
 painful growth. (In fact, it is safe to assert that, 
 in general, easy writing of the short-story makes 
 hard reading, and vice versa.) Poe, who declared 
 
22 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 that he could recover all the steps by which he 
 arrived at a finished poem, a fortiori constructed his 
 stories from ground plan to roof tree, keenly aware 
 of every value as it contributed to the general effect. 
 It is the doctrine and the practice of the Father of 
 the short-story which justify the teaching and the 
 learning of its structure. 
 
 If, then, we reduce short-story making to its im- 
 portant stages, we have the initial step of capturing 
 the story, the second of elaborating plot, and the 
 third of developing the narrative. Since the main 
 elements of narrative are action and character, the 
 logical bases of narrative are people, occurrences 
 or events, and situations. The writer who has 
 learned his craft ordinarily begins with the persons 
 of his story; the student may well follow the expe- 
 rienced writer's example. But he should beware of 
 stopping at a mere character sketch. So likewise if 
 he begins with occurrences, he should not be content 
 with the presentation of an even flowing series of 
 events. He needs first of all to recognise and search 
 for situation. By situation, I mean climax or crisis 
 for some character, a climax which suggests drama- 
 tic values. Now, almost any clear-minded writer 
 can conceive or devise an interesting situation; but 
 he experiences difficulty in so treating It as to 
 strengthen its significance, and throw its salient fea- 
 tures into high light. As a matter of fact, for the 
 beginner the process is simple, consisting primarily 
 in the application of a few questions. The value of 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 23 
 
 the answers to these self-propounded questions will 
 determine, so far as rough material is concerned, the 
 worth of the final product. Suppose, for example, 
 the situation is that of a dead body in a ceiling. 
 "How did it happen to be there?" "Who killed 
 the person or animal?" "Why?" "Was it a mur- 
 der?" "Where is the murderer?" Such queries 
 should precede the determination of the situation as 
 a terminus ad quern or a terminus ah quo. The 
 writer who thinks tritely and without rejection will 
 probably recall the brindle cat, which happened to 
 fall upon the poisoned cheese placed for the mouse. 
 It is doubtful that he would create from the germ 
 a story worth reading. But Kipling put a dead cat 
 in a ceiling for other and entirely effective reasons, 
 as all "Stalky" readers know. Again, suppose that 
 to the question, "Where is the murderer?" the writer 
 gives himself the answer, "On the premises," he 
 has suggested already the possibility of a thrilling 
 moment. Suppose he thinks of a thief entrapped in 
 a room with a dead body, and so made to appear 
 as the murderer. He will ask himself further, "How 
 was the thief entrapped?" "Who really did the 
 killing?" "How will the trapped one attempt to 
 free himself?" "What will be the outcome of the 
 struggle ?" 
 
 This brief exercise has dealt with the physiological 
 or physical situation. Just as well, the situation may 
 first present itself as psychological. For example, a 
 person tells falsehood after falsehood. "Why?" 
 
24 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 "To whom?" "What are the falsehoods?" "What 
 is the result of telling them?" The average mind, 
 again, thinks of a too commonplace concrete instance : 
 the small girl tells her mother falsehoods because 
 she does not wish to be punished after wrong-doing. 
 But Alice Brown takes the case of an habitually 
 honest woman, who tells "white lies" to her hus- 
 band. The reader finds the reason adequate, the 
 result satisfactory. In the finally developed story of 
 "A Day Off." Cornelia Comer's "Preliminaries" is 
 based on interesting human relations: "Young Oli- 
 ver Pickersgill was in love with Peter Lannithome's 
 daughter. Peter Lannithorne was serving a six-year 
 term in the penitentiary for embezzlement." This 
 beginning might have been the germinal idea. The 
 questions that arise over such a situation are, logic- 
 ally, "Who will object?" "What does the girl say?" 
 "What does her father think?" "What is the atti- 
 tude of the young man's parents?" Illustrations 
 might be multiplied superfluously to establish the 
 obvious. Whatever the situation, comic or tragic, 
 physical or psychological, this business of question 
 and answer will reveal to the writer his fertility 
 or lack of it; his dependence on the trite or his 
 perception of the necessity to get away from the 
 commonplace; It will teach him resourcefulness, or 
 prove to him that he altogether lacks Ingenuity and 
 would therefore better give up story writing before 
 he begins it. 
 
 The student who is determined to write stories. 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 25 
 
 however, should pause here and devise at least a 
 dozen situations to test his inventiveness. If he has 
 not native originality this is the first point in his 
 training where he may set about acquiring it. 
 
 It was observed above that the character makes a 
 good starting point, and further that danger lies in 
 developing merely a character sketch. To avoid this 
 side-switching upon another track than that of the 
 short-story, the writer should first of all place his 
 character in a situation. Writers who affirm that 
 their characters spin out their own destiny mean only 
 this, that the character suggests — or is placed in — a 
 situation which is then handled according to the 
 method indicated in the paragraphs above. Suppose, 
 for example, one wishes to put a braggart into a 
 story. "In what situation would he play a brag- 
 gart's part?" "What character would offset him?" 
 "What struggle can I invent between the boaster and 
 his foil?" "Whom will the reader wish to see vic- 
 torious?" 
 
 Since action and character presuppose place, the 
 locale may be the first element in the situation. 
 "Certain dank gardens cry aloud for a murder; cer- 
 tain old houses demand to be haunted; certain coasts 
 are set apart for shipwreck." This often quoted 
 dictum of Stevenson's, generalised, means that cer- 
 tain places are fit for certain happenings. If to this 
 setting, then, is given the fitting occurrence, the proc- 
 ess of harmonising details has already begun. The 
 "single effect" ideal is In conservation. Since a 
 
26 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 locale is inseparable from atmosphere, the author s 
 feeling induced by the place will be the origin of 
 that atmosphere which finally bathes the finished 
 story in its intangible yet powerful presence. Steven- 
 son's "The Merry Men" had its origin in the feel- 
 ings excited by certain Islands off the West Coast of 
 Scotland. 
 
 Apart from these obvious starting points, others 
 which offer themselves may be treated in a similar 
 manner. If the author wishes to illustrate a thesis, 
 he must find his situation to serve as the medium 
 for his exposition or argument. O. Henry's "The 
 Theory and the Hound" probably arose from the 
 consideration of the statement that a man who is 
 kind to dogs is cruel to women. A facial expres- 
 sion may be suflicient. Henry James has declared it 
 is an incident for a woman to stand with her hand 
 resting on a table and look out at you in a certain 
 way. A single act, though slight in itself, may serve 
 the more objective writer. As some one has said, O. 
 Henry would wish to know what the Henry James 
 lady ordered from the menu. A name, a title, a 
 dream, a new invention, a memory, an idea — any- 
 thing in the earth physical or mental has possible 
 value as a starting point ; for it may draw interesting 
 ideas to itself, by the laws of correlation. To catch 
 the suitable suggestions, to hold them fast and to 
 reject the unsuitable — this is not always easy. But 
 the clever situation, the suitable Incident, must be 
 eventually employed. "The desire for knowledge, 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 27 
 
 I had almost added the desire for meat, is not more 
 deeply seated than this demand for fit and striking 
 incident," Stevenson aptly says in "A Gossip on Ro- 
 mance." Given the character of Robinson Crusoe, 
 what would you think of him without his situation? If 
 one will do a little research work and make a list 
 of the stories having shipwreck and the desert island 
 sequence as the central features, he will have cause 
 to reflect on the value of De Foe's initiative. Irv- 
 ing's "The Stout Gentleman" grew out of a recog- 
 nition by the author, as he heard the phrase, that It 
 would make an excellent title; from the title thus 
 adopted he spun his sketch. The sketch does not 
 quite attain the story form, although it excites the 
 curiosity of the reader and holds him in suspense. 
 As an illustration just here, then, it has a two-fold 
 value; Irving's development of the Idea is a noble 
 example of literature consciously created from a 
 small origin; it also bears witness that without a 
 striking incident or situation no story exists. 
 
 These are elementary methods. But the present 
 writer is convinced that students who earnestly desire 
 to write stories, and who have a gift for narrative, 
 frequently need to become acquainted with the the- 
 ory of origins. One occasionally hears the advice to 
 young writers, "Let your thought germinate." Ger- 
 mination presupposes rain and sun and perhaps a 
 friendly breeze, if the seed and the earth unite to 
 produce. Otherwise a dead seed in hard soil is the 
 end of the sowing. The ur^ng into growth of a 
 
28 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 story is a natural process, not more mechanical than 
 the urging of the seed into the full grown plant. If 
 a man sets a trap to catch sunbeams, and if he nurses 
 his seedlings out of season, he is using mechanical 
 means to aid nature. Without pursuing the analogy 
 too far, we may observe that the forced germ — 
 which is the antithesis of the non-developing germ — 
 may result in a mere exotic product. Finally, I 
 quote from "A Humble Remonstrance" for empha- 
 sising the point that elementary methods are neces- 
 sary for the student who is training in narrative: 
 "The young writer will not so much be helped by 
 genial pictures of what an art may aspire to at 
 its highest, as by a true picture of what it must 
 be at its lowest terms." So here, as elsewhere in 
 this volume, the writer's purpose is to help construc- 
 tively and from the beginning. 
 
 In working with the germinal idea, shun triviality. 
 A story may be developed according to excellent rea- 
 son, but may be ineffective through its lack of signifi- 
 cance. A second caution is : Flee from the hack- 
 neyed. The young writer in particular is prone to 
 this misfortune, first because he has not read com- 
 prehensively, and again because certain "striking 
 situations" appeal to him as they have appealed to 
 his literary ancestors. It is true that if he is greatly 
 original in his development, he may repeat so well 
 what has already been accomplished, that his story 
 will supersede the others. For example, a line drawn 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 29 
 
 so as to cut a room in half has been repeatedly em- 
 ployed as a story idea. "Told in the Poorhouse" 
 and "Joint Owners in Spain," by Miss Alice Brown, 
 are two stories which embody it. Recently a student 
 of mine came across this sentence in Stevenson's 
 "Edinburgh Notes" : "A chalk-line drawn upon the 
 floor separated their two domains; it bisected the 
 doorway and the fireplace, so that each could go 
 out and in and do her cooking, without violating 
 the territory of the other." Thinking the idea novel, 
 the student constructed a story upon it, which, in 
 some respects, was superior to its prototypes. As 
 an artistic piece of work the story was successful, 
 but it would not have been written if the author had 
 been aware she was repeating. 
 
 Life is brimful; it has been overflowing in these 
 years of war. If the golden day of conte writing 
 is, as I believe, not at four o'clock, but ten, the 
 short-story of the next decade will shine more splen- 
 did than ever. The life of every man, woman, and 
 child should be full enough of incident to give origin 
 to volumes of stories. No one should lack nowadays 
 for new starting points. Some writers will work 
 best, at the outset, with material that is far enough 
 away to lend perspective and fire the imagination. 
 Ultimately, they will catch the significance of the 
 truth that fiction is a reflection of life, and will rely 
 upon the near and known for their sources. 
 
 In the earlier attempts at story production, no 
 author need despise the columns of the newspaper. 
 
30 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Adaptation of foreign material affords in itself a 
 valuable training in strengthening the powers of se- 
 lection and rejection. Does the item you have chosen 
 happen to exploit a person or persons whose type 
 you know and can handle ? Or must your imagina- 
 tion do the work of actual knowledge? Is the 
 nationality one whose idiom you can represent? 
 Does the setting fit the character and the action ? Or 
 must you do the work of harmonising, by changing 
 locale to fit character? How much time will the 
 action require? Is there a good struggle at hand 
 or must you invent one? Has the item sufficient 
 novelty? Is It a truth too strange for the repre- 
 sentative character of fiction? Such a series of ques- 
 tions will demolish the item as a starting point or 
 will determine its possibilities for the writer who is 
 considering it. 
 
 Of recent years story tellers have kindly let the 
 public into the secrets of their creative processes. 
 Few authors seem willing or able to tell how the 
 parts of the plot linked themselves together; but most 
 of them recall the germinal idea. Of the earlier 
 writers, Hawthorne is an instance. His "American 
 Note-Books," familiar to most readers, need no cita- 
 tion here. But the student unacquainted with Haw- 
 thorne's practice will do well to consult them. Mr. 
 Henry James, who recorded in his "Prefaces" ^ facts 
 about the growth of his stories, revealed that his 
 
 '"Collected Works," Copyright, 1909, by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 31 
 
 was a fertile mind for the reception of germs that 
 fell out in conversation. He says about the starting 
 point of "The Tree of Knowledge": "I recover 
 exceptionally the sense of the grain of suggestion, 
 the tiny air-blown particle. In presence of a small 
 interesting example of a young artist long dead, and 
 whom I had yet briefly seen and was to remember 
 with kindness, a friend had made, thanks to a still 
 greater personal knowledge of him and his quasi- 
 conspicuous father, one of those brief remarks that 
 the dramatist feels as fertilising. 'And then,' the 
 lady had said in allusion to certain troubled first steps 
 of the young man's career, to complications of con- 
 sciousness that had made his early death perhaps 
 less strange and less lamentable, even though super- 
 ficially more tragic, 'and then he had found his 
 father out artistically, having grown up in so happy 
 a personal relation with him only to feel, at last, 
 quite awfully, that he didn't and couldn't believe in 
 him.' That fell on one's ears, of course, only to 
 prompt the inward cry, 'How can there not possibly 
 be all sorts of good things in it?' " Again, with 
 reference to the starting point of "The Author of 
 Beltrafl5[o," he remarks, "It had been said of an emi- 
 nent author . . . 'his wife objects intensely to what 
 he writes. She can't bear it, and that naturally 
 creates a tension.' Here had come the air-blown 
 grain which, lodged in a handful of kindly earth, 
 was to produce the story of Mark Ambient." 
 At an extreme from Henry James, George Barr 
 
32 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 McCutcheon dreams the plots and situations of his 
 stories.^ Most of his dreams are forgotten, but 
 some are jotted down. "Usually these preserved 
 are found in the bright light of day too grotesque 
 for any purpose ; the idea that at the moment seemed 
 one of the great new ideas of the world is nothing 
 more than a tangle of joyous absurdities." But 
 occasionally they are good. "The Day of the Dog" 
 was dreamed up to a certain point. When the story 
 as originally drafted was sent to McClure's Maga- 
 zine, the editor wrote Mr. McCutcheon that the 
 story would not do. He "feared the author would 
 be accused of trying to do another 'The Lady or 
 the Tiger' and the curious readers would rise and 
 curse story, author, and magazine." A further fact 
 of interest in regard to the improved story is seen in 
 the idea that came to the author for solution. "When 
 a bull dog once takes hold, he never lets go," the 
 author recalled. The denouement of the story proves 
 to what advantage he used the saying, itself a germ 
 for the latter part of the plot. Katherine Fullerton 
 Gerould has also stated that she dreamed the plot 
 of one of her stories.* 
 
 An anecdote as the germinal idea of a story is a 
 different thing from the anecdote which is expanded 
 into story form. According to Ellis Parker Butler, 
 an anecdote furnished him with one of the two main 
 
 ' See The Bookman, February, 1914, page 585. 
 'Lecture at Bryn Mawr, January 15, 1915. 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 33 
 
 ideas* on which he built his well known narrative, 
 "Pigs Is Pigs." 
 
 Similarly, an incident was used as the foundation 
 for what I regard as Mr. Henry Van Dyke's best 
 story, "The Night Call." 
 
 A repeated situaticfti originated Margaret Cam- 
 eron's "Golden Rule Dolliver" stories. "The DoUi- 
 ver series started in my mind," Mrs. Cameron writes, 
 "much as they did in the first story. During one 
 hot and humid summer, my husband amused himself 
 by devising humorous curses to heap upon the heads 
 of the indifferent persons who rolled past us with 
 empty seats in their tonneaus, while we sweltered on 
 the curb, longing for the car we could not afford. 
 One day it occurred to me to wonder what would 
 happen if one undertook to put his altruistic theories 
 into practice — and the series of Dolliver stories was 
 the result. I tried to think first of the sort of person 
 one would naturally wish to pick up and carry on a 
 little way, and then what that sort of person might 
 naturally understand or attempt under such circum- 
 stances." ^ 
 
 Of authors illustrating the reporting instinct in 
 the choice of ideas for their stories, De Maupassant, 
 Kipling and Richard Harding Davis will serve to 
 represent, respectively, the spirit in France, India 
 and America. In "Afloat" De Maupassant devotes 
 a number of pages to the description of an old couple 
 
 'See Neii) York Times, November i, 1914. 
 'Personal letter, January, 1915. 
 
34 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 of whom he had heard and whom he twice visited. 
 Part of what he there narrates is produced in "Hap- 
 piness." * 
 
 Kipling's experience in India and his observations 
 there underlie his earlier stories. And no one can 
 read "The Eyes of Asia" without the impression 
 that the author must know well the character of the 
 East Indian and likewise must be familiar with the 
 battlefields in France. Richard Harding Davis il- 
 lustrates the methods of the reporter, from his first 
 successful story down to his latest volume. "Gal- 
 legher" is a self-confessed "newspaper story," as the 
 first of the collection "Somewhere in France" is an 
 outcome of his experiences and observations with 
 the armies in Europe. 
 
 Among writers who have used the news column 
 are Professor Brander Matthews and his friend 
 the late Henry C. Bunner,'^ Booth Tarkington,® and 
 Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The use Sir Conan made 
 of the Agony Column has become famous. Kathleen 
 Norris's "Rising Water" was suggested by a news 
 clipping, the substance of which was transferred by 
 
 'He was too wise to mar the art of his fiction by the addition 
 of facts which, gathered at the second visit, turn the beauty of 
 the real story into bitterest irony. 
 
 ' See "Tales of Fantasy and Fact," Harper and Brothers, 1896, 
 page 213, for note on "The Twinkling of an Eye." 
 
 ' See The Bookman, February, 1914, for the letter or its approxi- 
 mate, which, sent to the Letter Department devoted to matters of 
 "amatory etiquette," caught Mr. Tarkington's fancy and started 
 "Cherry." 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 35 
 
 the author from Mississippi to California. Mrs. 
 Norris knows California, and in the transference 
 made use of the principle above suggested that the 
 locale should be one easily imagined or one with 
 which the writer is familiar. 
 
 As as example of one who cannot use this ab initio 
 method, Algernon Blackwood writes by what is usu- 
 ally termed "inspiration." 
 
 . . . "I can only say that these [short-stories] 
 come to me of their own accord, or not at all; I 
 never can sit down and write one to order. An emo- 
 tion, clothing itself instantly in dramatic incident, is 
 the secret probably. But to say this is not, I know, 
 to explain it. The atmosphere certainly comes from 
 feeling it. I cannot work up atmosphere artificially. 
 Unless I feel it myself, it is not in the story . . . 
 
 "As so many of my stories flash upon me with 
 suddenness, come to me first in the form of dreams, 
 or show themselves in that state of half-consciousness 
 when one lies between sleeping and full waking, I 
 may not be far wrong in guessing that it is the sub- 
 consciousness that first prepares them. Then some 
 commonplace incident of the day taps this subcon- 
 scious content — and the idea in story form emerges. 
 I am the more inclined to think this is the case, 
 inasmuch as I can never say, 'Now I'll sit down and 
 write a story about this or that.' I cannot deliber- 
 ately manufacture one. And, often enough, the story 
 emerges by the wrong end, upside down, so to speak. 
 I get the end before I know the beginning: as if. 
 
36 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 though complete already in the subconscious mind, 
 a loose end poked up first. But the rest invariably 
 follows, is pulled out. If not, and if it fails me, 
 hides again or disappears, I stop. For I never can 
 invent the rest of it. . . . 
 
 "I will give you a short example. The idea came 
 to me of a young man, just about to leave for Egypt, 
 going to a clairvoyant to please the girl he was en- 
 gaged to. It did not interest him, at all; he just 
 went. And the clairvoyant said, 'You will drown, 
 but you will not know you drown.' It was this sen-^ 
 tence that came to me first. I 'felt' a complete story 
 behind it, though I did not know what it was going 
 to be, much less in what way the curious sentence 
 could justify itself. If I thought about it, I should 
 lose it. I sat down and wrote therefore at once. 
 It was a short story for the Westminster Gazette, 
 published April 1 8, 1914.^ It ran on smoothly of its 
 own accord, but until the very end I did not con- 
 sciously know how that sentence would come in and 
 make the climax. The ^rl, being alarmed, makes 
 him promise to be careful of water; but in Egypt 
 there is no water except the Nile. He avoids the 
 Nile ! The prophecy is entirely forgotten. A year 
 later, on the eve of sailing home to marry, he is 
 thrown from his horse in the desert, injured; the 
 horse bolts, and he is lost for twenty-four hours, 
 suffers from heat and thirst, and becomes ultimately 
 
 •"By Water" is included in Mr. Blackwood's "Day and Night 
 Stories," E. P. Dutton, 1917. 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 37 
 
 a little delirious. A search party, he knows, will 
 come eventually. He lies upon a mound of sand so 
 as to be visible. He becomes unconscious. At last 
 the party comes. Though unconscious, his nerves 
 note the sound of hoofs and automatically make 
 the muscles twitch. The body moves — just enough 
 to lose its balance on the steep mound of sand. It 
 rolls slowly down the side — into a pool of water, 
 one of those rare pools the Bedouins keep jealously 
 to themselves. But, being unconscious, he does not 
 know he rolls, does not know he sinks. He drowns 
 • — but does not know he drowns. . . ." * 
 
 It is undoubtedly true that many an author has 
 been unconsciously guided thus to produce excellent 
 results. But the student will best follow the example 
 of those who plan consciously from a definite be- 
 ginning. 
 
 Captain Frederick Stuart Greene, whom the pres- 
 ent writer has had the pleasure of teaching the craft 
 of story making, writes about the origin of "The 
 Black Pool," telling how its synthesis was effected: 
 "There is on the north shore of Long Island a 
 long narrow pond. It is surrounded by locust trees, 
 their tops for the most part dead, and beneath them, 
 growing to the water's edge, a tangled mass of cat 
 brier and underbrush. The surface is inky black, 
 and as the pool is narrow the sun strikes the water 
 only at mid-day. The surface is usually without a 
 
 "Private letter, April 19, 1915, to Miss Thoma, a student of the 
 present writer, with privilege of publication. 
 
38 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 ripple and reflections are clearly though blackly 
 shown. 
 
 "Every time I have seen this pool, and whenever I 
 think of it, my thoughts set on tragic courses and 
 It takes some time to rid myself of the gloom. When 
 the plot of the brothers had shaped itself I could 
 think of no other setting for the tale, or rather I 
 thought of the pool and the idea of a murderer see- 
 ing the face of his victim on its surface, and from 
 this the plot grew." 
 
 Eleanor Hallowell Abbott says in "The Mean 
 Little Town" : 
 
 "First of all, somewhere on the dingy street or in the 
 crowded cars or at a bright coloured party, Fate fairly 
 bumps you into an amazing incident. This amazing inci- 
 dent, in turn, caroms you o£E most abruptly against a new 
 idea. Embarrassed by your intrusion into the amazing in- 
 cident, bruised by your impact with the new idea, half- 
 laughing, half-crying, you find yourself all keyed up to such 
 a great state of emotional disturbance that you feel just 
 literally impelled to snatch up the amazing incident and 
 shake it, and deliver it over in toto to the first sympathetic 
 person you meet. 
 
 "Then your cool brain that is always so annoyingly strict 
 with you joggles its inky fingers right in your face and 
 says: 
 
 " 'No, no ! You mustn't touch that amazing incident, 
 because amazing incidents always and invariably belong to 
 other people — and must not under any circumstances be 
 given away! But you can have this new idea if you want 
 to, because new ideas are wild things and there's not even 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 39 
 
 a game law on them. All I have to know,' warns your 
 brain, 'is that you really and truly want this new idea.' 
 
 "'Why, of course, I want it!' you retort a trifle snap- 
 pily, 'Why, I haven't had a new idea since a week ago, 
 Sunday!' 
 
 " 'Oh, very well, then,' smiles your calm brain, 'Oh, very 
 well, then, hand me over immediately all your emotional 
 interest in your amazing incident — ^your shock, your sur- 
 prise, your anger, your joy, your approval, voux contempt 
 — any feeling at all as long as it honestly does constitute 
 a big feeling — and I will take a little paper and a little ink 
 and a few punctuation marks and vitalise them into a brand 
 new incident for your new idea to live in, so that you can 
 bring that new idea boldly home and raise it honourably 
 as your own, and no inquisitive person will even remotely 
 suspect that you adopted it from your brother Dick's ro- 
 mance with the Cuban school-teacher, or from the confes- 
 sion the conductor made to you the day your car \v;is stalled 
 in the subway, or from the great bunch of white lilacs that 
 the Italian fruit pedlar sends your mother every thirteenth 
 of January.' 
 
 "So out of the accident of a moment, the anger of a sec- 
 ond, the rapture of an instant, your brain proceeds then and 
 there, very laboriously, very painstakingly, through days 
 and weeks and months perhaps of sleeplessness and worry 
 ;ind reluctantiv sacrificed pleasures, to create for you what 
 it promised you — a brand neM' incident for your new idea 
 to live and flourish in. 
 
 "Behold, then^the story!" 
 
 After Mrs. Abbott has told the story of a young 
 man who was kept at home in the country because 
 
40 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 of his duty to his aged grandfather, she ends by 
 divulging her starting point: 
 
 "One morning last summer I saw a great gorgeous yellow 
 butterfly, so great, so gorgeous, so altogether miraculous 
 that it almost broke my heart to think it could live only a 
 day. 
 
 " 'But short as a day may seem to you, a day is a full 
 life-time to the butterfly,' argued the philosophical person 
 close beside me. 
 
 " 'Oh, yes, I know that. But this particular day, you see, 
 was a rainy day. And the yellow butterfly's wings were so 
 bedraggled with the weather — all around him — that he 
 never got any chance at all to fly.' " 
 
 No short-Story author has hinted more suggest- 
 ively of the germinating process. 
 
 The student, however, who needs explicit help 
 vi'ill find It more definitely in the succeeding chapters. 
 
 Exercises for Chapter II 
 
 Have you read stories emphasising any of the following 
 situations, or similar situations? What are they? If you 
 find that one of the situations has value for you as a starting 
 point, write a story about it. 
 
 A novice rides a dangerous horse. 
 
 An old man is turned out after long service. 
 
 A criminal is married to one who believes him (her) 
 innocent. 
 
 A child plays with an imaginary playmate. 
 
 An old lady desires to hr < church sexton. 
 
THE INCEPTION OF THE STORY 41 
 
 A bridegroom fails to appear. 
 
 A poor person imitates one of wealth. 
 
 One destroys a garden. 
 
 One is murdered where he had meant to murder another. 
 
 A person masks his features with a veil. 
 
 A civilised Indian reverts to type. 
 
 A servant kills his master. 
 
 One makes three wishes on a charm. 
 
 A man is obsessed by the idea that he is set apart for 
 great things. 
 
 Two failures meet. 
 
 An American girl breaks her engagement with a noble- 
 man. 
 
 One doomed comforts another. 
 
 A man scorns the flag of his country. 
 
 Two feudists meet at a dancing party. 
 
 A man transfers his clothing to another (tragic purpose, 
 comic purpose). 
 
 A man (woman, child) falls overboard a vessel. 
 
 Women in a race win against men contestants. 
 
 Hidden treasure is found. 
 
 One pushes another from a cliff. 
 
 A dog is killed in a fight (sympathy with victor, sym- 
 pathy with defeated). 
 
 A house and its occupants are engulfed. 
 
 A wife fails to recognise the essential greatness of her 
 husband. 
 
 A person driven by fear assumes bravery. 
 
 Read Chekov's "Polinka" for a contrast between the ap- 
 parent and the real situations. 
 
 Read "A Letter and a Paragraph," by H. C. Bunner. 
 
 W. D. Howell's "A Sleep and a Forgetting" uses two 
 
42 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 similar situations for developing the theme, "If a person 
 lose her memory through one great shock, she may find it 
 through another." Have you read a story using repetition 
 of situation for some purpose other than this? What is the 
 significance of Morgan Robertson's title, "Closing the Cir- 
 cuit," with reference to the situation? 
 
 What is the significance of Bierce's title, "The Horseman 
 in the Sky," in connection with the situation? 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 PLOT : PRELIMINARIES 
 
 Inductive method; review of anecdote and Incident; defini- 
 tion of anecdote; class divisions; examples of typical 
 anecdotes; structure; rules; relation to short-story; defi- 
 nition of Incident; distinctions between it and anecdote; 
 illustration; analysis; relation to short-story; dividing 
 line sometimes erased; unmistakable distinction between 
 Incident and story of two lines of interest. 
 
 "The most important of the constitutive elements is the 
 Plot, the organisation of the incidents of the story. . . . 
 The Plot is the First Principle, and, as it were, the very 
 Soul of Tragedy."— Aristotle's "The Art of Poetry." 
 
 After finding the story, after the characters and 
 main action appear, the next step is that of con- 
 structing a plot. It is the purpose of this section 
 to induct the student into the principles of plot mak- 
 ing by a brief review of two simple narrative forms, 
 the anecdote and the Incident. Each is built on a 
 ground plan which has features in common with 
 that of the short-story. The writer who is familiar 
 with plot origins may pass on to the next chapter; 
 
 43 
 
44 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 but the novice who desires plot instruction from 
 the beginning should linger here. 
 
 By anecdote, I mean the briefest form of narra- 
 tive built according to a plan. The anecdote pre- 
 sents a trait of character, a situation for eliciting 
 or displaying the trait, and a dramatic moment in 
 which It appears. The dramatic moment is fre- 
 quently termed the point, nub or snapper. Reduced 
 to formula. 
 
 Trait -|- situation -\- dramatic moment = anecdote. 
 
 The characteristic trait may be mentioned in the 
 beginning or it may be held in reserve up to the 
 dramatic moment. As Mark Twain comments,^ 
 any one may learn to tell this story with a point, 
 typically French, as opposed to the more difficult 
 and typically American humorous story. Yet every 
 one recalls lamentable failures in making the point, 
 failures resulting in unconscious humour such as 
 Mark Twain describes. These failures arise usually 
 from a disregard for structural principles. Before 
 examining with reference to plan, the anecdotes 
 offered below, the student should recall the various 
 divisions of the type: there Is the story which 
 directs Its barb against the professional class, — ^the 
 lawyer, the teacher, the physician; or against cer- 
 tain time-honoured relations, — ^the mother-in-law, 
 the hen-pecked husband; the story told at the ex- 
 pense of national traits, — the shrewdness of the 
 
 ^"How to Tell a Story." 
 
PLOT: PRELIMINARIES 45 
 
 Scotch, the stolidity of the English; or personal 
 traits, frankness, simplicity, absent-mindedness, cu- 
 pidity and the like. 
 
 Now in the following examples, which are ob- 
 viously typical, one pattern or plan serves for all: 
 
 1. Farmer Reed went to the house of his neighbour 
 Farmer Norris to buy a bushel of corn. Mr. Norris was 
 away, but Mrs. Norris undertook to oblige the would-be 
 purchaser. 
 
 Having secured a peck measure, and led the way to the 
 corn-crib, she filled the measure twice and emptied the con- 
 tents into the bag. Then she began to tie it up. 
 
 "But — wait!" remonstrated Farmer Reed, "it takes four 
 pecks to make a bushel." 
 
 "Oh, does it?" Mrs. Norris asked languidly. "Such mat- 
 ters are entirely out of my province. You see, before I was 
 married I always taught school." 
 
 2. When Mr. Hume began to be known in the world 
 as a philosopher, Mr. White, a decent, rich merchant of 
 London, said to him: "I am surprised, Mr. Hume, that a 
 man of your good sense should think of being a philosopher. 
 Why, I now took it into my head to be a philosopher for 
 some time, but tired of it most confoundedly, and very 
 soon gave it up.'' 
 
 "Pray, sir," said Mr. Hume, "in what branch of philoso- 
 phy did you employ your researches? What books did you 
 read?" 
 
 "Books?" said Mr. White. "Nay, sir, I read no books, 
 but I used to sit you whole forenoons a-yawning and poking 
 the fire."— Boswell's "Johnson," Hill, III, 346. 
 
46 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 3. Governor Bob Taylor was once taking luncheon 
 when his servitor Sam appeared with the news that a dele- 
 gation of important politicians was awaiting him below. 
 
 "Tell them that I'll be down in a minute, Sam," said 
 the Governor. 
 
 "Sam," said Mrs. Taylor, "tell them that the Governor 
 will be down in half an hour." 
 
 "Yassum," said Sam. 
 
 The Governor turned around impatiently and said, "Sam, 
 tell them I'll be down immediately." 
 
 "Tell them, Sam," said Mrs. Taylor, "that the Governor 
 will be there in half an hour." 
 
 The Governor was outraged. "Sam," said he majesti- 
 cally, "do you know who the Governor of Tennessee is?" 
 
 "Yassuh; yassuh; yass 'ndeed, sah," said Sam. "I'll tell 
 'em you'll be down in half an hour, sah." — Adapted from 
 New York Times, April i, 1912. 
 
 4. "When you had the measles, Mr. Archibald, you had 
 them gey and ill; and I thought you were going to slip 
 between my fingers," he said. "Well, your father was 
 anxious. How did I know it? says you? Simply because I 
 am a trained observer. The sign that I saw him make, ten 
 thousand would have missed; and perhaps — perhaps, I say, 
 because he's a hard man to judge of — ^but perhaps he never 
 made another. A strange thing to consider! It was this. 
 One day I came to him: 'Hermiston,' said I, 'there's a 
 change.' He never said a word, just glowered at me (if 
 ye'll pardon the phrase) like a wild beast. 'A change for 
 the better,' said I. And I distinctly heard him take his 
 breath." 
 
 The doctor left no opportunity for anti-climax; nodding 
 
PLOT: PRELIMINARIES 47 
 
 his cocked hat (a piece of antiquity to which he clung) and 
 repeating "Distinctly" with raised eyebrows, he took his 
 departure, and left Archie speechless in the street.^ 
 
 5. Here is an example of audacious and ingenious re- 
 sourcefulness. . . . 
 
 A baker's barrow was standing unattended in a side 
 street when a shabby man, by his appearance hard up and 
 evidently out of work, looking round and seeing no onq 
 about, lifted the lid and quickly abstracted two loaves. He 
 had one in each hand just as the baker came out of a gate- 
 way close by. 
 
 The baker rushed up, and in a loud voice demanded 
 what he was doing there. 
 
 The man calmly commenced weighing the loaves one 
 against the other ; then, turning to the baker, said : 
 
 "I was just wondering whether your loaf was heavier 
 than mine, as my baker gives short weight!" 
 
 "You put my loaf down and clear out of it." 
 
 The man immediately dropped one back into the barrow, 
 and with the exclamation, "All right, old chap, don't get 
 nasty," made a rapid retreat with the other loaf. Con- 
 tributed to Strand Magazine, July, 191 1. 
 
 These stories all consist of a situation and a 
 dramatic moment wherein is revealed the trait which 
 may have been expressed previously or omitted. If 
 in Number i the narrator had begun, "The follow- 
 ing story illustrates the ignorance of teachers," he 
 would have betrayed his point or weakened its 
 
 "From "Weir of Hermiston," by R. L. Stevenson, copyright, 1896, 
 by Charles Scribner's Sons. 
 
48 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 effect; hence he omits the trait. Number 2 also 
 wisely refrains from a statement to the -effect that 
 it will illustrate the popular opinion of philosophers. 
 The double edge, moreover, cuts two ways, baring 
 also the ignorance of the "decent, rich merchant." 
 Number 3 dispenses with a remark which a bungler 
 might have made that the Governor told the story 
 as an instance of his being subject to his wife's 
 authority. In Number 5, in the words, "Your 
 father was anxious," Stevenson does not betray 
 through the Doctor the specific evidence of anxiety, 
 and is not therefore inartistic. That Archie stood 
 "speechless in the street" proves the stunning force 
 for him of the dramatic moment, "I distinctly heard 
 him take his breath." Nor, for similar reasons, is 
 the climax of Number 5 blunted, though the pre- 
 fixed statement is not necessary. 
 
 The chief rules for the anecdote writer are these: 
 I. State as economically as possible the situation; 
 for if the situation is too much expanded or told at 
 length the point may dwindle by comparison and 
 seem trivial. In common parlance, the story will 
 "fall flat." 2. Hold the point in reserve, and if 
 necessary the trait. 3. End on the point. Such 
 procedure employs the structural principles of sus- 
 pense, proportion, and of climax with perhaps sur- 
 prise ; not in themselves forming plot, but distinctive 
 characteristics of plot. 
 
 These elements suggest the kinship of the anec- 
 dote and the short-story, whose patterns are by no 
 
PLOT: PRELIMINARIES 49 
 
 means the same. It is true that many short-stories 
 are anecdotal.® O. Henry's "A Lickpenny Lover," 
 "The Romance of a Busy Broker," and "A Comedy 
 in Rubber" are anecdotes, farcical anecdotes, ex- 
 panded. They are readable and enjoyable, but this 
 fact has nothing to do with the genre to which they 
 belong. "A Lickpenny Lover," for example, might 
 be put into a form no longer than this : 
 
 The young man was imploring the young lady to be his 
 own. 
 
 "Only say that you will be mine!" he cried, "I long to 
 fly with you from the sordidness of the life you must lead; 
 it would be bliss to introduce to you the pleasures of a 
 world far from Billington's Department Store. We would 
 row to the tune of the gondolier's song, would visit India 
 and Japan, would ride in 'rikishas and toboggan over the 
 H imalayas, ' ' 
 
 She turned cold eyes upon him. "Can't you do better 
 than Coney for a wedding trip?" 
 
 And she rose and left him. 
 
 In general, do not use the longer form for convey- 
 ing material amply accommodated by the briefer 
 type. But study the composition of the anecdote 
 and practise telling It with regard for the dramatic 
 moment, which is not unlike, in place and function, 
 the climax of the short-story. 
 
 ' Mr. Henry James and others speak of the anecdote in a way 
 not to be confused with the term here defined. Cf. "tale"' above, 
 page 3- 
 
50 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 With respect to its plot, the Incident is more 
 highly developed than the anecdote. By Incident 
 \with a capital I), I mean not merely a happening, 
 an occurrence, which may be at the basis of short- 
 story. Incident or even anecdote. By Incident I 
 mean a brief narrative which has for its founda- 
 tion a single line of action, usually recounting a 
 chase, or the overcoming of an obstacle, or a mental 
 struggle. The formula is 
 
 Inciting impulse + steps in action -J- climax -|- denoue- 
 ment = Incident. 
 
 It necessarily involves an extent of time and fre- 
 quently a change of place. The anecdote is typical; 
 the Incident is unique. The anecdote is told pri- 
 marily for exemplification of trait; the Incident for 
 the action. It is true that the Incident may exhibit 
 a trait, as of courage or bravery in action; but 
 whereas the anecdote would emphasise the bravery, 
 the Incident celebrates the action directed by that 
 bravery. The anecdote which is "essentially simple 
 and single" may be represented, geometrically, by 
 a point; the Incident requires a line. For the sake 
 of clearer distinction, read this capitally told and 
 representative Incident by F. Hopkinson Smith. 
 
 The narrator represents Plain Fin, his puntsman 
 on the Thames, "a little, sawed-off, red-headed 
 Irishman," as a raconteur of incidents wherein he 
 often figured. He has just made the statement that 
 he ought to have been a barrister. "I started as 
 
PLOT: PRELIMINARIES 51 
 
 one." To the narrator's question, "When was that, 
 Fin?" he replies: 
 
 "When I was a gossoon of twenty, sor — maybe eighteen 
 — I'm fifty now, so it's far back enough, God knows. And 
 it all happened, too, not far from that old ink-bottle's place 
 in Temple Bar. I was lookin' at it wan day last winter 
 when I had a fare down there that I took up in old Bond 
 Street. I did the sweepin' out and startin' fires. Wan day 
 wan of the clerks got fired because he couldn't serve a writ 
 on another barrister chap who owed a bill that me boss was 
 tryin' to collect. Nobody could git into his rooms, try 
 every way they could. He had nigh broke the head o' wan 
 o' the young fellers in the office who tried it the day before. 
 He niver come out, but had his grub sent him. This had 
 been goin' on for a month. All kinds o' games had been 
 put up on him and he beat 'em all. 
 
 " 'I'll do it,' I says, 'in a week's time or less.' The man- 
 ager was goin' through the office and heard the laugh they 
 give me. 'What's this?' he says, cross-like. 'Fin says he 
 kin serve the writ,' the clerk says. 'I kin,' I says, startin' 
 up, 'or I'll throw up me job.' 
 
 " 'Give him the writ,' he says, 'and give him two days 
 off. It kin do no harm for him to try.' 
 
 "Well, I found the street, and went up the stairs and 
 read the name on the door and heard somebody walkin' 
 around, and knew he was in. Then I lay around on the 
 other side o' the street to see what I could pick up in the 
 way o' the habits o' the rat. I knew he couldn't starve for 
 a week at a time, and that something must be goin' in, and 
 maybe I could follow up and git me foot in the door before 
 he could close it; but I soon found that wouldn't work. 
 Pretty soon a can o' milk come and went up in a basket 
 
52 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 that he let down from his winder. As he leaned out I saw 
 his head and it was a worse carrot than me own. Then 
 along come a man with a bag o' coal on his back and a bit 
 o' card in his hand with the coal-yard on it and the rat's 
 name underneath, a lookin' up at the house and scratchin' 
 his head as to where he was goin'. 
 
 "I crossed over and says, 'Who are ye lookin' for?' And 
 he. hands me the card. 'I'm his man,' I says, 'and I been 
 waitin' for ye — me master's sick and don't want no noise, 
 and if ye make any I'll lose me place. I'U carry the bag up 
 and dump it and bring ye the bag back and a shillin' for 
 yer trouble. Wait here. Hold on,' I says; 'take me hat 
 and let me have yours, for I don't git a good hat every day, 
 and the bag's that dirty it'll spile it.' 
 
 " 'Go on,' he says; 'I've carried it all the way from the 
 yard and me back's broke.' Well, I pulled his hat over me 
 eyes and started up the stairs wid the bag on me shoulder. 
 When I got to the fust landin' I run me hands over the bag, 
 gittin' 'em good and black, then I smeared me face, and up 
 I went another flight. 
 
 " 'Who's there ?' he says, when I knocked. 
 
 " 'Coals,' I says. 
 
 " 'Where from ?' he says. 
 
 "I told him the name on the card. He opened the door 
 an inch and I could see a chain between the crack. 
 
 " 'Let me see yer face,' he says. I twisted it out from 
 under the edge of the bag. 'All right,' he says, and he 
 slipped back the chain and in I went, stoopin' down as if it 
 weighed a ton. 
 
 '"Where'll I put it?' I says. 
 
 " 'In the box,' he says, walkin' toward the grate. 'Have 
 ye brought the bill?' 
 
PLOT: PRELIMINARIES 53 
 
 " 'I have,' I says, still keepin' me head down. 'It's in 
 me side pocket. Pull it out, please, me hand's that dirty,' — 
 and out come the writ ! 
 
 "Ye ought to have seen his face when he read it. He 
 made a jump for the door, but I got there fust and down- 
 stairs in a tumble, and fell in a heap at the foot with every- 
 thing he could lay his hands on comin' after me — tongs, 
 shovel, and poker. 
 
 "I got a raise of five bob when I went back and ten bob 
 besides from the boss. 
 
 "I ought to have stayed at the law, sor; I'd be a magis- 
 trate by now a-sittin' on a sheepskin." * 
 
 Now In this account of an Irishman who directs 
 his shrewdness to one end, the line the reader fol- 
 lows is that struck out by Fin, who makes his way 
 past difficulties to the accomplishment of his pur- 
 pose. The obstacles encountered are all in one 
 path. First, what is the way? The coalboy's route 
 presents Itself. But how will Fin palm himself off 
 at the coal carrier? He must look the part, and so 
 he effects a convincing disguise. But after he 
 delivers the coals, he has to serve the writ. Very 
 well, he will submit It as the coal bill. He has over- 
 come his difficulties and accomplished his purpose. 
 But he must escape; The drop back from the 
 height of Interest (the serving of the writ) shows 
 Fin In retreat down the stairs. This may be called, 
 with more than usual fitness, the falling action of 
 
 ' From "The Under Dog,'' copyright, 1903, by Charles Scribner's 
 Sons. 
 
54 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 the narrative. The satisfactory denouement is Fin's 
 reporting to headquarters and receiving the reward 
 for his labours. The plot structure may be repre- 
 sented by the following diagram: 
 
 a, the beginning of the attempt ; ab the way through diffi- 
 culties to serving the writ ; b the serving ; be the short down- 
 ward action; c the denouement. 
 
 b 
 
 Common to both the anecdote and the Incident 
 Is the climax or dramatic moment. Common to the 
 Incident and the short-story are the foundational 
 struggle and its successive phases. If the Incident 
 material is of sufficient weight or magnitude, clearly 
 the dividing line between the Incident and the short- 
 story disappears. As an Illustration, consider the 
 classic by Stevenson. Markhelm kills a shopkeeper 
 and subsequently gives himself up to the law. Here 
 the single line of action begins with Markheim's 
 intention to obtain the dealer's money. The diffi- 
 culty, to get rid of the dealer at a time when the 
 one servant was out, is overcome, and the treasure 
 lies within his grasp. Now, the murderer's con- 
 science awaking, his chain of reasoning leads to the 
 end that he must lay down his life. "He confronted 
 the maid on the threshold with something like a 
 smile. 'You had better go for the police,' said he: 
 'I have killed your master.' " To give this weighty 
 
PLOT: PRELIMINARIES 55 
 
 Incident the effect it deserved, to display its essential 
 magnitude, Stevenson elaborated the moral struggle. 
 By introducing the visitant, who adds to the interest 
 of the narrative, the author at once dramatises this 
 main struggle and makes use of fantasy in the best 
 sense. The weight, the moral value, and the superb 
 treatment elevate the Incident to the story stand- 
 ard. Likewise, "The Wall," by Harriet Welles, a 
 student of the present writer, also illustrates the 
 single Incident which, by virtue of its weight and 
 literary treatment, rises to the story level. The 
 brief tragedy is the but momentary expression of 
 a dormant racial inheritance. 
 
 Unmistakably, however, a distinction between the 
 Incident and the short-story enters with the appear- 
 ance of a subordinate line of interest. If the anec- 
 dote be represented by a point, and the Incident by 
 a line, then the short-story may be represented by a 
 line or an arrangement of lines. An arrangement 
 of lines will picture the plot of all short-stories not 
 dependent merely on the struggle in the main line of 
 interest. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 plot: struggle and complication 
 
 1. Struggle. The struggle may be inherent in the situation 
 
 or connoted by it; tentative classification of struggles; 
 various ways of developing the struggle; the struggle 
 between the natural and the supernatural in Greek 
 literature ; in short-stories of Hawthorne, Kipling, Henry 
 James; quality of struggle a determinant of story 
 quality. 
 
 2. Complication. The principle of complication ; two lines 
 of interest ; analysis of stories for complication ; synthesis 
 of story for complication; special instances of complica- 
 tion ; its value. 
 
 I. Struggle 
 
 Having reverted to the anecdote and the Incident 
 for indirect aid, the student may begin direct study 
 of the story plot by an examination of its salient 
 feature, the struggle. The struggle may be inherent 
 in the ganglionic centre, the situation chosen as a 
 starting point for the narrative. For example, a 
 cowboy chasing a buffalo, two soldiers fighting in 
 No Man's Land, an adventurer attempting to set 
 up a kingdom among a heathen tribe, an inventor 
 
 56 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 57 
 
 trying to create a perpetual motion machine, all con- 
 tain in embryo both situation and conflict. The situ- 
 ation, however, may only connote or suggest the con- 
 flict; a spy in prison is an example which suggests 
 the preceding fight or a succeeding attempt to escape, 
 with perhaps a chase to recapture. 
 
 In the search for and selection of various possible 
 conflicts, the student will find aid, first of all, in 
 this tentative classification. 
 
 Types of Struggle 
 
 1. Between animal and animal. "The Elephant's Child/ 
 
 Rudyard Kipling. 
 
 2. Man and the forces of nature. "To Build a Fire," Jack 
 
 London; "The Three God-Fathers," Peter B. Kyne; 
 "The Trawler," James B. Connolly; "A Tale of Neg- 
 ative Gravity" and "The Christmas Wreck," Frank 
 Stockton ; the fifth chapter in Fenimore Cooper's 
 "Pilot." 
 
 3. Man and animal. "Bertran and Bimi," Rudyard Kip- 
 
 ling; "The Black Cat," E. A. Poe; "A Passion in the 
 Desert," H. de Balzac. 
 
 4. Man and animal vs. animal. "Moti Guj," Kipling. 
 
 5. Man and animal vs. man and animal. "The Maltese 
 
 Cat," Kipling. 
 
 6. Man and man. 
 
 a. Physical struggle. "Back o' the Yards," Will Lev- 
 
 ington Comfort; "The Taking of the Redoubt," 
 Prosper Merimee; "The Attack on the Mill,' 
 Emile Zola. 
 
 b. Mental struggle, or struggle of wit. "The Pur 
 
58 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 loined Letter," Poe; the Sherlock Holmes stor- 
 ies, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; "The Doom- 
 dorf Mystery," Melville Davisson Post; "Regu- 
 lus," Kipling; "The Money Box," W. W. Ja- 
 cobs. 
 c. Psychic struggle, or struggle of wills. "The Revolt 
 of 'Mother,'" Mary E. W. Freeman; "A Sis- 
 terly Scheme," H. C. Bunner; "The Sire de 
 Maletroit's Door," R. L. Stevenson. 
 
 7. Man and himself; dual personality; forces in the same 
 
 man. "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde," "Markheim," 
 Stevenson; "William Wilson," Poe; "The Coward," 
 De Maupassant. 
 
 8. Man and fate. "An Imaginative Woman" and "A 
 
 Waiting Supper," Thomas Hardy; "The Ambitious 
 Guest," Hawthorne. 
 
 9. Man and the supernatural forces, ghosts, wer-wolves, 
 
 etc. "They," "Wireless," and "The Phantom 'Rick- 
 shaw," Kipling; "What Was It? A Mystery," Fitz- 
 James O'Brien. 
 
 The student should read carefully each of the 
 stories enumerated, once for the story, and again for 
 the struggle only; he should study every phase, every 
 detail of the prevailing conflict and all minor con- 
 flicts. He should then pause long enough to find and 
 write down a dozen struggles, determining their vari- 
 eties by his ability to handle them. He must also 
 determine in each case just how he will develop the 
 conflict. He may "play up" one main struggle at 
 the time the elements clash. For example, "Mark- 
 heim" ; Mrs. Gerould's "The Weaker Vessel" ; Irvin 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 59 
 
 Cobb's "An Occurrence Up a Side Street," and Kip- 
 ling's "The Maltese Cat" all picture the forces finally 
 contending In one scene. And all display careful 
 subordination of accessory details. He may, In the 
 second place, decide to pit his opposing forces, active 
 or latent, against each other In a series of minor cli- 
 max conflicts leading to a major climax. Jack Lon- 
 don's "To Build a Fire," Miss Brown's "A Day 
 Off" and W. W. Jacobs's "The Money Box" are 
 Illustrations of this method. This last-named story 
 has for Its chief character an old sailor, Isaac 
 Lumm; the opposing force consists of his two 
 younger companions, Peter Russet and Ginger Dick. 
 Isaac has agreed to take care of their money while 
 the three are ashore. The two, having a consuming 
 desire for the pleasures of the port, attempt to re- 
 cover It. In a physical fight Isaac defeats them, as 
 In several wit combats he is victorious. But while 
 he sleeps they pawn his clothes. In the series of 
 minor struggles they have for the first time the upper 
 hand. When, however, Isaac explains on their re- 
 turn that the money was In the pawned coat and 
 cap the tables are again turned against them. Isaac 
 dons the clothes of Peter, and, taking with him Gin- 
 ger Dick's suit, hies forth to redeem his own. From 
 this point on, Isaac is In the ascendent. 
 
 Writers who use this method of developing the 
 struggle must be careful to arrange the series in an 
 ascending grade, must not Introduce so many minor 
 conflicts as to weary the reader before the grand 
 
6o A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 climax, and must be caretu) to preserve the unity. 
 The writer may combine various types of struggle 
 in the series without destroying the necessary unity. 
 In "Regulus," one scene exploits a clash between 
 masters and students; another, a fight among the 
 boys, and another, a dispute between the masters 
 over the comparative values of the classics and the 
 sciences. Joseph Conrad presents an engaging succes- 
 sion in "The Inn of the Two Witches." At its base 
 is a chase or physical struggle. Byrne goes to seek 
 his man, Tom. This search, in abeyance when Byrne 
 arrives at the Inn, is superseded by the latent op- 
 position between him and its occupants. After Byrne 
 has gone to his room and locked himself in, he 
 experiences a vivid feeling of Tom's nearness, and 
 understands that Tom is trying to communicate with 
 him. As is seen later, this Is a brief struggle on the 
 part of the supernatural to make connection with 
 the physical. The call which comes faintly, "Mr. 
 Byrne, look out, sir!" in Tom's voice compels the 
 traveller's eager efforts to hear more. But he re- 
 ceives no further communication. On searching the 
 chamber, he finds his servant, in a tall wardrobe, — 
 dead. Here the chase with which the author set 
 out has ended. But now the new conflict rises to a 
 high pitch. In seeking to discover how Tom was 
 killed, Byrne eventually learns the truth about the 
 Bishop's bed. Tom has been done to death by its 
 fiendish mechanism. Meantime, the fear that he 
 must suffer Tom's fate battles with his own manhood. 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 6i 
 
 When he hears a knocking at the gate, he rushes 
 down, all but insane, and flings himself upon the 
 soldiers, who, fortunately, are men of a rescuing 
 party. 
 
 The young writer should not attempt this combi- 
 nation type of struggle series before he has succeeded 
 in composing well unified examples of the preceding 
 kinds. The unity is larger, more inclusive, and re- 
 quires for its presence a skilful manipulation of 
 component elements; otherwise a scattering of the 
 effect may destroy the short-story value. 
 
 In texts on the short-story, little has been said 
 about the struggle between the natural and the super- 
 natural. Yet, from the earliest dramas of the Greeks, 
 some of the noblest examples of literature have 
 grown out of such conflict. In the first part of the 
 Greek tragedy the individual may seemingly escape 
 his Fate; but at the close Fate has circumvented 
 him. CEdipus, exposed upon Mount Citharon to 
 die lest he fulfil the prophecy. Is rescued and taken 
 to the Court of the King of Corinth. Growing up 
 as the son of Polybus, he learns from the Delphic 
 oracle that he will kill his father and marry his 
 mother. In leaving the only home he has ever 
 known, to avoid the dreadful doom, he meets it. 
 Life as interpreted by Greek drama is a constant 
 struggle with Fate in which Fate must finally be 
 the victor. Now some of the best examples of Greek 
 fatalism occur In modern short-stories. Hawthorne's 
 "The Ambitious Guest" celebrates Fate triumphant. 
 
62 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 The doom of the ambitious young man and the fam- 
 ily with whose fates his own was linked is a world 
 instance of the uselessness of striving against the will 
 of the gods. The inseparable pessimism may be 
 healthfully disregarded in the contemplation of the 
 incontrovertible theme which represents man as an 
 atom, lightly to be brushed aside in the sweep of 
 destiny. 
 
 Hawthorne loved to consider the various aspects 
 of this man-Fate struggle. In "David Swan" he 
 plays with the idea that love, death, and riches may 
 in turn approach a human being who is unaware of 
 the approach and who jogs on serenely, not fated to 
 know. In "Rappaccini's Daughter" he exhibits Rap- 
 paccini's struggle to pervert nature; but nature, 
 rather, as an expression of immutable law. What 
 has been established is established, Hawthorne says 
 in effect, and man will mind his own business, doing 
 well not to meddle with the eternal. In "The Birth- 
 mark" he reiterates the struggle. Do not try to 
 improve upon what is but the sign of a supreme will, 
 against which man opposes himself only to be broken. 
 In "The Ambitious Guest" and in "David Swan" 
 the struggle is negligible, for Fate is supreme from 
 start to finish : in the other two stories the conflict 
 is more pronounced; man makes considerable head- 
 way, but fails at last. Thomas Hardy, the successor 
 of Hawthorne in the "Fate triumphant" story in- 
 creases his poignant effect by the use of irony. 
 To mention but one instance, Ella Marchmill and 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 63 
 
 Robert Trewe, of "An Imaginative Woman," were 
 destined never to see each other, but only just missed 
 meeting. Fate and man, then. In Hawthorne and 
 Hardy hardly "come nobly to the grapple" ; for the 
 former is constantly or finally uppermost. 
 
 Kipling's stories of the supernatural, on the other 
 hand, illustrate the struggle in which both the mate- 
 rial and the spiritual have a fair chance at victory. 
 In "The Phantom 'Rickshaw" the world of flesh 
 and the world of spirit are at odds with each other, 
 with the chances of victory fair for each side. In 
 "They" the struggle is that of the flesh to meet the 
 spirit, the flesh being ultimately successful. Both 
 forces combine to destroy the barrier between the 
 world of the natural and the supernatural. That 
 Kipling has been most interested in this uneven con- 
 flict between the open and the occult, a long list of 
 stories will bear witness; among which are "The 
 Mark of the Beast," "The Return of Imray," 
 "Wireless," "The House Surgeon," "At the End of 
 the Passage," "The Dog Hervey," and "In the Same 
 Boat." Mr. Henry James finds similar pleasure in 
 this type of struggle. In his "Turn of the Screw" 
 the struggle is on the part of the governess to lay 
 the spirits of the ghosts, to save the souls of the 
 children. She must encounter the direct opposition 
 of the spirits and also of the children. In "The 
 Real Right Thing" the struggle is that of George 
 Withermore to write the biography of Ashton 
 Doyne against the ghostly objection of the dead 
 
64 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 author. The spirit of the dead man conquers. The 
 thoughtful reader may prefer Mr. James's stories 
 not, as the cynic declares, for their style or their lack 
 of plot, but for the basic element of conflict. Will 
 the ghost or the governess win in "The Turn of the 
 Screw" ? Who will emerge victorious in "The Real 
 Right Thing"? 
 
 If the student will compare stories developing the 
 sort of struggle just illustrated with those showing a 
 struggle between physical forces, he will recognise 
 that the quality of the struggle determines largely 
 the quality of the story. The attempt to reach food 
 lying under several feet of water in the hold of the 
 vessel suggests just such a story of physical prowess 
 and adventure as Stockton produced in "The Christ- . 
 mas Wreck." Again, a wolf stalks a man, each 
 hungry, each sick, each waiting and hoping for the 
 collapse of the other. Such a test of endurance calls 
 up a primitive setting — a forest or the frozen North 
 — such an ice-bound region as Jack London has used 
 in his "Love of Life." The physical struggle cele- 
 brates the body and its prowess; the mental, moral, 
 or psychic exploits the hidden forces, the spiritual 
 potentiality underlying the physical world. 
 
 2. Complication 
 
 From the preceding part of this chapter, it is clear 
 that a plot may consist i. of a struggle played up 
 through one main incident; 2. of a series of strug- 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 65 
 
 gles, culminating in a climax. Management of plot 
 in general is continued in Chapter V. Meantime, 
 as a prerequisite for learning to construct more pre- 
 tentious short-story plots, it is necessary to under- 
 stand the business of complication. Complication, in 
 this book, means the entanglement of two lines of 
 interest, one of which must be subordinated to the 
 other for story unity.^ This secondary line is not 
 a sub-plot; but it bears the same relation to the main 
 line as the sub-plot of a novel bears to the main 
 plot. The Incident, the short-story, and the novel 
 are three terms in an ascending series, any one of 
 which may be understood better by comparison with 
 the others. 
 
 Analysis of finished narratives will serve here to 
 introduce the principle of entanglement. And for 
 the first example, since according to Stevenson one 
 may often be helped to understand an art by consid- 
 ering it at its lowest terms, let us choose a story the 
 complication of which is almost too obvious, "Buffy's 
 Hegira," by Marie Manning. A buffalo escapes 
 from an enclosure where he is confined as an artist's 
 model. A young woman sets off on her horse to warn 
 the village that the animal is loose. So far, the 
 action is that of the Incident ; the material has hardly 
 sufficient weight or magnitude for the short-story. If 
 
 ' Cf. Aristotle : "More specifically, by Complication is meant 
 everything from the beginning of the story up to that critical point, 
 the last in a series of incidents, out of which comes the change 
 of fortune. . . ." "The Art of Poetry," Lane Cooper's Transla- 
 tion, page 60. 
 
66 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 the young woman warns the neighbourhood and 
 manages to steer Buffy back into his corral, the In- 
 cident is closed. But at the beginning of the story 
 the author emphasises another thread : the girl has 
 a lover, who cannot persuade her to marry him. 
 Shortly after she rides out, he appears, sends her 
 home, and subsequently lassos the escaped Buffy. 
 Then the girl, of course, capitulates. If "Mark- 
 helm" be represented diagrammatically and roughly 
 by the line 
 
 k V 
 
 and if "The Money Box" be represented by the 
 line 
 
 then "Buffy's Hegira" will be represented by two 
 lines 
 
 representing the chase at the end of which the buf- 
 falo is captured, and 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 67 
 
 representing the struggle of Tom Standish to win 
 Molly Boothby. The two lines are linked in this 
 way: 
 
 That is, B represents the point at which Molly sets 
 out to circumvent Buffy, and M represents the en- 
 trance of Tom ; the two lines are linked only between 
 the time Molly set out and the time Tom captured 
 the buffalo. But it is the presence of the entangle- 
 ment which makes of the Incident a short-story. 
 Obviously, the second line of interest is in many 
 respects the more important. But if the author had 
 told the love story of Tom and Molly from begin- 
 ning to end, with the capture of Buffy as a minor 
 incident, she would have had a very usual narrative 
 with a singularly excrescent incident on the main 
 line. Or if the courtship were represented as one 
 that pursued its devious way through peculiarly thrill- 
 ing and novel adventures of which the buffalo chase 
 is one, the series would have offered a more or less 
 detached relationship to one another. Therefore, 
 the author wisely subordinated the larger struggle to 
 the one less important but more significant for story 
 purposes. 
 
 "My Disreputable Friend, Mr. Raegen," by Rich- 
 
68 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 ard Harding Davis, illustrates a more closely knit 
 complication. Rags Raegen knocks down Pike Mc- 
 Gonegal. The blow is fatal, but Rags does not wait 
 to learn this detail. Now the race in which Rags 
 is pursued by the police might form an interesting 
 Incident resulting either in escape or capture; but 
 the author has introduced a complicating thread by 
 the use of which he converts the Incident into a 
 short-story. Rags takes refuge in an empty apart- 
 ment, under a heap of tossed-up bedding. The 
 police enter and discuss the probabilities of his es- 
 cape. They leave. Rags remains quiet for a longer 
 period, to be aroused the second time by a child. 
 The child becomes the cause of the complication. 
 If Rags escapes, he may leave her to starvation; if 
 he stands by the child, he will be captured. 
 
 Again the two lines of interest may be stated : 
 
 I. Main line of interest: Rags Raegen flees from the po- 
 lice: will he be captured? 
 II. Second line of interest: A baby is left in an apartment 
 house: what will become of the baby? 
 
 HH' stands for the mutual discovery of Rags and the baby. 
 S for the moral struggle, the dramatic climax. Shall he 
 
 leave the baby to her fate and make good his final 
 
 escape ? 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 69 
 
 V for the climax of action : Rags gives himself up, the baby 
 
 in his arms. 
 Z in the first line of action indicates Rags's acquittal. 
 Z' in the second line indicates the baby's fate: it remains 
 
 with Rags. 
 
 In short, unification of the two lines produces a story 
 which tells how the fortunes of the fugitive become 
 bound up with those of the child. 
 
 Having analysed "Buffy's Hegira" and "Mr. Rae- 
 gen" for their constituent complicating lines, let us 
 turn to an example wherein we may study the prin- 
 ciple of complication more synthetically. An author 
 recently recounted the genesis and growth of a plot 
 which may here be recapitulated as follows : ^ 
 
 The "germ" of the story is the character who 
 happens to be the champion rat-catcher of the world. 
 He enters the hold of a vessel, where with a rifle 
 and a pointed stick he captures the rats, which he 
 drops into a bag. Now, an Incident might narrate 
 the difficulties of the catcher in his chase after a 
 veteran rat, and the climax of the action would be 
 the capture of the rodent. But the author wished to 
 write a story, not to tell a mere Incident. Casting 
 about for a complicating thread, he naturally thought 
 of introducing a boy into the fictive material; for 
 the story would obviously be one of adventure. But 
 how far has this addition advanced him ? There are 
 
 " Homer Croy, in a lecture at Columbia University before this 
 writer's first year short-story class. The material is, of course, 
 adapted here for the purposes of illustration. 
 
70 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 now two rat-chasers, instead of one only. Rather 
 tritely, perhaps, the idea of a stowaway, an escaping 
 thief, came to mind. Now, the plot threads draw 
 together with swiftness, the main thread having^to 
 do with the catcher and his assistant, the subordi- 
 nate thread having to do with the thief. The com- 
 plication finds a solution in the capture of the thief 
 by the two catchers. The details of the plot consist 
 mainly of these facts : The boy while searching one 
 section of the hold suddenly finds himself attacked 
 and the gun wrested from his grasp. He flings the 
 bags against the assailant; they gnaw through the 
 bag and in their tumultuous exit overcome the thief. 
 The boy recaptures the gun and holds the thief until 
 help arrives in the person of the old rat-catcher. 
 
 Again, the complication may be represented by 
 diagram : 
 
 I. Main line of interest: That of the rat-catcher and his 
 boy assistant. 
 II. Secondary line of interest: That of the thief who is 
 attempting an escape. 
 
 h' 
 
 1 
 
 That is, the complication exists for a compara- 
 tively short period, HH' representing the point of 
 discovery of the thief by the boy, and SS' represent- 
 ing his capture. 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 71 
 
 Let us consider the type of complication found 
 in "The Monkey's Paw," by W. W. Jacobs. Others 
 of its kind are in Richard Harding Davis's "A 
 Charmed Life" and O. Henry's "Tobin's Palm." 
 The genesis of such a story plot may be, let us say, in 
 a wish. A man happens to desire a certain object. 
 He shortly receives it, but at the cost of something 
 dear, or through a tragedy which seems to fall out 
 by chance or coincidence. But here is lack of com- 
 plication. A story constructed on this line of action 
 alone would present some such scheme as the fol- 
 lowing : 
 
 Cause : A father wishes for 200 pounds. 
 Seeming Effect: The son is killed and 200 pounds are 
 given as compensation. 
 Cause: The father wishes the son alive again. 
 Effect: He returns from the grave. 
 Cause: Father wishes him to return to the grave. 
 Effect: The son vanishes. 
 
 This scheme is utterly illogical and would appeal in 
 elaborated form to the credulity of not even a child. 
 It is without convincing power, without unity. What 
 will make it seem convincing and unified? The pres- 
 ence of an agent in another line of action ; the device 
 of a fortune teller as motivating force, an omen, a 
 curse, — these or other means might be employed. 
 Mr. Jacobs chose a monkey's paw which had had a 
 spell put upon it by a fakir. In conformity with the 
 principles of magic, the paw is good for three wishes. 
 
72 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 The plot looms hazily as one possessing three strik- 
 ing situations: the wishing and the fulfilment under 
 three different conditions. How, now, may cause 
 and effect seem dominated by the monkey's paw? 
 Let the fulfilment of the first wish be the tragedy. 
 Now, up to this point only two persons are needed. 
 But if the father uses the paw the second time to 
 wish his son's return and the third time to wish his 
 disappearance, the two acts are inconsistent; more- 
 over, the scheme lacks dignity. A struggle is needed 
 other than conflicting desires in the father's mind. 
 The author Introduces another member of the fam- 
 ily, the mother, one who in the planning of the 
 author possibly may have suggested herself before 
 either of the other characters. Now the plot assumes 
 this shape : Apparently through his father's wish for 
 two hundred pounds, Herbert White loses his life. 
 Mr. White receives two hundred pounds as an ap- 
 parent result of the son's death. Mrs. White, in- 
 consolable, prevails upon her husband to wish the 
 boy alive again. The father, to prevent her looking 
 upon the son's mangled form, makes with the paw 
 the third and last wish, — the outcome of his strug- 
 gle to frustrate her desire. And the story, as elabo- 
 rated with accessories of forecast, scene work, sus- 
 pense and the proper passage of time, gains unity 
 and plausibility even with adult minds. 
 
 Diagrammatically, the plot complication may be 
 represented thus : 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 73 
 
 I. Main line of interest: A father wishes for money, 
 which comes to him, as it happens, through the death 
 of his son. He desires the return of the son, and 
 then negates the wish (A series of three struggles). 
 II. Second line of interest: A monkey's paw, supernatural 
 agent, causes the fulfilment of three wishes. 
 
 f 
 
 1 / 
 I / 
 
 -Zl 
 
 c k' s: 
 
 That is, the father in line I makes with the paw a 
 wish, let us say at point C. Through the efficacy 
 of the paw the wish is fulfilled at point F. The 
 succeeding instances are repetitions. 
 
 An interesting and simple complication is one fre- 
 quently used by O. Henry. The story gains interest 
 and surprise from the manner of presentation, but 
 the plot possesses its value in the denouement that 
 comes about after a peculiar cross between the two 
 lines of interest. Let us look at "The Gift of the 
 Magi" as a concrete example. Briefly, the narra- 
 tive rehearses the struggle of Delia, who needs 
 money wherewith to buy Jim a Christmas present. 
 She finds a way, and purchases a platinum fob. 
 Meantime, Jim has likewise had his struggle, and 
 has found a way to buy Delia a present. When they 
 exchange gifts, after the climax of action for each, 
 they discover that the nature of the means taken to 
 purchase the gifts destroys their immediate prac- 
 
74 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 tical value. Jim has sold his watch to obtain 
 a pair of combs, whereas Delia has cut off her hair 
 to secure money for the fob. In other stories the 
 author repeated the general nature of the plot with 
 equal success. (See Exercises.) 
 
 The plot may be represented by the diagram: 
 
 That is, at M Delia sells her hair ; at S she buys the fob ; 
 at M' Jim sells his watch ; at S' he buys the combs. 
 
 There is a direct link between M and S' (the selling of 
 the hair and the buying of the combs), and between M' and 
 S (the selling of the watch and the buying of the fob). It 
 is this connection which labels such a story as one of "cross- 
 purposes." 
 
 It should be noticed that in the story presentation, only 
 the denouement reveals that the previous "cross" exists. 
 
 AZ represents Delia's struggle, in which she is successful; 
 A'Z' represents Jim's struggle, in which he is successful. 
 The climax of action for each is the presentation of the 
 gifts. 
 
 The preceding examples should make clear that 
 entanglement or complication results from a use of 
 two or more lines of interest. What Is the value of 
 two lines of interest? In general, the second line 
 buttresses the struggle in the main line. It may, 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 75 
 
 for example, bring about the end in the main action, 
 may motivate the main action, or may add Its weight 
 to disturb the balance between the contending forces 
 in the main line. In "Buffy's Hegira" the escape 
 of the buffalo motivates Molly's riding out; Tom's 
 love for Molly (second line interest) motivates his 
 entrance upon the scene. Whether the capture of 
 the animal or the capitulation of Molly be regarded 
 as the end desired^ both things are effected by the 
 linking of the lines. In "Mr. Raegen" the end of 
 Rags's chase from the police Is brought about by 
 the baby's line of interest meeting Rags's line. In 
 "The Monkey's Paw" the motivation for the 200- 
 pound gift, the return of the son, and the departure 
 of the son is found in the Influence of the paw, an 
 Influence which moves steadily parallel with the 
 main line of interest. 
 
 Sometimes the second line is used to suggest or 
 interpret the main line. If in Kipling's "Wireless" 
 the main action (which we may assume to be the 
 attempt of the spirit world to "get across" a mes- 
 sage to the physical, through Shaynor) were un- 
 supported by the secondary action, the story would 
 lose its plausibility. Its fascination, its suggestive- 
 ness, and, above all, its thought-provoking power. 
 The attempt of the wireless operators to receive an 
 ordinary message may be regarded as the struggle 
 In the secondary line. A single reading will Inform 
 the reader how cleverly these threads of interest 
 are Intertwined. Apparently the soul of Keats, or 
 
76 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 the Over-soul which dominates Keats as well as 
 Shaynor, in trying to communicate a message to 
 Shaynor used the wireless apparatus successfully; 
 but in doing so it disturbed the sending and receiv- 
 ing of the wireless operators. The thrill and sur- 
 prise of the denouement could not possibly exist were 
 the struggle in either line unsupported by that of the 
 second. 
 
 The easy plan followed by most amateurs is to 
 shut the victim up with his struggle, in a cage or 
 vacuum, and to allow no intrusion from the out- 
 side. This management results in the "She-balanced- 
 the - for - and - against, the - pro - and - con, the - 
 honesty-and-self-interest . . . — and-at-last-the- 
 good-conquered" sort of thing. It is just the out- 
 side intrusion which the writer needs to motivate 
 action in connection with outcome; complication 
 may determine outcome. 
 
 The student should remember so to combine his 
 lines as to effect unity. Stockton's "A Tale of Nega- 
 tive Gravity" presents two widely diverse threads 
 of interest, too loosely connected.* By a machine 
 which overcomes the attraction the earth has for 
 
 "The whimsical story is not therefore the less readable. Stock- 
 ton's stories were favourites with Stevenson. In a letter to Ed\ 
 mund Gosse, dated Nov. 15, 1884, he writes: 
 "My Stockton if I failed to like, 
 It were a sheer depravity, 
 For I went down with the Thomas Hyke, 
 And up with the Negative Gravity! 
 I adore these tales." — Letters, II, 251, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1911. 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 77 
 
 bodies on its surface, an inventor performs wonders 
 in locomotion and overcoming inertia. But acci- 
 dentally he is caught poised in mid-air. The main 
 struggle, the inventor's attempt to get back to earth, 
 proves unsuccessful until his wife comes out and 
 fishes him down with a hook and line. The second- 
 ary interest concerns itself with the love affair be- 
 tween the inventor's daughter and the son of Mr. 
 Gilbert. The immediate complication comes about 
 in that Mr. Gilbert, ignorant of the invention and 
 believing the inventor insane, has insisted that the 
 engagement be broken. The denouement of the 
 love affair comes about through his discovering the 
 truth, and his consenting to the marriage. In the 
 hands of an amateur unification would have been 
 hopeless; even in Stockton's, the attempt to unify 
 is obvious. 
 
 In most of the examples brought forward In the 
 preceding pages a continuous struggle exists in one 
 line of interest, sometimes in both lines. After the 
 student has become expert in devising struggles and 
 simple complications, he may turn his attention to 
 the plot dominated by complication. Struggle will 
 necessarily exist; but It may be subdued with agree- 
 able effect. For example, O. Henry's "The Last 
 of the Troubadours" contains at least two Instances 
 of forces pitted against each other: King James 
 against Old Man Ellison; Sam Galloway against 
 King James. But to the neat Intertwining of the 
 various Interests may be attributed the ultimate 
 
78 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 success of the story. In the diagram below let 
 circle A represent Old Man Ellison's line, from 
 the time Sam Galloway (represented by circle B) 
 rode up to his ranch to the time when Sam rode 
 back from the killing of King James (represented 
 by circle C). 
 
 1. Sam comes to the ranch. 
 
 2. Ellison first meets King James. 
 
 3. Ellison tells Sam of the demands made by 
 King James. 
 
 4. Ellison's second meeting with King. 
 
 5. Sam kills King. 
 
 6. Coincident with I. Story comes full circle 
 to starting point, in the return of Galloway to the 
 ranch. 
 
 ,4 
 
 Employ entanglement, then, as here for the 
 enrichment of the narrative, and try to use it so 
 skilfully as to unite the two or more threads in a 
 stronger chain or in a symmetrical pattern. Avoid 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 79 
 
 dragging in a second line unless it can be incor- 
 porated as an integral part. In "The Pink Shawls" 
 and In "LIttle-GIrl-Afrald-of-a-Dog," Mrs. Freeman 
 introduced too patently a love story for the purpose 
 of eking out the slight main thread. Study the cause 
 for failure In such examples and the reasons for 
 success in the adequately managed complications. 
 Observe the working of complication In various 
 types of story, the way In which It supports the main 
 action, unifies it. Interprets It, motivates It, gives It 
 larger significance, or brings about an effective 
 climax. 
 
 Exercises for Chapters III and IV 
 
 Jane Topham, having a few hours between trains in a 
 large city, decides to visit her friends, the Jones family. 
 She looks up the address in the directory. Construct an 
 Incident, using at least three minor climaxes in the single 
 line of interest growing out of the fact that there are so 
 many Jones names as to cause error on her part. Having 
 finished the Incident, then find a second line of interest, 
 combine it with the first, and write the plot for a short- 
 story. 
 
 An old lady member of the Home across the street from 
 the Woman's College makes up her mind to be present at a 
 reception given by the Senior Class. Write an Incident, 
 showing her successful attempt to become one of the guests. 
 Find a second interest and combine it with the first line to 
 make a short-story. 
 
 A family moving from Backwood to Freshwater, a dis- 
 tance of thirty miles, must take to their new home the one 
 
8o A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 milk cow in their possession. They cannot pay freight. 
 One of the boys must drive her through the country. Write 
 an Incident giving an account of the boy's struggles. Avoid 
 tediousness. After you have written the Incident, use the 
 same idea for a short-story, combining with the one line a 
 second interest, as in the preceding exercises. 
 
 Find the struggle in all the stories mentioned in exercises 
 for Chapter I. 
 
 What is the struggle in each of these — Sir Arthur Conan 
 Doyle's "The Leather Funnel," A. Chekov's "Woe," Myra 
 Kelly's "A Christmas Present for a Lady," Kipling's "The 
 House Surgeon," London's "Love of Life," Alice Duer 
 Miller's "Things," Stockton's "A Piece of Red Calico," 
 H. G. Wells's "The Stolen Bacillus"? 
 
 Study the struggle in the following stories: Sarah O. 
 Jewett's "A White Heron," R. H. Davis's "A Leander of 
 the East River," Richard Curie's "Old Hoskyns," Sir Ar- 
 thur Quillfer-Couch's "Ye Sexes, Give Ear!" R. W. Child's 
 "The Gorilla." 
 
 What is the main line of interest in "The Sire de Male- 
 troit's Door"? The subordinate line? 
 
 Make a rough diagram to show the complication for "The 
 Brushwood Boy," by Kipling. 
 
 What are the various lines of interest in Miss Sapinsky's 
 "Star Light, Star Bright"? 
 
 After reading "The Monkey's Paw," "A Charmed Life" 
 and "Tobin's Palm," try to build a story on a similar plan. 
 
 In constructing his plot, said Stevenson, the writer should 
 see that every incident illustrates the motive, that every 
 property employed bears the near relation of congruity or 
 contrast; "avoid a sub-plot, unless, as sometimes happens 
 in Shakespeare, the sub-plot be a reversion or complement 
 
PLOT: STRUGGLE AND COMPLICATION 8i 
 
 of the main intrigue." With this advice in mind, study 
 the following stories of Henry James : "The Real Thing," 
 "Broken Wings," "The Madonna of the Future." 
 
 What is the plot formula common to these stories by O. 
 Henry — "A Service of Love," "Lost on Dress Parade," 
 "While the Auto Waits," "The Shocks of Doom," "Tran- 
 sients in Arcadia," "Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen," 
 "Proof of the Pudding," "The World and the Door," "The 
 Whirligig of Life," "The Gift of the Magi"? 
 
 What is the plot formula common to these stories by W. 
 W. Jacobs— "The Money Box," "Lawyer Quince," "The 
 Third String," "Homeward Bound," "Self Help," "Peter's 
 Pence," "The Changeling," "A Love-Knot," "Back to 
 Back," "The Weaker Vessel," "Easy Money," "The Lady 
 of the Barge," "Captain Rogers," "Paying Off," "Family 
 Cares," "Made to Measure"? 
 
 In "The Eldest" how has Miss Edna Ferber given new 
 life to an old plot? 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 PLOT : COMPOSITION 
 
 Requisites: simplicity; distinctness; a "beginning, middle, 
 and end"; these Aristotelian characteristics as interpreted 
 in terms of the short-story plot; illustrations of chief 
 steps ; incidents should be well-linked ; relation of logical 
 plot to logical story; individuality a desirable character- 
 istic ; the subdual of the too novel ; finding the significant 
 in the commonplace. 
 
 Now whether a plot consist of an organisation 
 of incidents in one main line or in two lines of in- 
 terest, it must have certain requisites. Chief among 
 these is simplicity. A combination of more than 
 two lines offers difficulties in unification which 
 should bar the beginner from attempting it.^ 0. 
 Henry, who mastered all the intricacy of plot manu- 
 facture, achieved comparative simplicity of effect in 
 the finished product. He omitted absolutely all but 
 the essentials, but with these components he effected 
 clever entanglements. The beginner, however, will 
 find himself running into the complexity, and even 
 
 ' See page 94 for diagram of plot of "Molly McGuire, 14." 
 This story was written by Captain Greene after three years of 
 practice in plot making. 
 
 82 
 
PLOT: COMPOSITION 83 
 
 the length of a novel if he attempts too much com- 
 plication, and should practise first on the one-line 
 plot. 
 
 The organisation of incidents should also be dis- 
 tinct. Every good plot will possess the character- 
 istics defined by Aristotle, a beginning, a middle and 
 an end. It would appear, at first sight, that these 
 terms are sufllciently clear to any one who is writing 
 stories; it would seem that no one could fail to begin 
 and to end. But a common error novices make is 
 that of producing a sketch, an episode, a chapter 
 out of a novel, or stopping short at the end of the 
 first incident of a series. It should be kept in mind 
 always that the beginning does not Itself come after 
 anything else in a necessary sequence, but is that 
 after which some other thing does come about. It 
 should be borne in mind also that the end is that 
 which comes after something else In a necessary or 
 usual sequence, but has nothing following it. If the 
 author follows any other procedure than that of 
 determining and developing the plot marked by a 
 beginning, middle and end, he probably strays into 
 the "other story," or leaves his tale Incomplete, or 
 apparently "lifts" a division out of some longer 
 work or one of greater magnitude. 
 
 In the modern short-story plot these three parts 
 may be interpreted in terms of the following: i. 
 the initial impulse or Initial incident; 2. the steps 
 In the struggle or complication to the turning point 
 (or dramatic climax) ; the steps In the plot between 
 
84 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 the dramatic climax, and 3. the climax of action 
 (or end of action), and 4. the denouement. In 
 the developed story this plot order is not essential 
 or even always desirable; manipulation of the plot 
 features may result in a story very different from 
 the one which places them in the ABC order. For 
 example, it is more than probable that Stevenson's 
 "Sire de Maletroit's Door" first had this sequence: 
 I. The Sire arranges a trap to catch the cavalier 
 young man who has been paying attention to his 
 niece. 2. The trap catches the wrong man. 3. He 
 appears before the Sire, and so on. For the reader, 
 Stevenson made the initial incident the chase where- 
 in Denis de Beaulieu flees from the officers of the 
 enemy. (This management also takes into account 
 the angle of narration or point of view. See Chapter 
 VII.) For extension of this business of plot manipu- 
 lation, see the following chapter. 
 
 But assuming that plot construction, not final pre- 
 sentation. Is under way, let us continue with the 
 steps. By initial impulse, then, I mean the force 
 which sets the ball rolling, the incitement for the 
 whole action; it is the actual beginning. The im- 
 pulse may be expanded in the finished story Into 
 some paragraphs, as in "Markhelm" the killing of 
 the dealer is the Impulse which sets going the larger 
 action; It may be reduced to a line or so or 
 a sentence, as in "My Disreputable Friend, Mr. 
 Raegen": 
 
PLOT: COMPOSITION 85 
 
 — on this present occasion the police were standing 
 between him and the river, and so cut ofE his escape in that 
 direction, and as they had seen him strike McGonegal and 
 had seen McGonegal fall, he had to run for it and seek 
 refuge on the roofs." 
 
 In "The Mark of the Beast" Fleete's grinding the 
 ashes of his cigar butt against the forehead of 
 Hanuman is the gist of the incident that starts the 
 action.^ It is obvious that each of these three initial 
 impulses follows nothing else in necessary sequence, 
 and equally obvious that because of them something 
 else must come to pass. 
 
 After the initial impulse follow steps in the devel- 
 opment of the struggle or complication, which have 
 been named variously, minor crises, or minor cli- 
 maxes, or steps in the rising action leading to the 
 major crisis or climax. "Rising action" presupposes 
 that the action ascends in interest to a high point, 
 from which it descends to a level of Interest not quite 
 so low as that on which it began. Complication, It 
 will be remembered, supposes two lines of Interest; 
 in general, therefore, steps In the complication are 
 included under steps in the rising action. For exam- 
 ple, the main steps In the complication of "The Re- 
 volt of 'Mother' " are : 
 
 I. "Mother's" desire to have Nanny live on at home, after 
 her marriage. 
 
 'The incident itself is well motivated by the fact that Fleete 
 was drunk. 
 
86 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 2. Nanny's suggestion that the wedding might be in the 
 new barn, giving rise to "Mother's" concept, which later 
 matures. 
 
 3. Nanny's "pain" on the day of "Father's" absence. 
 
 The main steps in the rising action in addition to 
 those given under the complication are : 
 
 1. "Mother's" unsuccessful plea that a house, and not a 
 barn, be built. 
 
 2. The preparations of "Father," in the way of buying 
 more cattle and housing them. 
 
 3. The numerous ways in which "Mother's" rebellion is 
 indicated as ripening into action. 
 
 4. "Father's" fortuitous absence. 
 
 The day on which "Father" goes away and on which 
 "Mother's" plan matures is the day of the dramatic climax. 
 It will be observed from the list above that the two lines 
 of interest fall together on this particular day. Here is the 
 point of highest excitement for the reader. What will 
 "Mother" do? 
 
 By dramatic climax I mean the turning point at 
 which one force balances with the other for final 
 ascendence. For the reader of a story wherein the 
 former inferior force becomes the superior, and vice 
 versa, the point of dramatic climax is not difficult 
 to determine. So in "The Revolt." "Mother's" 
 brow is knitted; she is at the height of her debate 
 with herself. Shall she stand by her husband? Or 
 shall she do the best for Nanny? The balance is 
 effected shortly after she has Nanny'* reply to her 
 
PLOT: COMPOSITION 87 
 
 question, "Have you got that pain in your side?" 
 In this story the shifting of authority offers an ex- 
 ample of so-called "dramatic reverse." Now if the 
 story shows no dramatic reverse, but ends with the 
 same power in the ascendent which was in the ascend- 
 ent at the beginning, the dramatic climax may be 
 (for the reader) more difficult to determine. Denis 
 de Beaulieu, from start to finish, is in the power of 
 the Sire de Maletroit. Yet the intention and the 
 attempt to escape are evident to him who reads the 
 story, up to the point where the Sire leaves Denis 
 and Blanche finally together to settle the question 
 for themselves. The entanglement and the rise of 
 interest have reached the tensest moment. What 
 will Denis do about It? 
 
 William Froyle is the dominant force from start 
 to finish in Arnold Bennett's "The Idiot." Yet there 
 Is opportunity afforded through the appearance of 
 the Idiot for Froyle to be dissuaded from his pur- 
 pose. The reader possibly thinks for a moment 
 that the project has been successfully, if accidentally. 
 Interfered with. But the brief trembling of the o."^l- 
 ance is soon converted Into a steady cant In th^ 
 direction of William's purpose. The dramatic cli- 
 max is past. 
 
 The modern short-story often concludes speedily 
 after the dramatic climax. Having secured his tense 
 moment, the experienced writer hesitates at the risk 
 of weakening it by a long-drawn "falling action." 
 So "The Sire de Maletroit's Door" requires only 
 
88 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 a brief moment for final adjustment after the drama- 
 tic climax; Markiieim, having come to his decision 
 in the scene with the visitant, walks down the stairs 
 and gives himself up; The Idiot slaps the twitching 
 body of William Froyle, that the reader may be sure 
 suicide was accomplished, and ends the story as he 
 runs away laughing "The Revolt of 'Mother'," 
 however, illustrates a longer "falling action." 
 "Mother" moves while "Father" is away. That the 
 reader may be held suspended with respect to the 
 behaviour of "Father," the author skilfully Inserts 
 a visit from the Minister,® so delaying the final 
 scene. 
 
 A "falling action" may be artistically used,^again, 
 if the principle of balance, of contrast, is employed 
 purposefully. "The Necklace" represents Mme. 
 Loisel up to the dramatic climax (the loss of the 
 necklace) as young, beautiful, admired. After the 
 dramatic climax she becomes old for her years, an 
 uninteresting drudge, homely, without friends. That 
 the contrast may be effective and the denouement the 
 more pronounced, the author is in no hurry to reach 
 the end. 
 
 The climax of action, literally the end of the 
 action, is used here In contradistinction to dramatic 
 climax. The term "climax," variously used by 
 writers to mean either of the two steps, is dlfferen- 
 
 'One of the best examples of episode correctly used. Apart 
 from the incidents of the main story, it yet serves an integrative 
 purpose. 
 
PLOT: COMPOSITION 89 
 
 dated here in order to avoid confusion. The climax 
 of action and the denouement are more usually synon- 
 ymous. For denouement, as the term explains itself, 
 is the issue to which the train of events leads, the 
 outcome. Denouement, again, is technically equiva- 
 lent to catastrophe. But because calamity or disaster 
 is conveyed by the word "catastrophe," it is wise to 
 employ this term only in speaking of stories having 
 tragic conclusions. 
 
 The conclusion of the story, of course, may be 
 bound up in the words which convey the climax of 
 action or denouement or catastrophe (and this is the 
 better conclusion), or it may consist of a moral ap' 
 pendage or reflection or brief informal essay added 
 to the narrative close. Such a conclusion, of course, 
 forms no integral part of the plot. In like manner, 
 the beginning (although the first words may present 
 the initial impulse or incident) does not necessarily 
 have a plot function. The formal beginning rarely 
 serves to perform any office of plot; the beginning 
 which summarises or presents antecedent circum- 
 stances merely paves the way for a plot. "The 
 Mark of the Beast," for example, begins with a 
 formal statement which, in spite of its later obvious 
 bearing, has no plot value ; it is followed by a sum- 
 mary of circumstances which prepare the reader for 
 the plot action.* 
 
 Now, the component parts of the plot should be 
 
 'For the order of arrangement see the following Chapter, and 
 Chapter XIV. 
 
90 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 well linked, or closely knit together. The worst plot 
 is that in which the incidents follow one another with- 
 out probability or necessity — the episodic plot. The 
 best plot is that in which every step is logical, either 
 caused by a preceding step or causing a succeeding 
 one, Illustrating probability or necessity in the se- 
 quence of incident. The writer must ask himself 
 at every stage, "Why will this happen?" "What 
 will be the result?" An excellent example of logical 
 structure is "The Revolt of 'Mother.' " Mrs. Free- 
 man once wrote, "People do not stop to reason how 
 ridiculous it is, but they clamor for me to go right 
 on writing stories about New England women who 
 moved Into barns because their husbands were tyran- 
 nical. As a matter of fact, I do not believe that a 
 New England woman ever has moved or ever will 
 move Into a barn, and New England women are not 
 In the least browbeaten by their husbands." ^ Mrs. 
 Freeman says the story lacks essential truth, " 'Moth- 
 er' never would have moved into that barn. 'Father' 
 would never have built that bam anyway if 'Mother' 
 had opposed him." ® The fact is, the story seems 
 true, and therefore the plot seems true. 
 
 Stevenson says somewhere that any story may be 
 made to appear true if written in the right key. The 
 worth of this dictum becomes evident when one re- 
 
 °Mrs. Freeman prefers "Evalina's Garden," "Noblesse," "The 
 Cat," "The Umbrella Man," "Gold," "Old Woman Magoun," 
 "any of the list to 'The Revolt of "Mother" !' " 
 
 ' Quoted by permission. 
 
PLOT: COMPOSITION 91 
 
 calls the momentary plausibility of farcical exaggera- 
 tion, or of incidents which by their very nature con- 
 tradict fact, the "Negative Gravity," for example. 
 But, even so, the plot must have its due proportion 
 of plausibility. The incidents need not be real, prob- 
 able or even possible ; but they must seem real. Now 
 in Mrs. Freeman's story just mentioned "Mother" 
 resents the fact that "Father" is building a barn 
 where forty years ago he had promised to build a 
 house. This just feeling of indignation logically 
 prompts "Mother's" further questioning of Sammy, 
 after "Father" refuses to say anything. The fact 
 that Nanny is to be married and that "Mother" for 
 good reasons wishes her to live on at home again 
 adds weight to the logic of "Mother's" desire for 
 a new home. That the present home is old and 
 inadequate is the best reason of all for the step she 
 eventually takes. Nanny's petulant remark, "We 
 might have the wedding in the new barn," logically 
 furnishes "Mother" with the idea of converting the 
 barn into a home. "Father's" hard-headed obsti- 
 nacy logically underlies the whole procedure of 
 "Mother." The visit of the minister confirms 
 "Mother" in the step she has taken; she will stand 
 by her guns. Even the element of chance which took 
 "Father" away, just before the new barn was com- 
 pleted, seems plausible. For "Father" was building 
 a new barn that he might care for more stock, which 
 he would buy about the time of readiness for it. The 
 
92 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 plot seems true, and that is the desired consumma- 
 tion. 
 
 Originality, or individuality, further characterises 
 a good plot. Basic types of plot are few; but a story 
 structure reared on one of them should exemplify 
 an individual assembly of detail. As examples of 
 short-stories built on the same general base, the 
 student will do well to compare Turgenev's 
 "A Lear of the Steppes" with Mrs. Freeman's "A 
 Village Lear," both of which are fashioned after the 
 model of Shakespeare's "King Lear." And it is just 
 as well to remember that "King Lear," by Shake- 
 speare, was but a reshaping of an old plot. The 
 finished drama was Shakespeare's and his alone. But 
 he adapted the plot, as he adapted others, from ma- 
 terial at hand. Or read the stories built on the 
 "Grande Breteche" model. After Balzac, Poe wrote 
 "The Black Cat," and "The Cask of Amontillado"; 
 and, later yet, Mrs. Wharton used the same under- 
 lying plan for "The Duchess at Prayer." Yet the 
 three writers handle this "perennial plot" with ex- 
 treme individuality. An exercise the young writer 
 may take with profit is that of selecting some well- 
 known plot and fitting It to material which lies near 
 at hand. 
 
 Just as the novel idea should be made to seem 
 natural, as "Mother's" moving Into the barn seems 
 natural, so the commonplace should be made to seem 
 significant. May Sinclair's story, "The Pin-prick," 
 elevates a seemingly trivial bit of life to the stage 
 
PLOT: COMPOSITION 93 
 
 of dramaJ So also in "The Fault" she, makes a 
 woman's habit of twisting a lock of hair the turning 
 point in a line of interest. In general, it may be said, 
 the writer of the psychological story must make 
 mountains out of mole-hills; the writer of the unusual 
 incidents will need to trim off and cut down, in short 
 to make mole-hills out of mountains. In either case, 
 whether the writer magnifies or minifies, he should 
 make a struggle which is absorbing, one which pos- 
 sesses climatic development and dramatic tenseness, 
 with a convincing denouement. Through his plot 
 the author maintains interest. Arnold Bennett, in 
 "The Author's Craft," pertinently remarks: "In pro- 
 portion as the interest of the story is maintained, the 
 plot is a good one. In so far as it lapses, the plot 
 is a bad one." 
 
 From this general discussion of plot building, let 
 us turn in the next chapter to definite types of plot 
 structure, and to a study of plot order, as it may 
 appear in the building and the finished story. 
 
 ' See Chapter XIV. 
 
A TttitJ - — - 1 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 :~ 
 
 ■""■■ 
 
 — 1 
 
 •4- 
 
 ^ 
 
 SJSOh 
 
 7X3; 
 
 mj 
 
 ■\ 
 
 1 
 
 1 
 
 . 1 
 
 ••. 1 
 
 -+ 
 1 
 
 ^1 
 
 •M30 3 1 
 
 YAna 
 
 ..- 
 
 
 1 ! 
 
 1 
 
 P 
 
 sst 
 
 0M\ 
 13 Sk 
 
 \ 
 'ori 
 
 \ 
 
 > 
 
 YAfla 
 
 
 § 
 
 1 
 
 -J 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 7KAO 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 "Ow 
 
 55 
 
 uaifjdo^i 
 
 7^- 
 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 1 
 
 OS 
 
 vo 
 
 
 
 > 
 
 V 
 
 
 «o 
 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 §5* 
 
 X 
 
 
 
 
 
 \l 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 M3/A3 
 
 IIUUl 
 
 m\- 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 I 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 o 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 ■.. I 
 
 N 
 
 
 
 '3Am 
 
 Y7^A 
 
 Wt— 
 
 •J 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 Alto 
 
 'smi 
 
 \ 
 
 WAx- 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 1 
 1 
 1 
 
 s: 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 \ 
 
 
 <k 
 
 
 
 
 
 \ t 
 
 o 
 
 5 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 1 
 
 s 
 
 IS 
 
 0. 
 
 
 
 layx 
 
 JWW 
 
 1" 
 
 "... 
 
 Vi 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
 * 
 
 \ 
 
 1 
 
 S! ^ Cj 
 
 
 
 s 
 
 s 
 
 ? 
 
 3\\ 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 ^,^^ 
 
 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 94 
 
PLOT: COMPOSITION 95 
 
 Exercises for Chapter V 
 
 MODEL FOR PLOT STRUCTURE 
 
 THE MARK OF THE BEAST — Rudyard Kipling- 
 Initial Incident: — Fleete grinds the ashes of his cigar butt 
 
 into the forehead of Hanuman. 
 Steps in the Rising Action: — I. A Silver Man emerges from 
 the recess behind the image of the god, catches Fleete 
 around the body, and drops his head on Fleete's breast. 
 2. Priests, at first enraged, become calm. 3. On the 
 way home Fleete smells blood. 4. At home he de- 
 sires underdone chops. 5. He discloses black marks 
 on his breast. 6. Strickland (second character in the 
 story) begs the narrator to stay over night. 7. Horses 
 fear Fleete. 8. Fleete needs more chops. 9. The Sil- 
 ver Man mevi^s at the party. 10. Fleete grovels about 
 the garden. 11. Wants bloody chops 'Vithout gristle." 
 12. His eyes show a green light back of them. 
 Dramatic Climax: — "Presently from the room came the 
 long-drawn howl of a wolf"; the howl repeated is 
 answered by one across the fields. 
 Steps in the Falling Action: — Fleete cannot talk; howls and 
 spits. 2. He is bound and tied. 3. The Silver Man 
 appears and mews like an otter. 4. The Doctor ar- 
 rives; he says Fleete has hydrophobia and that death is 
 certain. 5. The cry outside rises again. 6. Prepara- 
 tions for capturing the Silver Man. 7. He is cap- 
 tured. 8. He is tortured. 9. He removes the mark. 
 10. He is allowed to go. 11. Fleete's soul comes back ^ 
 into his eyes; he sleeps. 
 Climax of Action and Denouement: — He wakes in his right 
 mind, oblivious of all that has occurred. 
 
96 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 What is the initial incident or impulse in "The Colors," 
 by Mary R. S. Andrews; "Because of the Dollars," by 
 Joseph Conrad; "The Substitute," by Frangois Coppee; 
 "On the Staircase," by K. F. Gerould; "A Mercury of the 
 Foot-Hills," by Bret Harte; "After Twenty Years," by O. 
 Henry; "Back to Back," by W. W. Jacobs? 
 
 What is the dramatic climax in "The Great Tradition," 
 by K. F. Gerould; "The Great Condition," by Henry 
 James; "A Christmas Present for a Lady," by Myra Kelly; 
 "Love of Life," by Jack London? 
 
 What are the climax of action and the denouement in De 
 Maupassant's "Coward," Merrick's "Tragedy of a Comic 
 Song," Morris's "All the Evidence," Kathleen Norris's 
 "Rising Water,'! Poe's "Ligeia," Van Dyke's "The Night 
 Call," Edith Wharton's "Xingu"? 
 
 According to the model, analyse stories mentioned in pre- 
 vious exercises. 
 
 Compare Irvin Cobb's "Occurrence up a Side Street'' 
 with Chaucer's "Pardoner's Tale." 
 
 What novel turn has Mrs. Gerould given in her "Pen- 
 alties of Artemis" to the situation of a man and woman 
 shipwrecked on a desert island? 
 
 Construct a plot, indicating all the stages of the structure. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 PLOT : STORY TYPES DEPENDENT ON PLOT ORDER 
 
 The alphabet chosen for illustrative purposes; chronological 
 or A B C order and straightway narrative; illustra- 
 tions, "The Mark of the Beast," etc., variants: i. first 
 steps omitted ; illustration, "The Cask of Amontillado" ; 
 2. middle links omitted, illustrations of two kinds — a. 
 omission easily supplied, as in "Mr. Raegen," b. omission 
 a source of mystery, as in "The Pasha's Garden": 3. 
 final facts or incidents omitted, illustration, "The Lady 
 or the Tiger ?" ; comparison between it and mystery plot ; 
 note on problem plot; the reversed or Z Y X order, 
 or the detective story order; combination of orders: i. 
 intermediate steps omitted and placed after the final 
 step; illustrations, "Marjorie Daw," "The Necklace," 
 "A Double-Dyed Deceiver," the surprise ending; 2. 
 reversal of step or groups in the series; illustration, "A 
 New England Nun," "The Echo"; the problem plot; 
 the detective story; discussion of "The Red Headed 
 League"; remarks on the detective story; the value of 
 plot study; the Russian w. the American conte; plot a 
 mechanical thing not to be confused with story presen- 
 tation. 
 
 Assuming that the student has grasped the princi- 
 ple of struggle and complication, and that he has 
 
 97 
 
98 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 learned to build a closely dove-tailed plot, let us see 
 what possible methods of presenting it are open to 
 him. For the sake of simplicity in illustration, let 
 us suppose that the usual order of plot facts or in- 
 cidents employed is that of the complete alphabet, 
 A B C on down through Z. Now clearly this order 
 in the plot may be the order of presentation in the 
 finished story; the ABC plan is in fact that by 
 which the events of the action are marshalled most 
 directly and naturally. It is sometimes called the 
 chronological order, since each successive incident or 
 relation precedes the next in point of time, as A pre- 
 cedes B, B precedes C, and so on. It may be de- 
 scribed also as the plot progressing from cause to 
 effect. "The Mark of the Beast," "The Monkey's 
 Paw," "The Coward," "The Father," "A Day Off," 
 "The Journey," among a host of stories exemplify 
 this straightforward or chronological series.^ Let us 
 designate this type by the Roman I. 
 
 Variants of this complete series, the chronological 
 order, are of three kinds. 
 
 I. The plot which omits and nowhere supplies the first 
 links. 
 
 Keeping to the illustrations, let us say the story 
 may omit A B C D E F G, may take up the plot 
 at H, and continue through Z. "'The Cask of 
 Amontillado" is an example. It progresses chron- 
 ologically, but confines its action to the revenge 
 
 ^Review the series in "The Mark of the Beast," above. 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES 99 
 
 Montresor took after suffering the thousand in- 
 juries and the insult at the hands of Fortunate. 
 What they were, specifically, Poe leaves to the 
 reader. In ' beginning the series at the point of 
 dramatic reverse, he enters at once upon the down- 
 ward action which results in a change of fortunes. 
 Stories constructed on such a beheaded series re- 
 semble the Greek drama, which in its structure has 
 been compared to the last act of a modern play. 
 Complete In itself, therefore, the story may be 
 regarded as built on a new plot series which begins 
 at H and extends through Z. 
 
 2. The plot from which the middle links have been omitted. 
 
 The action may use A B C D E, may omit F G H I 
 J K L M N, and, taking up the chain at O, continue 
 through Z. Now, these missing links, like those in 
 I, may be supplied with ease by the reader. For 
 example, in "My Disreputable Friend, Mr. Rae- 
 gen," at the point N, let us say. Rags debates the 
 situation. O P Q are omitted, and the story picks 
 up at R, when Rags appears at the police station. 
 The reader easily fills in the omitted steps, and in 
 so doing helps to construct the story. But the 
 omissions, in other stories, may not be supplied 
 surely. For example, In "The Pasha's Garden" 
 something which occurred Is left to the reader's ap- 
 prehension. The Pasha's wife refused to give up 
 the key to a chest in the harem room wherein she 
 had been spending the afternoon. At the informa- 
 
loo A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 tion of a servant who implied that she had received 
 a visitor, the pasha's long inheritance of Oriental 
 feeling surged over him, and without opening the 
 chest — the key of which his wife had finally sur- 
 rendered — he dug for it a hole and with the assist- 
 ance of the servant buried It. Had a visitor con- 
 cealed himself in the chest? Or had he escaped? 
 The author purposefully omits to inform the reader, 
 an omission which strengthens the effect of the story 
 by the mystery it produces. 
 
 3. The plot from which the final links have been cut ofi. 
 
 The story which begins at A may run straight to 
 X and there end. Such a story leaves the denou- 
 ment to the reader's judgment as influenced by the 
 facts so far presented. The famous exemplar of 
 this division Is "The Lady or the Tiger?" The di- 
 viding line between such a story and "The Pasha's 
 Garden" is finely drawn. In the latter the action 
 is finished; what is done is done, but the reader is 
 uncertain. In "The Lady or the Tiger?" where the 
 action is really incomplete, the reader Is uncertain. 
 If the author had somehow informed us what the 
 right door concealed, we should have been able to 
 complete the story for ourselves without argument 
 or without much exercise of the imagination.^ 
 
 'The term, "problem plot," has been used loosely to indicate 
 either of two types; first, that in which, as in "The Lady or the 
 Tiger?" and "The Pasha's Garden," some broken train of action 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES loi 
 
 II The second important order of presentation, 
 the reverse of the chronological or A B C order, is 
 by some critics termed the logical order. This spe- 
 cial use of "logical" merely suggests the rational 
 processes by which cause is deduced from effect. 
 All good plots are logical, in the inclusive sense. 
 The alphabet still serving to illustrate, this second 
 class may be termed the Z Y X plot. It is the plot 
 principle of the detective story, first used in "The 
 
 is set forth for the reader to finish; second, that in which some 
 problem usually of a moral nature is set forth, stated and solved. 
 The latter is well illustrated in Edith Wharton's "Souls Belated." 
 Lydia Tillotson, having left her husband for Ralph Gannett, learns 
 in Europe that Tillotson has divorced her. At first determined 
 not to be married to Gannett, because she does not wish to burden 
 him with the relation she has not contemplated, she resists his 
 proposals. At length, her awakened soul sees that marriage will 
 not ethically undo the mistake; but her sense of convention also 
 reveals to her a need for the marriage tie. To break the bond, 
 she meditates escape; but convention is too strong for her and she 
 remains with Gannett, to whom, supposedly, she will be married. 
 Here then is the general ethical problem and the particular solu- 
 tion. 
 
 Justus Miles Forman in his "Greater Love " sets forth this 
 
 question. Shall a man useful to society give up his life to save 
 that of a useless member? He answers it in such manner as to 
 leave the reader questioning rather than satisfied. But the par- 
 ticular plot is complete from beginning to end. Mrs. Gerould has 
 asked and answered the same question in "The Knight's Move." 
 
 "The Pasha's Garden" is a sort of mystery, and therefore is not 
 unlike the class of so-called mystery stories. But there is more 
 than mere absence of something from the plot series in "The 
 Ghost," "The Upper Berth," "The Shadows on the Wall," and 
 "At the End of the Passage." In these, mystery is also bound 
 up in the phenomenon or appearance. 
 
102 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Purloined Letter" and "The Murders in the Rue 
 Morgue." The Sherlock Holmes stories, the Craig 
 Kennedy stories, and countless inferior others ap- 
 ply the general principle first used by Poe. 
 
 If, now, reversal operates to produce a type of 
 story distinct from that of the ABC order, then 
 a combination of the two main methods should pro- 
 duce stories having characteristics common to each. 
 And this is precisely what we find. 
 
 III. I. A step, or number of steps, may be omit- 
 ted from the regular order, then placed after the 
 final step or climax of action. The author begins 
 A B C D, etc., and runs to M, let us say; then he 
 omits M N O P, takes up the story perhaps at Q 
 and continues through Z. Then he adds the omit- 
 ted letter or letters. Since "Marjorie Daw," * there 
 have been many instances of the story built on this 
 plot arrangement, which to-day is the most popular 
 of all the methods of presentation. In "The Neck- 
 lace" only one fact is left out, the fetching forward 
 of which In the final sentence creates the surprise. 
 
 ° As the term "'problem plot" is a source of confusion, so is "hoax 
 plot." "Marjorie Daw" exemplifies the story which by its plot 
 arrangement hoaxes the reader as well as a character in the story. 
 But a hoax may be made the basis of a plot which is free of 
 intention to "sell" the reader. For example, O. Henry's "Pimienta 
 Pancakes" offers whimsical development of a hoax: A says to B, 
 "I wish to get from C a recipe for making pancakes. Please 
 help me." But A also says to C, "B is insane on the subject of 
 pancakes. He was injured on the head while pancakes were 
 being cooked and when excited he is a bit 'off.' " The use of a 
 novel point of view (see following chapter) "makes" the story. 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES 103 
 
 O. Henry's "A Double-Dyed Deceiver" omits only 
 one small detail ; but it is significant, and in emerging 
 at the close becomes more significant.* 
 
 2. A step or number of steps may be placed out 
 of order within the series. The author may begin 
 with G H I J, and then revert to A B C D E F; 
 having made the circuit to J, he takes up the order 
 at K and perhaps continues through S. Then he 
 may skip to X Y Z, after which he may add T U 
 V W by way of final explanation. Obviously, the 
 possible combinations are numberless, and this 
 method In general is the one most often employed. 
 "A New England Nun" is a classic example of the 
 story which begins in medias res, running straight 
 along for a brief period, then reverting to past time, 
 after which the order is regular to the end. Wal- 
 lace Irwin's "The Echo" illustrates the same pro- 
 cedure. 
 
 Thei main purposes of omissions are 
 
 a. for economy, 
 
 b. for creating a sense of mystery. 
 Or for a combination of these ends. 
 
 The main purposes of inversions are 
 
 a. for concentrating the elements of plot, 
 
 b. for unifying the elements of time and place, 
 
 c. for creating surprise. 
 
 Now to examine further the distinguished mem- 
 ber of the reversed plot family, let us consider the 
 detective story. It is frequently found in conjunc- 
 
 'See further, Chapter XIV. 
 
104 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 tion with high literary merit, its construction de- 
 mands inventive ability, logic and care in adjust- 
 ment; and its composition for those who need exer- 
 cise in plot making is invaluable. Young writers 
 are familiar with the idea that the detective story 
 plot is but apparently a tour de force in deductive 
 reasoning; they know that the author first carefully 
 builds up his complication and, having arrived at the 
 denouement, then reverses his process. That is, they 
 understand dimly that the author begins with his 
 original denouement or perhaps a point just preced- 
 ing the denouement, and so far as the reader is con- 
 cerned works from effect back to cause. For stu- 
 dents who would learn to write detective stories, 
 more than this general knowledge is essential. To 
 those who have followed the tabulation and discus- 
 sion of plot forms given above, I recommend study 
 of the Sherlock Holmes narratives. As a working 
 model, I shall choose "The Red-Headed League," 
 perhaps the best known of all, and show its synthe- 
 sis.* 
 
 This study we shall make under three topics : 
 
 1. The building of the plot. 
 
 2. What Sherlock Holmes knows. 
 
 3. The presentation to the reader. 
 
 I. In building the plot, the author makes use of 
 a main line of interest and a secondary line. The 
 
 ° Published in "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes"; in "War- 
 ner's Library of the World's Best Literature"; in Julian Haw- 
 thorne's "Library of Mystery and Detective Stories." 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES 105 
 
 two probably started quite independently of each 
 other, and the secondary line may have presented it- 
 self first; but for the sake of convenience we shall 
 assume that the main line first appeared. The 
 germinal idea was probably the author's knowledge 
 that a bank robbery had been committed by thieves 
 who effected by means of a tunnel an entrance to 
 certain bank vaults.® Or the author might have 
 passed a shop of some kind near a bank and con- 
 ceived the idea of an underground passage to the 
 vaults. The essential point to keep in mind' is that 
 the author starts with the fact which ultimately 
 emerges as the seeming discovery. Not to take too 
 much for granted, let us assume that the author 
 built the plan on his own hypothesis. 
 
 One of the first questions to arise would naturally 
 be. Who could build a tunnel from the shop to the 
 bank, or How can a tunnel be built ? Only by some 
 person or persons having access to the shop. The 
 proprietor might serve, or a clerk or assistant. A 
 desperate character might secure engagement as clerk 
 to the owner. Then, in that case, the second ques- 
 tion arises. How can the villain contrive to dig a 
 tunnel without exciting the suspicions of the em- 
 ployer ? Obviously he must get rid of the employer 
 
 'This part of the story might well have been found already 
 elaborated; that is, the author may have heard the full details 
 of a crime similar to that occurring twenty years later in New 
 York City. In Maiden Lane, a few years ago, a daring diamond 
 robbery was made in almost identically the manner Sir Conan 
 here describes. 
 
io6 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 altogether, for a time, or for part of the time each 
 day. The disappearance of the owner might have 
 the undesirable effect of nipping the scheme in the 
 bud. Why not send him on a journey? This plan 
 might have been used. If so the second line of in- 
 terest would probably have offered just as unusual 
 and bizarre features as the one chosen. But the 
 author decided to get rid of the proprietor for a 
 certain time each day. 
 
 At this point, then, the second thread of interest 
 enters. The employer will be given a unique piece 
 of work, one the novelty of which will later engage 
 the reader's uppermost interest. 
 
 Keep in mind, too, that at some time or other the 
 author had possibly clipped just such a newspaper 
 notice and treasured it against later need. This 
 clipping, then, is the starting point of the subordinate 
 thread : 
 
 To the Red-Headed League: On account of the bequest 
 of the late Ezekiah Hopkins of Lebanon, Pa., U. S. A., 
 there is now another vacancy open, which entitles a mem- 
 ber of the League to a salary of four pounds a week for 
 purely nominal services. All red-headed men who are 
 sound in body and mind, and above the age of twenty-one 
 years are eligible. Apply in person on Monday at 1 1 o'clock 
 to Duncan Ross at the offices of the League, 7 Pope's Court, 
 Fleet Street. 
 
 The author makes his shopkeeper the possessor of 
 a red head, and by so doing roughly completes his 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES 107 
 
 possibility for complication. The robber-clerk will 
 insert this notice in one of the London dailies, will 
 read the notice later to his employer, and will ulti- 
 mately succeed in making his employer the "success- 
 ful competitor" for a position that will take him 
 away from the shop for a number of hours every 
 day. He will build the tunnel and rob the bank. 
 
 Now some detective stories show an unwinding 
 for the purpose of explaining how a striking crime 
 has been perpetrated. "The Murders in the Rue 
 Morgue" solves the mystery of two deaths; Arthur 
 Reeve's "The Absolute Zero" solves the mystery of 
 two deaths ; "The Bitter Water" solves the mystery 
 of one death. The ABC plot has been reversed. 
 But other detective stories show how a crime might 
 have been committed. The ABC plot is not fully 
 reversed. So here the author decided not to allow 
 the robbery; he prevented the denouement as orig- 
 inally conceived.'' 
 
 How, now, will the robbery be forestalled? The 
 author conceived the idea of unwinding the com- 
 plication by a skilful pull at the subordinate thread; 
 in short, he will make the proprietor of the shop 
 the leading figure in what must appear to the reader 
 to be the main thread of interest. Because the tun- 
 nel has been built and the moment is ripe for action, 
 the thief or thieves will give notice that the League 
 
 ' His chief reason is of course that after the criminals made 
 their escape with the gold, the tunnel would have stood revealed 
 and with it all the complication. 
 
io8 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 is dissolved; and because he has lost his job, Jabez 
 Wilson will go to Sherlock Holmes about it. Ob- 
 serve the weak point: the robbers would not have 
 suggested the dissolution of the League. They 
 would have made sure the proprietor was still 
 out of the way. And further, a man losing a unique 
 sort of occupation about which he had been advised 
 by his assistant, would hardly run at once to a prom- 
 inent detective. But if the weakness were not ex- 
 istent, there would be no story. Finally for the 
 reader, the defect is cleverly concealed. 
 
 2. What Sherlock Holmes knows. Let us re- 
 gard him as a real detective, to whom the author 
 will give only 'certain facts, namely those in the 
 possession of the pawnbroker. The only reason 
 for transferring them from Jabez Wilson to Sher- 
 lock Holmes is that the former is stupid and the 
 latter is clever. The pawnbroker relates that he 
 keeps a shop with a single assistant. About a 
 month after engaging this young man's services, the 
 pawnbroker has been employed outside the shop 
 a certain number of hours each day. This morn- 
 ing the employment had abruptly terminated, and 
 under peculiar conditions. Provoked at the loss of 
 his position, he has sought out Sherlock Holmes to 
 solve the mystery of its sudden ending. He reads 
 the advertisement, tells the story of his election to 
 the Red Headed League, and incidentally of his 
 assistant's part In the election. In the rough, this 
 Is all the detective knows. But in detail, he appre- 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES 109 
 
 hends much more. The way In which the author 
 shows the detective's ability may fittingly be in- 
 cluded under 
 
 3. The presentation to the reader. First, then, 
 the detective is not the best person to narrate the 
 events. He would have to tell too much; he 
 would seem too egotistic. The chronicler may fit- 
 tingly be one who admires the detective, who serves 
 as a foil to his brilliancy, and who is always ready 
 to act at need. Dr. Watson, the confidant, be- 
 comes involved, as a minor character, in most of the 
 Sherlock Holmes stories. 
 
 In a matter-of-fact style, then, Dr. Watson begins 
 at the beginning: "I had called upon my friend, 
 Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of 
 last year, and found him in deep conversation with 
 a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with 
 fiery red hair." The apparent key-note struck in 
 "red hair," and emphasised a trifle later, starts the 
 reader off on the wrong trail. 
 
 The author here takes the opportunity of apolo- 
 gising for his bizarre red-headed league idea, and 
 at the same time of impressing upon the reader that 
 truth is stranger than fiction. Verisimilitude, a dis- 
 tinct touch of reality, is produced by these words: 
 "You will remember that I remarked the other day 
 just before we went into the very simple problem 
 presented by Miss Mary Sutherland that for strange 
 effects and extraordinary combinations, we must go 
 to life itself, which is always far more daring than 
 
no A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 any effort of the imagination." By this apol- 
 ogy the author further hoodwinks the undiscerning 
 reader. 
 
 The pawnbroker, who has just begun his narra- 
 tive, recommences. The matter he will present will 
 be the exposition, or the antecedent circumstances, 
 of the story to follow. From experience of long- 
 winded expositions, the reader may perhaps fear 
 tediousness. But the author rouses interest even in 
 the exposition by subtly suggesting that the great 
 detective is willing to listen twice to the beginning, 
 that. In short, Holmes thinks the narrative unique. 
 
 To break the monotony of the explanation, the 
 author calls upon Sherlock to perform a minor exer- 
 cise of deduction. By this apparent deduction the 
 description of Wilson is cleverly and unobtrusively 
 given to the reader. Sir Conan conveniently makes 
 him a Freemason, a man who has done manual la- 
 bour, who has been In China. He might have chosen 
 to give Mr. Wilson any characteristics whatever, 
 except the very pertinent visible effect from the writ- 
 ing. This effect is the significant attribute. A man 
 who has been in China may have been tattooed; he 
 may wear a coin. Manual labour leaves one hand 
 larger than the other. Writing frays the edge of 
 the right cuff. Taking the effects, the detective 
 works back to cause : "Beyond the obvious facts 
 that he has at some time done manual labour . . . 
 that he is a Freemason, that he has been in China, 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES in 
 
 and that he has done a considerable amount of writ- 
 ing lately, I can deduce nothing else." 
 
 Part of the "business" in the Sherlock Holmes 
 stories consists in surprising the client by the detec- 
 tive's seeming omniscience, and in having him ask 
 how the detective knows. The detective explains. 
 Then the client, perceiving that the deduction is 
 merely logical, not magical, ceases to admire. The 
 point for the student is that the deduction is only 
 apparent. Sir Conan Doyle planned it; he devised 
 cause before effect; Sherlock seems to deduce cause 
 from effect. 
 
 •After reading the advertisement, Wilson answers 
 questions about his household. Holmes pays close 
 attention to the details about the young man's em- 
 ployment, his developing pictures in the cellar; he 
 starts at the discovery that the clerk has a white 
 splash of acid upon his forehead, and immediately 
 asks whether his ears are pierced for ear-rings. The 
 reader gasps; he knows that Sherlock has a "clue." 
 Again, the inference appears clever; but it is still 
 to be remembered that Sir Conan, who has chosen 
 his man, is as thoroughly acquainted with one of 
 his characteristics as with another. The average 
 reader wonders at the omniscience of Sherlock, for- 
 getful that the stock figure of the great man has 
 only at the moment the particular manifestation of 
 omniscience which his creator thinks it wise for him 
 to possess. 
 
 The author takes pains to interest the reader in 
 
112 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 the account of the leaguer's employment, which he 
 gives in sprightly narrative. The villains in making 
 it difficult for Jabez Wilson to secure the League 
 vacancy had efficaciously hoodwinked him. The 
 situation affords humorous gleams by way of light- 
 ing up the story. After Holmes "gets the clue," 
 however — ^which also becomes one for the reader — 
 there is practically nothing else for the detective 
 to do but to prevent the thief from carrying out 
 whatever designs he may have. If there is time! 
 The author knows the trick of suspense. He holds 
 the solution that the detective must apparently find; 
 but to foster the delusion that the detective actually 
 does the work of probing the mystery, the author 
 permits him to smoke three pipes over the prob- 
 lem. The three-pipe study centers about the ques- 
 tions, What was the assistant doing in the cellar? 
 Why had he got rid of the proprietor? To answer 
 these questions, Sherlock must reconnoitre: he and 
 Watson walk by the pawnbroker's establishment. 
 When the buildings in the vicinity were enumerated, 
 the Bank branch is skilfully buried in the list so as 
 not to excite the reader's attention to its proximity; 
 for the author Is not yet ready to give up the secret. 
 The detective knocks; the clerk comes to the door, 
 gives a direction inquired for, and vanishes. The 
 detective had desired to see his knees. 
 
 Having discovered the Bank and the soiled knees 
 of the clerk's trousers, and having found the ground 
 to be hollow-sounding, the detective has confirmed 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES 113 
 
 his guess. But the reader does not yet know the 
 solution. For further suspense, the two — Holmes 
 and Watson — are permitted by the author to listen 
 to a concert, Holmes alleging that German music 
 is introspective In its influence. Then Holmes an- 
 nounces that a crime is about to occur, and invites 
 Watson to be present at its prevention. 
 
 The denouement is managed effectively. In the 
 company of the Bank Director, Mr. Merryweather, 
 and Peter Jones of Scotland Yard, the two men set 
 off at ten o'clock In the evening. (The Scotland 
 Yard men are foils to the genius of Holmes, usually 
 deriding his methods, and chagrined at his success.) 
 As the four journey to the Bank vaults, Watson 
 learns that thirty thousand pounds are at stake. 
 John Clay, murderer, is the criminal. In the busi- 
 ness of entering the Bank cellar and waiting, sus- 
 pense is well maintained. The men watching In the 
 vault capture the criminal clerk; the Scotland Yard 
 men below seize his accomplice. The ending Is 
 further enhanced by the royal blood of the villain. 
 Finally, in explanatory fashion. Holmes rehearses 
 to Watson the points which that gentleman as well 
 as the reader may have failed to apprehend during 
 the course of the narrative. If we summarise the 
 stages of construction, we have 
 
 I. A B C down through Z. Sir Conan Doyle's 
 straight plot: A criminal secures a position 
 in a pawnbroker's shop, that he may dig a 
 
114 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 tunnel from it to the vault of a bank. By 
 getting rid of the proprietor for a stated 
 time each day, he, with an accomplice, will 
 complete the excavation and rob the bank 
 of 30,000 pounds. 
 
 ABC, etc., straight, unbroken series through 
 Z. 
 
 But the author interrupts his series by send- 
 ing the pawnbroker, about point V, to Sher- 
 lock Holmes. (W X Y Z exists only in the 
 mind of the author.) 
 
 2. The series as Sherlock Holmes receives it: 
 
 V (information about the dissolution of the 
 League) ; then J (a rehearsal of the assist- 
 ant's calling attention to the advertisement, 
 etc.) ; then A B and a broken series down 
 to V. The parenthesised letters stand for 
 facts none of the characters know. 
 
 V J A B (C) D (E) F (G) H (IK) L 
 (MN) O (P) QRSTU. 
 
 3. The reader receives all the information 
 Sherlock receives, and those points or facts 
 added by Sherlock's questions, guesses and 
 deductions, so far as Sherlock chooses to let 
 the reader have them. The reader does not 
 know the significance of all the supplied 
 links, nor can he deduce the W X Y Z de- 
 nouement, as Sherlock deduces It. 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES 115 
 
 V J A B (C) D (E) F (G) H (I K) L 
 (M N) O (P) Q R S T U, and then, after 
 U, E I K M P. The reader falls, let us say, 
 to receive C, which may stand for the fact 
 that Vincent Spaulding is not the actual name 
 of the assistant. G may represent the dig- 
 ging of the tunnel, which is withheld still. 
 These are added or become clear for the 
 reader when he learns W X Y Z. And the 
 plot is complete, as it was for the author 
 originally. 
 
 From Poe, the inventor of the detective story, to 
 Arthur Reeve, who employs the type for conveying 
 to the public information about the occult, about 
 unusual 'drugs, or recent inventions, the author of 
 the detective story has pursued in large measure the 
 plan here set forth. In the partial or complete re- 
 versal of the plan first constructed, he presents a plot 
 which is marked by the same technique that directs 
 the straight plot and its development, — and more. 
 
 If the primary purpose of fiction is to entertain, 
 the detective story needs no apology. "What sort 
 of fiction is it that has the most nearly universal 
 appeal?" inquires Melville Post, in "The Blight." 
 His answer is pertinent to this discussion. "If one 
 reflects one will immediately see that the human 
 mind everywhere is engaged almost exclusively with 
 problems. It is the problem that holds the mind 
 with a consuming interest. The astronomer, as 
 
ii6 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Mr. Lowell so aptly puts it, is merely a detective 
 of the heavens ; the chemist, a detective of the lab- 
 oratory; the biologist, a student of clues. We are 
 encircled by a frontier of vast mysteries. We ad- 
 vance by finding the solution to these mysteries." 
 If the "human mind is essentially an implement for 
 the solving of problems and the untangling of mys- 
 teries," it would "seem to be true that the writer 
 who presents a problem to be solved or a mystery 
 to be untangled will be ofEering those qualities in 
 his fiction which are of the most nearly universal 
 appeal." 
 
 The story of such an author will probably de- 
 pend mainly for its excellence upon the characterisa- 
 tion of his detective, who must be a man of flesh-and- 
 blood, — not an automaton, — and upon the decep- 
 tion of the reader, who must never feel the back- 
 ward working process. In short, the author must 
 conceal his mechanism. 
 
 I have written at length about plot and its man- 
 agement, with examples of plot processes, because 
 I have found that the student of parts who wishes 
 to learn story writing needs help most of all in plot 
 construction. It is the chief way in which an in- 
 structor can be of help ; yet as a matter of fact it Is 
 the way about which most of the books are silent. 
 The older story teller delivered his story direcdy, 
 in chronological order. The modern story writer 
 must be highly sophisticated to please his sophisti- 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES 117 
 
 cated reader. He must trap attention ; he must hold 
 that attention by all the devices known to his art; 
 he must lure the reader on to the climax with just 
 the right suspense ; he must elicit the breath of relief, 
 or perhaps the gasp of horror. Although the style, 
 the dress for the plot, counts largely, yet the plot 
 itself, the process in dealing with the larger features 
 teUs for most in his final success or unsuccess. What 
 Aristotle said still holds good: "... beginners 
 in the art become proficient in the delineation of 
 personal traits before they are able to combine the 
 incidents of the action into an effective whole. . . ." 
 And in comparing one short story with another, I 
 would make plot comparison a test. As he said 
 of tragedy : "... in pointing out similarities and dif- 
 ferences in the handling of material, the fairest way 
 is to take the plot as a basis of criticism." 
 
 It has been asserted that the modern Ameri- 
 can story is machlne-n^ade. It has been urged 
 that the Russian stories, for example, are re- 
 freshing after our turned-out-to-order short- 
 story. If, however, the American story reveals it- 
 self as machine-made, it is merely a bad story; the 
 mechanism has not been sufficiently concealed. Per- 
 haps In the particular example the breath of life is 
 lacking. The stories of Chekov and Andreiev are 
 undoubtedly refreshing for their "difference," their 
 vigour and their abundance of realistic detail. But 
 they are not, usually, to be preferred for form. 
 
ii8 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Read Chekov's "The Black Monk," or "The Kiss," 
 or "Verotchka," and analyse your feeling of dis- 
 satisfaction at the close. The story in each case 
 trails off; it is unfinished. Some one praises "La 
 Cigale." But as to plot it is one of the most care- 
 fully wrought pieces of narrative in the collection, 
 "The Kiss." The upholder of the Russian story 
 makes out no case against the American technician. 
 The American technician might do better if he had, 
 let us say, more power; the Russian certainly could 
 not be the worse in a number of stories for more 
 technique. The person with no instinct for plot 
 may yet have something to say if he can master the 
 instrument. 
 
 The student is strongly recommended to construct 
 plot after plot, even though most of them are good 
 only for throwing away. There is no earthly value 
 in developing a story on a framework which will not 
 support the material laid over it.® The mechanical 
 means of plot development here set forth, — that 
 of finding a struggle or obstacle in one line of inter- 
 est and effecting with the line a complication through 
 a subordinate line of interest, — is one which any stu- 
 dent can learn. And, above all, plot is mechanical. 
 
 ' It should be repeated, however, that some authors write 
 sequentially; that is, that they develop plot as they develop the 
 story. This method is perhaps the "natural" method; it is the 
 one likely to be chosen by students who have a gift for telling 
 stories. But it is also, unfortunately, the one too often chosen by 
 him who has only a small plot gift, and who finds the sequence 
 not forthcoming. 
 
PLOT: STORY TYPES 119 
 
 It is in no sense to be confused with the ultimate 
 presentation of the story. 
 
 TABLE ILLUSTRATING ORDERS OF PLOT PRESENTATION: 
 
 I 
 
 The chronological or alphabet order. 
 
 ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUV 
 WXYZ 
 
 Example. "The Mark of the Beast." 
 Variants: 
 
 1. (A B C D E F G) H . . . Z. 
 
 Example, "The Cask of Amontillado." 
 
 2. A B C D E (F . . . N) O . . . Z. 
 
 Examples, (a) for economy: "My Disrepu- 
 table Friend, Mr. Raegen"; (b) for 
 mystery: "The Pasha's Garden." 
 
 3. A B C D E F . . . to X (Y Z). 
 
 Example, "The Lady or the Tiger?" 
 
 II 
 
 The "logical" or reversed alphabet order. 
 
 Z Y X W V U . . . A. 
 
 The general method of presenting detective story plots. 
 Pure type rarely found. 
 
 Ill 
 
 The mixed order. Various combinations possible. As, 
 I. ABCD...(MNOP) Q...ZMNOP. 
 For surprise. 
 
I20 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Examples: "Marjorie Daw," "The Necklace," "A Dou- 
 ble-Dyed Deceiver." 
 
 2. (ABCDEF)GHIJABCDEFKLMN 
 
 . . . Z. For concentration of time and place. 
 Examples: "A New England Nun," "The Echo." 
 
 3. (ABCDEF)GHIJKLMN...S(TUV 
 
 W) X Y Z T U V W. For concentration of time 
 and place and for surprise. 
 Example: "The Hypotheses of Failure." 
 Note: Parentheses include letters representing a fact or 
 facts omitted. If supplied later they are shown without 
 parentheses. 
 
 Exercises for Chapter VI 
 
 Select a number of stories previously listed, and compare 
 the presentation of plot with the original plot development. 
 
 What omission is responsible for the surprise in the early 
 part of Fannie Hurst's "The Character Woman"? 
 
 Are you surprised at the ending of O. Henry's "Strictly 
 Business"? Why or why not? 
 
 Write out the probably straight order of plot events for 
 * several detective stories which you have read. 
 
 What is the explanation of the surprise in Dorothy Can- 
 field's "A Sleep and a Forgetting"? 
 
 Read Foe's "Gold Bug," Conan Doyle's "Adventure of 
 the Dancing Men," O. Henry's "Calloway's Code," and 
 MelviUe Post's "American Horses" for exploitation of 
 ciphers. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 THE POINT OF VIEW 
 
 Whose story is the one to tell ? Who shall tell it ? Author 
 may do so dramatically (in form), dramatically (in 
 effect, only) ; the meaning of objectivity; examples; 
 note on omniscience; first person narrator: may be a 
 major character; examples; angle of major character; 
 examples; may be a minor character; examples; angle 
 of minor character; examples; the impersonal "I" nar- 
 rator; examples; Kipling's double use of "I"; compari- 
 son between first and third persons as means to draw 
 credulity ; omniscience of author and its relation to point 
 of view; examples of shifts; reasons for confusion of 
 student over "angle" and "point of view"; "spot-light" 
 character vs. character over whom the "X-ray" method 
 is exercised; reasons for selecting and adhering to one 
 point of view; occasions for shifting examples; problem 
 of shaping material determined by the point of view. 
 
 Upon the writer, as he shapes his story, obtrude 
 manifold problems. At first thought, it might ap- 
 pear that selection of necessary and effective detail 
 would be the prime consideration; the extrication of 
 the one story from adventitious matter. "How much 
 of this substance is 'incompetent, irrelevant and im- 
 
 121 
 
122 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 material'?" he must ask before he is ready to "lay 
 a scene and launch a drama." To answer, he must 
 ask further, "Whose story is this, anyway?" A 
 mark of the seasoned author is the recognition of 
 various facets of the story, with a scanning of their 
 possibilities which the tyro fails too often to regard 
 as necessary. 
 
 Obviously, there are as many possible stories as 
 there are characters in the action. But whose is 
 the unique story, or the one to win the reader by 
 gaining his sympathy or exciting his admiration? In 
 "The Sire de Maletroit's Door," it is Denis's; in 
 "The Maltese Cat," it is the pony's; in "A Day 
 Off," it is Abigail's; in "The Revolt of 'Mother,' " it 
 is "Mother's"; in "The Consul," it is the consul's; 
 in "A Tragedy in Little," it is the father's. The 
 writer should be convinced that he is sure of the 
 character to whom, out of all possible choices, the 
 story really belongs. After he has settled this prob- 
 lem to his satisfaction, he must face another of 
 usually greater difficulty: "Who wiU be the narra- 
 tor? ^ 
 
 Shall the author tell the story? He may do so, 
 I. dramatically, or objectively, through the charac- 
 ters in their appropriate places on the stage of ac- 
 tion, his own part being that of a faithful recorder 
 
 ' In "The Hand of Jim Fane," Mrs. Gerould expresses her recog- 
 nition and settling of the two questions: "This, by the way, is 
 Carrie Fane's story; rescued from misunderstanding and oblivion 
 by Rayburn; told, tepidly, by me. I am a kind of Boswell to 
 Rayburn. He can't be bothered to write; he makes munitions." 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 123 
 
 of the drama. He may do so, 2. still as the all- 
 observant on-looker, and camera-like recorder, in 
 straight narrative, which though it may be dramatic 
 enough in effect has nothing or little of dramatic 
 form. Or, he may combine divisions i and 2 of 
 this so-called objective method, angle, or point of 
 view. The objective method and its advantages are 
 summed up, as follows, in a passage from De Mau- 
 passant's "The Novel" : 
 
 "The partisans of objectivity (what an odious word!) 
 profess ... to give us an exact representation of what 
 takes place in life; they carefully avoid all complicated ex- 
 planations and all dissertations on motives, and limit them- 
 selves to placing before our eyes personages and events. In 
 their view psychology ought to be concealed in a book, as it 
 is concealed, in reality, beneath the facts of existence. 
 
 "Novels conceived on this plan gain thereby in interest, 
 in action, in colour, and in stirring life." 
 
 Bjornson wrote "The Father," which is almost 
 pure drama, from the objective angle; in "The Lady 
 or the Tiger?" Stockton used for the most part the 
 objective method by which he recounted in straight 
 narrative the events of the story, ending, "he went 
 to the door on the right and opened it." (In the 
 discussion which follows the end of the narrative, 
 he enters into informal relations with the reader). 
 Thomas Hardy's "The Three Strangers" exemplifies 
 in combination the two divisions of the one method, 
 the proportion of drama and straight narrative be- 
 
124 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Ing well balanced. Kipling's "Sea Constables" is 
 another example of the combined drama and narra- 
 tive. This combination is found In most of the 
 stories told from the objective angle. 
 
 The author may also tell the story with an exer- 
 cise of omniscience as well as powers of observation; 
 he may "lift the lid off" the minds of his characters 
 (only one mind, preferably, in the short-story), and 
 reveal mental as well as outward behaviour. But 
 this general method is bound up with that of nar- 
 ration from the point of view of a character. Let 
 us, therefore, survey the preliminary possibilities. 
 
 The story then may be told by the main charac- 
 ter, in the first person. " This is the favourite device 
 of Poe; witness "The Cask of Amontillado," "Bere- 
 nice," "Ligeia," "William Wilson," "The Tell-tale 
 Heart," "The Manuscript Found in a Bottle." If 
 there are objections to this choice of narrator; if, 
 for instance, the chief character is to meet death in 
 some tragic manner, or if he Is miraculously to es- 
 cape death, there are advantages In the use of the 
 author narrator who tells the story in the third per- 
 son as If from the shoulder or through the mind of 
 the main character.^ The angle of narration is the 
 same though the author writes In the third person, 
 as It is when the character speaks In the first person; 
 
 ' Poe escapes with his "Manuscript Found in a Bottle" by the trick 
 indicated in the title. The story was thrust into the bottle as the 
 writer went down with the vessel, — otherwise the world could not 
 have had It. 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 125 
 
 the difference is merely one of grammatical form. 
 "A Journey" and "Biplane No. 2" are excellent ex- 
 amples of this procedure. The latter is a capital 
 illustration of a story that might be spoiled artisti- 
 cally if put into the mouth of the hero, Stanton. He 
 makes an ascent in his aeroplane and while studying 
 the operations of the enemy is forced to descend 
 because of damage done the machine by that enemy. 
 Shall he volplane or turn the machine over? He 
 decides upon the latter course, and falls to certain 
 death. The angle of Stanton is the only one to be 
 preferred; but he should not be made the narrator, 
 could not become the narrator, unless a trick device 
 (which might in all likelihood destroy the tragic 
 effect) were employed in the denouement. 
 
 A minor character may sometimes tell the narra- 
 tive in the first person ; or the story may be told by 
 the author as If from the shoulder of the minor 
 character, the angle again being the same as though 
 the character himself were writing. Katherine Ful- 
 lerton Gerould employs the minor first person nar- 
 rator successfully in "On the Staircase" and in "Im- 
 passe." Henry James used it in "The Real Thing." 
 Edith Wharton tells "The Triumph of Night" in 
 the third person, but as surely from the angle of 
 George Faxon as though he himself were writing it 
 in the first. "A Tragedy in Little" is "made" by 
 the choice of the small boy's angle. The facts in 
 the time-worn framework are simply that a post 
 office clerk has taken money, has at first attempted 
 
126 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 to escape, and has returned to give himself up. The 
 author converts the plot into a thing of novelty by 
 presenting the incidents as they appeared to the 
 clerk's little boy. The following passage repre- 
 sents the effectiveness of this point of view: 
 
 "Suddenly mother straightened herself, and Jack looked 
 up and saw his father leaning over the gate. He seemed 
 to be making grimaces, and Jack made haste to laugh aloud 
 in the empty room, because he knew that he was good at 
 seeing his father's jokes. Indeed, it was a funny thing that 
 father should come home early from work and make faces 
 at mother from the road. Mother, too, was willing to join 
 in the fun, for she knelt down among the wet flowers, and 
 as her head drooped lower and lower it looked, for one 
 ecstatic moment, as though she were going to turn head 
 over heels. But she lay quite still on the ground, and father 
 came half way through the gate, and then turned and ran 
 off down the hill towards the station." 
 
 There is yet another first person narrator, the 
 inactive, reporting "I," who merely gathers snatches 
 of the story, or who merely repeats what he learns 
 from the various characters; he has no part In the 
 essential drama. He is, therefore, not a minor 
 character, though his may approach that role. 
 Neither is his point of view interchangeable with 
 that of the all-observant third person. To Illus- 
 trate : Mrs. Gerould's "Vain Oblations" is told by 
 one who comments : 
 
 "What I have to tell I got partly from my own observa- 
 tion, partly from a good little woman at the Mission, partly 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 127 
 
 from Saxe's letters, largely from his own lips, and partly 
 from the natives. ... It has taken me three years of steady 
 staring to see the thing whole." 
 
 Much has been written about the advantages and 
 disadvantages of a first person narrator; but these 
 are not constant. The main character, for instance, 
 who tells his own story may have the disadvantage 
 of steering between conceit and over-modesty, 
 whereas the minor character who tells the same story 
 will not be so hampered. Or the nature of the 
 story may be such as to demand conceit In the main 
 character. Clarence Kelland's "EflEciency Edgar" 
 and "Simeon Small" narratives would lose half their 
 flavor in losing the first person form. The same 
 may be said of Eloise Robinson's "Barbara" stories 
 and Mary Roberts Rinehart's "Bab" collection. 
 Kipling is expert in combining two "I" uses in the 
 same story, so as to gain credulity. "The Man Who 
 Would be King" is told in the first person, as if by 
 a reporter, Kipling himself. Becoming interested 
 in the fortunes of Peachey Carnahan and Daniel 
 Dravot, he draws the reader along with him. After 
 the two men disappear Into the interior, "I," sup- 
 posedly Kipling, hears nothing from them for some 
 months.^ Then Peachey Carnahan returns. He 
 rehearses the story of the drama enacted during 
 those months by Dravot and himself (the minor 
 
 "Incidentally, this fact illustrates adherence to point of view; 
 the first person reports only what he as the first person knows; 
 the reader progresses only through the medium of the first person. 
 
128 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 character) with the natives, and of Dravot's conse- 
 quent downfall and death. The second use of "I" 
 is one of the best, as used by Kipling. Here it is as 
 if the teller, Carnahan, said, "I know all these facts 
 are grotesque ; but take my word for it ; I experienced 
 'em." In using the first person narrator, also, for 
 the husk of the story, Kipling has cunningly doubled 
 the effect on the reader. "I, Kipling, vouch for 
 these things ; Peachey told me while I held his poor, 
 mad eyes. ..." Thus the improbable story of 
 Daniel Dravot owes its plausibility to the fact that 
 it is related by one who was with him to one who 
 passes it to the reader. "The Courting of Dinah 
 Shadd" and "The Incarnation of Krishna Mulva- 
 ney" show similar double "I" uses. "Wireless," 
 "They," and "The House Surgeon" represent the 
 reporting "I" as drawn into the realm of the extraor- 
 dinary and becoming a participant, a minor charac- 
 ter, in the strange adventures that happen there. 
 
 And yet it is interesting to consider that as a de- 
 vice for inducing belief in the supernatural, the third 
 person narrative offers a peculiar advantage. Con- 
 sider the old-fashioned ghost story. The author 
 practically gave his word (in the first person) that 
 he had seen a ghost and he thereby attacked directly 
 the reader's credulity. Or, if the narrator was 
 patently obsessed, the reader smiled complacently 
 and dismissed the ghost as a hallucination. Of late, 
 the ghost story is told in the third person or over 
 the shoulder of the third person with the decided 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 129 
 
 effect of making the ghost a very real thing. Para- 
 doxically, the matter-of-fact, third person recountal 
 scores over first person testimony. And this is be- 
 cause even the uncritical reader has finally come to 
 feel that the first person is but a convention, Olivia 
 Dunbar's "The Shell of Sense" is a tour de force, 
 however, in presenting the ghost as narrator. 
 
 Now let us revert to the omniscience of the author. 
 If he indicates what passes in the mind of a charac- 
 ter he declares himself all-knowing, as familiar with 
 the mental process of a person as is that person 
 himself. If the method of narration is otherwise 
 objective, dramatic, and the author turns momen- 
 tarily to this subjective, analytic method, just so far 
 he shifts the angle to that of the person under 
 analysis. The shift, however, may be so slight as to 
 pass unnoticed in the prevailing method. In De 
 Maupassant's "Piece of String," which is told, in 
 the main, from the objective angle, occurs this sen- 
 tence, "Maitre Hauchecorne, economical, like all 
 true Normans, reflected that everything was worth,, 
 picking up which could be of any use. ..." The 
 reflection here is an instance of omniscience on the 
 author's part. The act of picking up the piece of 
 string is dramatic and its recountal needs only the 
 all-observant point of view. The mental and the 
 physical are neatly joined. 
 
 Now, turn to a number of stories which instance 
 the combination of the objective and the analytic 
 methods, and observe that the author's omniscience 
 
I30 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 focused upon a chief character results in a shift to 
 the angle of that character. "A Journey," "Bi- 
 plane No. 2," and "A Tragedy in Little" have been 
 cited as examples of narration from the angle of one 
 character. In each story the author knows the 
 mental behaviour of his character as well as the phys- 
 ical behaviour, and knows it as well as the character 
 knows it. Consider "The Dagger," by Charles D. 
 Stewart. So dramatic in effect is the main "busi- 
 ness" of this story that a motion picture might be 
 made of the objective portions, themselves a large 
 part of the whole. But such a paragraph as the 
 following indicates the omniscient attitude of the 
 author, and a consequent swing to the angle of the 
 murderer : 
 
 "He did not purpose to leave any marks behind him. 
 He thought of hiding the dagger in the barn or in the 
 house, but this plan also was unsatisfactory. Barns are 
 struck by lightning and bum down; bouses, too, catch fire, 
 and then the metal-banded instrument, unless he recovered 
 it first and unobserved, would surely come to light. It was 
 strange how hard it seemed to dispose finally of so small a 
 thing." 
 
 Later parts of the story show the business of "re- 
 membering" and "hoping." By the time the reader 
 has finished the last sentence, he feels that the story 
 has been told from the angle of Joe Dill rather than 
 from the author's objective point of view. 
 
 "The Tree of Knowledge" reveals in the first 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 131 
 
 paragraph omniscience on the author's part: "It 
 was one of the secret opinions, such as we all have, 
 of Peter Branch that his main success in life con- 
 sisted in his never having committed himself about 
 the work, as it was called, of his friend, Morgan 
 Mallow." The reader unconsciously grasps at 
 once that the story will be told from the angle of 
 Peter Brench, the word "secret" being mainly re- 
 sponsible for the apprehension. As a matter of 
 fact, the story here and there expands into scenes 
 which if taken out of the context are purely objec- 
 tive; but the angle with which the author began Is 
 the one from which the story is told as a whole. 
 "The Real Right Thing" is similarly constructed. 
 George Withermore's angle is employed with 
 scarcely noticeable shifts to the pure objective; the 
 point of view in effect is that of Withermore. 
 
 Certain writers of short-story texts see no reason 
 why students should be confused by the terms "angle 
 of narration" and "point of view" nor why they 
 do not easily recognise that a story is told from a 
 particular angle or point of view, with whatever 
 shifts may happen to exist. The confusion is per- 
 haps explainable on the ground that so few stories 
 are told from an absolutely constant point of view, 
 although the usual advice to students Is adherence 
 to the chosen one. Seeing an author shift with- 
 out a consequent strain or jerk on the reader's at- 
 tention, the student thinks he has made a wrong 
 analysis of the story under observation, and like- 
 
132 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 wise becomes confused over his own management 
 of the angle of narration. For example, Arnold 
 Bennett's "The Idiot" is told almost entirely from 
 the objective angle. Only in the first paragraph 
 is there any delving into the mind of William Froyle: 
 "He had recognised the hand-writing of the en- 
 velope, and the recognition of it gave form and 
 quick life to all the vague suspicions that had trou- 
 bled him some months before, and again during the 
 last few days." This sentence represents Mr. Ben- 
 nett as probing the depths of Froyle's consciousness; 
 yet the remainder of the story is told dramatically, 
 objectively. The shift is ever so slight, but it is 
 confusing to a student, who thinks on reading the 
 first paragraph, the position for emphasis, that the 
 story is told from the angle of William. 
 
 We may use this story to illustrate also another 
 pardonable cause of confusion. It is that arising 
 from a phase of the objective method, which em- 
 phasises one character, in combination with the 
 method whereby the angle of a character is used. 
 To understand the difference, let us turn to the stage. 
 A, let us say, is the hero; the spot-light is on him; 
 yet the drama is presented objectively. So William 
 Froyle, from the first paragraph on, is under the spot- 
 light; but the story is told objectively, not from his 
 angle. In "The Necklace," Mathilde Loisel is un- 
 der the spot-light; the story is her story; she is the 
 chief character ; but the story is, for the most part, 
 presented objectively. The same is true of Mrs. 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 133 
 
 Penn in "The Revolt of 'Mother.'" The more 
 nearly a reader identifies himself with a particular 
 character, the more likely he will be to see and feel 
 the drama from the angle of that character; in pro- 
 portion as he looks upon the character, the more 
 perfectly has the author succeeded in writing objec- 
 tively with the spot-light on that character. 
 
 Now, if the writer does well to choose a definite 
 angle of narration or point of view, when should 
 he, having chosen it, leave it for another angle? 
 And why should he leave it for another angle ? Ad« 
 herence to the chosen point of view means a unity 
 of effect and a corresponding strength of impression. 
 Shift only to gain something greater than is lost 
 through shifting; unless some reason underlies the 
 intended change, keep to the angle chosen. Fur- 
 ther, a slight shift may be made with less of strain 
 on the reader's attention than a decided shift. For 
 example, the change noted from the objective angle 
 of narration with the spot-light on Joe Dill, to the 
 angle of Joe, whose mental processes are revealed, 
 is easy and natural. Unity is preserved; no jar 
 results. But a turning from the wholly objective to 
 the wholly subjective method may not only cause 
 a jolt with diminution of interest but also create con- 
 fusion for the reader with respect to the author's 
 ultimate purpose. For example, "The Amethyst 
 Comb" shifts over-much for the reader's ease. The 
 general method is that of telling the story from the 
 objective point of view; but in addition to the om- 
 
134 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 niscience, — the "X-ray" process, — exercised over 
 the mind of Jane Carew, who is the "spot-light" 
 character, a summary kind of omniscience is used 
 upon Harold Lind. The shifting here has the ef- 
 fect of decentralising the total impression. The 
 reader wonders, "Who is the main character?" and 
 at the end, "What has the author been telling us 
 about, anyway?" 
 
 In the novel the author may shift as much as he 
 pleases. If "The Amethyst Comb" were elab- 
 orated, it might easily become a novel wherein 
 the changing points of view would but aid in the 
 reflection of the lives of all the characters. Even 
 in the novel, however, extreme changes annoy the 
 reader. In "Bleak House," Esther Summerson 
 talks through the space of a chapter or two, then 
 the writer takes up the narrative from the angle of 
 the omniscient and all-observant author. On pick- 
 ing up the thread which has been interrupted, the 
 reader frequently finds that he has forgotten the 
 preceding incidents. 
 
 The trained story-writer, then, carefully chooses 
 his narrator, his angle, his spot-light character, and 
 makes no change without a corresponding gain. In 
 adhering to his angle, or by the subtlest and easiest 
 of shifts, the skilled writer finds that he intensifies 
 the impression in maintaining place unity, character 
 unity, or both. The untrained writer skips blithely 
 from the heroine In Albany to the hero in Zanes- 
 ville and produces a disjointed fragmentary story 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW 13s 
 
 which leaves the reader with no very definite impres- 
 sion save one of annoyance. The spot-light has 
 become of necessity a veritable search-light. In re- 
 cent months Mr. George Randolph Chester has pub- 
 lished a number of stories in which the shifting is so 
 rapid as to hurry the reader breathlessly from one 
 character to another, and from one country to an- 
 other, before the reader adequately grasps the pur- 
 pose. In the end, it is clear that the idea of Fate 
 working through long distances, through long peri- 
 ods of time, to accomplish her purpose, is perhaps 
 the theme the author has chosen to set forth. Here, 
 then, the nature of the story is such as to demand 
 the shift; there is a corresponding gain. But the 
 rapid change is disconcerting to the reader, who 
 must hold too much in abeyance. Even the master- 
 ful gathering together of the threads at the close 
 hardly compensates for the prolonged bewilderment. 
 A better example of shifting the point of view ad- 
 vantageously, with change of place, is found in "My 
 Disreputable Friend, Mr. Raegen." The reader 
 follows the story from the angle of Rags up to the 
 point where he stands debating whether he shall 
 leave the baby to her fate or whether he will stand 
 by her, even at the cost of his life. Then the reader 
 is whisked from the fiat, where Rags is on the point 
 of deciding, to the Twenty-first Precinct Station 
 House. The reader there looks upon Rags, with 
 whom recently he has been aligning himself. The 
 device is excellent; for Rags's decision, unan- 
 
136 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 nounced until a more dramatic occasion for giving it 
 to the reader, holds the reader further in suspense, 
 and itself contributes to a stronger denouement. 
 
 It should be clear that after the narrator is deter- 
 mined upon, the material takes on a different as- 
 pect. If the all-observant writer is to tell the story, 
 he may look upon his material as if he were a play- 
 wright, and ask himself, "How much of all this play 
 shall I place before the reader so as to give him in 
 most dramatic manner the struggle or complication 
 and leave upon his mind a definite impression?" 
 But if one of the characters is to tell the story or 
 if the story is to be told by the reporting "I," then 
 certain events will occur of which the narrator will, 
 of necessity, know only a part : he must guess causes 
 from effects; he will lose entire sections of the ac- 
 tion, only to see others correspondingly intensified. 
 Then the author's task is one of keeping to the point 
 of view of the person chosen, of selecting the salient 
 features of the story such a character would logically 
 know. He must not trespass beyond the bounds, 
 the limited range, of such a character. Nothing 
 should be told that "I" does not see, or hear, or 
 know.* 
 
 'Point of view as used in this chapter equivalent to the angle 
 of narration is not to be confused with the mental attitude of the 
 writer. Mental attitude may be conveyed directly by definite 
 comment, or better, indirectly by sympathetic colouring of the 
 narrative. George Meredith is satiric; Thomas Hardy is fatal- 
 istic. Compare the colouring of "General Ople and Lady Camper" 
 with that of "An Imaginative Woman." 
 
THE POINT OF VIEW i37 
 
 Exercises for Chapter VII 
 
 Read Browning's "The Ring and the Book," carefully, 
 and consider the value of the points of view. 
 
 Read Henry James's "The Point of View" for a similar 
 evaluation. 
 
 Who are the "spot-light" characters in the following 
 stories— "The Belled Buzzard," "The Smart Aleck," by 
 Irvin Cobb; "White Goods," "In Memoriam," "T. B.," by 
 Fannie Hurst; "The Last Rose of Summer," by Rupert 
 Hughes; "Love in a Mist," by Neil Lyons? Is there, in 
 any of these, an exercise of omniscience on the author's 
 part? 
 
 From whose angles are the following stories told — "The 
 Sacrificial Altar," by Gertrude Atherton ; "The Altar of the 
 Dead," "The Beast in the Jungle," "The Jolly Comer," 
 "The Real Thing," by Henry James; "The Descent of 
 Man," "Expiation," "A Journey," "Madame de Treymes," 
 "The Touchstone," by Edith Wharton; "The Return of 
 the Prodigal," by May Sinclair; "A Mercury of the Foot 
 Hills," by Bret Harte; "A Municipal Report," bv O. 
 Henry? Does the objective method here and there sup- 
 plant the omniscient method? 
 
 Tell "The Sire de Maletroit's Door" from Blanche's 
 angle. Tell it as if by the Sire. 
 
 Tell "The Gift of the Magi" from Jim's angle. 
 
 Narrate the Brushwood Girl's story, making it as far as 
 possible the counterpart of the Brushwood Boy's story. 
 
 Tell "A Tragedy in Little" from the mother's angle. 
 
 Tell a story which you might entitle "Joe Dagget's Re- 
 turn," from Joe's angle, making it the counterpart of the 
 New England Nun's story. 
 
138 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Is the angle of the "I" narrator in Roland Pertwee's 
 "Red and White" consistent with the facts? Does the boy 
 seem younger or older than he should seem, or is his be- 
 haviour uniform? 
 
 How is credulity gained in "The Eyes," by Edith Whar- 
 ton? 
 
 Build a plot calling for three characters. Try present- 
 ing the story from the angle of each character, in turn; (2) 
 with the "spot-light" on each character, in turn. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 THE SCENARIO 
 
 Certain parts of the story plot need expansion; comparison 
 with the drama; definition of scene; formula; setting, 
 and how given, three methods; illustrations; action, what 
 it includes, stage business and gesture; relations of the 
 two; illustrations; gesture and stage business means of 
 character differentiation; necessity for attending to de- 
 tails of scene work; error in relying on conventional; 
 necessity for purpose of scene; illustrations of three chief 
 purposes; transitions, larger and smaller scene divisions, 
 illustrations; preparation of scenario; analysis before 
 synthesis; "A Day Off." 
 
 While the author is working out his plot and con- 
 sidering the angle of narration, he foresees that cer- 
 tain parts will need expansion and emphasis ; that the 
 reader will demand them for entertainment. The 
 story writer has his counterpart in the playwright, 
 who knows that he must present certain parts of his 
 fable directly to the audience, not represent them as 
 occurring ofF-stage. An audience having sat through 
 more than four acts of "Romeo and Juliet" would 
 not be pleased to see a messenger run upon the stage 
 and hear him describe the poignant tomb scene, how- 
 
 139 
 
I40 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 ever well he might picture it. After Hamlet has ar- 
 ranged with the strolling actors to present "The 
 Mousetrap," he would hardly gratify the audience if 
 he returned to the stage somewhat later with an ac- 
 count of the performance and a statement of the 
 results. The scene in the Capulet monument and 
 the one wherein Hamlet traps the conscience of the 
 king the audience must have. Similarly, the reader 
 of the story demands dramatic presentment of cer- 
 tain parts, and he is usually more interested if they 
 are conveyed to him in dramatic form or in a series 
 of scenes. 
 
 The scene * represents a setting in which the action 
 is supposed to be continuous. In formula, 
 
 Scene = Setting + Action. 
 
 (Property Business 
 Gesture 
 Conversation or Dialogue. 
 
 The setting may be given i. by the author, 2. from 
 the point of view of a character though still in the 
 author's words, 3. by the character, 4. by a com- 
 bination of methods. For example, in "The Three 
 Strangers" Thomas Hardy as author describes the 
 position of the shepherd's hut, the exterior and the 
 
 ' Clearly the scenes cannot be determined before the solution 
 of problems treated in the preceding chapter. For example, if 
 Kipling had written the story of "The Brushwood Girl" instead of 
 "The Brushwood Boy," he would have had different scenes through- 
 out, with the exception of those in which the two main characters 
 appear. 
 
THE SCENARIO 141 
 
 interior. Having returned to the surroundings and 
 the solitary figure walking toward the cottage, he 
 adds further details as they appear to the man so 
 introduced. In "The Revolt of 'Mother,' " when 
 Mrs. Penn stands in the kitchen and calls her hus- 
 band's attention to "the paper all dirty an' droppin' 
 off the walls," and further describes the house, she 
 conveys the setting to the reader. Though the large 
 elements of setting will necessarily be given near the 
 beginning of the narrative, that the reader may be 
 "fixed," yet details must be distributed throughout, 
 that the reader may not lose sight of time and place. 
 In "Sea Constables," for example, the reader is 
 briefly given the setting in the first paragraph: "The 
 head-waiter of the Carvoitz almost ran to meet Port- 
 son and his guests as they came up the steps from the 
 palm-court where the string band plays. ..." 
 [Conversation] . . . "Henri nodded toward a 
 pink alcove . . . , which discreetly commanded the 
 main dining-room's glitter and blaze" . . . [expo- 
 sition]. . . . "The most recent foreign millionaire 
 and the even more recent foreign actress at a table 
 near the entrance clamoured for his attention while 
 he conducted the party to the pink alcove. With his 
 own hands he turned out some bef rilled electrics and 
 lit four pale rose candles." . . . "The men stared 
 at the long perspectives of diners, busy at a hun- 
 dred tables." The author groups these details near 
 the beginning, but in mention of the menu, the vine- 
 gar, the Burgundy, he continues to emphasise the 
 
142 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 setting; a setting purposefully contrasted with that 
 of the constable's daily life. 
 
 Action, it will be observed, includes dialogue and 
 "stage business." The latter term, borrowed from 
 stage parlance, Is used here to indicate stage action 
 and movement other than dialogue, and for the sake 
 of further convenience is divided into gesture and 
 property business. For example, "She nodded . . . 
 and zigzagged her finger again" ^ is obviously con- 
 cerned only with gesture ; whereas, "I made a mighty 
 serious business of my repairs and a glittering shop 
 of my repair kit, spanners, pump, and the like, which 
 I spread out orderly upon a rug" ^ emphasizes the 
 properties. "Peter, with a wag of his kind old head, 
 modestly excused himself" ^ emphasises gesture; 
 "Again, for a pause, on the sofa, his god-father 
 smoked" * connotes the pipe or property. Com- 
 parison of these last two examples reveals that 
 the border-line between property business and ges- 
 tures Is indistinct; the purposes of the two are in 
 many instances identical. Property business, In 
 general, lends verisimilitude to place, character and 
 act. In "The Revolt of 'Mother,' " Father's har- 
 nessing the mare, Sammy's combing his hair before 
 the kitchen glass, Mother's shelling peas, all add 
 llkelike characteristics to the farm story. Gesture, 
 in general, adds naturalness to speech, and Increases 
 verisimilitude with respect to a detail of character. 
 
 " "They." 
 
 ' "The Tree of Knowledge." 
 
THE SCENARIO 143 
 
 "He hustled the collar on to her neck with a jerk" ; 
 "The boy combed assiduously"; "She handled the 
 peas as if they were bullets" — all combine proper- 
 ties and manner of using them in such a way as to 
 indicate temper or disposition. "Peter got up from 
 the sofa" serves not only as stage business ; it sug- 
 gests Peter's feelings as well. At their extremes, 
 however, gesture and property business are distinct. 
 "Peter passed his arm around his god-son" is a long 
 remove from the brick and plaster and Montresor's 
 walling up of Fortunato. 
 
 The way in which an author handles gesture and 
 other phases of the "business" differentiates his 
 characters ; * it further differentiates his style from 
 that of other writers. "Her companion wheeled 
 round for impatience" ^ fits Mrs. Guy, as also. 
 "Then with a sharp little jerk of her head and a 
 backward reach of her beautiful arms she undid the 
 clasp." ^ . . . On the other hand, this speech, 
 with the accompanying indication of manner, fits 
 Charlotte Prime: " 'Disposed of them?' the girl 
 gasped. . . . 'He wrote me,' she panted, 'that he 
 had smashed them." ^ Though Mr. James's individ- 
 ualisation of characters is subtle it is powerful; and 
 it is effected through manner and gesture rather than 
 through speech. "The man laid a gloved hand on 
 the table. It creaked corklly at the wrist. 'Bethisy- 
 
 'For further discussion, see Characterisation and Dialogue, 
 Cliapters X and XI. 
 ' "Paste." 
 
144 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 sur-Oise,' he explained." . . . "Portson nudged 
 Winchmere, who was slanting sideways In his 
 chair. . . ." * These two examples of stage business 
 are typical of Rudyard Kipling's style, as different 
 from that of Henry James. 
 
 The student cannot pay too much attention to de- 
 tails of scene work; they are among the small things 
 that make the large differences. Yet from most 
 amateur narratives I should judge that young writ- 
 ers regard gesture and business as conventionalised 
 devices for propping the remarks of characters. 
 "So speaking, she drew herself to her full height," 
 "He thoughtfully flecked the ashes from his cigar," 
 "With a glad cry she threw her arms about him" 
 and other statements equally venerable suggest by 
 their faithful presence that the student relies on the 
 hackneyed. 
 
 No scene should find a place In the story unless 
 its action fulfils a definite purpose. Not all the 
 parts of a scene, even then, need to be developed. 
 If setting In an earlier scene is adequately given, It 
 may be dismissed briefly In one following. Action 
 may be summarised in a few sentences or In a few 
 significant gestures. But without purpose the scene 
 — whether condensed, suggested briefly or expanded 
 — loses Its reason for being. It should keep the 
 locale before the reader, should Introduce, develop 
 or reveal character, or It should advance the action 
 
 °"Sea Constables." 
 
THE SCENARIO 145 
 
 of the story. The last named function is most im- 
 portant. 
 
 "The load of hay came slowly down the cart track, and 
 drew up at the new barn. Mrs. Penn ran out. 'Stop!' 
 she screamed — 'Stop!' 
 
 "The men stopped and looked ; Sammy upreared from the 
 top of the load, and stared at his mother. 
 
 " 'Stop!' she Cried out again. 'Don't you put the hay in 
 that bam; put it in the old one.' 
 
 " 'Why, he said to put it in here,' returned one of the 
 haymakers wonderingly. He was a young man, a neigh- 
 bour's son, whom Adoniram hired by the year to help on 
 the farm. 
 
 " 'Don't you put the hay in the new barn ; there's room 
 enough in the old one, ain't there?' said Mrs. Penn. 
 
 " 'Room enough,' returned the hired man, in his thick 
 rustic tones. 'Didn't need the new barn, nohow, far's 
 room's concerned. Well, I suppose he changed his mind.' 
 He took hold of the horses' bridles." 
 
 This scene, brief as it Is, considerably advances 
 the action, since it shows "Mother" beginning to 
 carry out her plan. 
 
 Good for illustrating a combination of all three 
 uses is a scene in "The Sire de Maletroit's Door" : 
 
 "He found himself in a large apartment of polished stone. 
 There were three doors; one on each of three sides; all 
 similarly curtained with tapestry. The fourth side was 
 occupied by two large windows and a great stone chimney- 
 piece, carved with the arms of the Maletroits. Denis recog- 
 nised the bearings, and was gratified to find himself in such 
 
146 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 good hands. The room was strongly illuminated; but it 
 contained little furniture except a heavy table and a chair 
 or two; the hearth was innocent of fire, and the pavement 
 was sparsely strewn with rushes clearly many daj's old." 
 
 In this first division of the scene the author gives, 
 from Denis's angle the setting. He continues the 
 scene by introducing the character: 
 
 "On a high chair beside the chimney, and directly facing 
 Denis as he entered, sat a little old gentleman in a fur 
 tippet. He sat with his legs crossed and his hands folded, 
 and a cup of spiced wine stood by his elbow on a bracket 
 on the wall. His countenance had a strongly masculine 
 cast; not properly human, but such as we see in the bull, 
 the goat, or the domestic boar; something equivocal, wheed- 
 ling, something greedy, brutal and dangerous. The upper 
 lip was inordinately full, as though swc.len by a blow or a 
 toothache; and the smile, the peaked eyebrows, and the 
 small strong eyes were quaintly and almost comically evil 
 in expression." 
 
 After further description of Alain, Sire de Male- 
 trolt, which fulfils the second function of the scene, 
 the author goes on with the action. 
 
 "Denis and he looked silently at each other for a second 
 or two. 
 
 " Tray step in,' said the Sire de Maletroit, 'I have been 
 expecting you all the evening.' " 
 
 And as the dialogue progresses, the reader under- 
 stands that the further purpose of the scene Is to 
 
THE SCENARIO 147 
 
 present just enough of the situation to excite his 
 curiosity and to draw him on to the next stage. The 
 scene ends with the words : 
 
 "While he was thus unpleasantly reflecting, the arras 
 that overhung the chapel door was raised, and a tall priest 
 in his robes came forth, and giving a long, keen stare at 
 Denis, said something in an undertone to Sire de Male- 
 troit." 
 
 Larger scene divisions and other story divisions 
 are connected with each other by the passage of time 
 or the change of place. In the drama this lapse 
 of time is indicated by the dropping of the curtain 
 and by the changed dress of the characters. That 
 the place is changed is obvious from the new setting 
 displayed with the rising of the curtain. The story, 
 lacking these devices, must Indicate the transition 
 otherwise. The simplest statements may suffice. 
 "Time passed," "The years passed, treading on one 
 another's heels," Hawthorne summarises the long 
 gaps in "The Great Stone Face." Some authors, In 
 spite of the objections offered by petty criticism, use 
 to Indicate transition, stars or double spacing. In 
 "They," to separate Part I from Part II, Kipling 
 says, "A month or so later — I went again." To separ- 
 ate Part II from Part III, he uses dots and a state- 
 ment: "... I had Intended to return In a day or 
 two, but It pleased Fate to hold me from that side 
 of the county, on many pretexts, till the elder and 
 the wild rose had fruited. There came at last a 
 
148 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 brilliant day." . . J In "The Incarnation of 
 Krishna Mulvaney" he uses this transition: "Three 
 days passed — a fourth and a fifth. The week drew 
 to a close and Mulvaney did not return." The 
 statement emphasises the length of time; Mul- 
 vaney's absence was noteworthy and extended. A 
 master of the craft never allows time to pass unless 
 there is a reason. The amateur makes such a transi- 
 tion as "It was about a week later," although he 
 may have no reason for delaying the incident beyond 
 the next day or the next hour. 
 
 Smaller scene divisions are connected with each 
 other by the entrance or exit of a character or by 
 immediate passage of characters from one room to 
 another. Stevenson connects the two scenes In 
 "Markheim" by Markheim's exit from the base- 
 
 ' In connection with the means of indicating transition, notice 
 the eflBciency of dots to convey something otherwise omitted. 
 Kipling by their use in "The Mark of the BeajSt" implies that 
 the torture of the leper is too revolting for exhibition. Mrs. 
 Wharton's dots have a special significance, in that they convey ' 
 fact, a subtlety of thought, a play of feeling not so effective when 
 translated into speech. This is the end of a division of "Ethan 
 Frome": 
 
 " 'Oh, Matt, 1 thought we'd fetched it,' he- moaned ; and far off, 
 up the hill, he heard the sorrel whinny, and thought: 'I ought to 
 be getting him his feed. . . .' 
 
 Most readers will probably find three lines of periods too much 
 for their appreciation. Certainly, the writer who is learning 
 should beware of too much dependence upon this cryptic manner- 
 ism. • 
 
THE SCENARIO 149 
 
 ment room, and his progress up the "four and twen- 
 ty steps" to the drawing-room above. In "The Sire 
 de Maletroit's Door," Denis follows the thin beam 
 of light upstairs. Such a transition closely unites 
 the two larger dramatic divisions. 
 
 Whether the scenes are separated widely in time 
 and place or whether they lie near together, the pure 
 transition takes account only of time and place. It 
 is not to be confused with expository or narrative 
 material extraneous to the immediate progress of 
 the story.^ 
 
 Now in preparing his full scenario, the student 
 should make use of the principles above set forth 
 and exemplified. Every scene should have a pur- 
 pose; its action should be clearly directed to that 
 purpose; the necessary characters and only the nec- 
 essary characters should take part; the time and the 
 place, though not of necessity stated, should be clear 
 in the author's mind. The value of such a scenario 
 is incalculable to the writer who is learning to shape 
 material. The experienced writer may or may not 
 make use of it as a visible step ; but he uses it in his 
 mental progress toward the finished story. 
 
 Before building up his own scenario, however, the 
 student may find it profitable to analyse a number of 
 stories which easily lend themselves to the exercise. 
 "The Sire de Maletroit's Door" is excellent for its 
 neatness of finish. Since, however, "A Day Off" re- 
 
 'For the difference in the use of "scene" in English and French 
 drama, see mechanical divisions of plays in the two languages. 
 
I50 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 quires a more detailed analysis it Is preferred here 
 as a model. The student should familiarise him- 
 self with the story before studying the analysis. 
 
 A DAY OFF 
 
 BY ALICE BROWN 
 
 Characters: Abigail Bennet (Abby). 
 Jonathan. 
 Claribel. 
 
 Scene I 
 
 Part I 
 
 Characters: Abigail and Jonathan. 
 
 Time: An April morning. 
 
 Place: The Bennet kitchen. 
 
 Action: Abigail breaks an egg; Jonathan protests against 
 cake; he reveals himself a meddler. Abby sets away 
 her cooking materials. 
 
 Purpose: To introduce characters and to show Jona- 
 than's interfering habits. 
 
 Part 2 
 
 Characters: Abigail and Claribel. 
 
 Time: Following action in part i. 
 
 Place: The same. 
 
 Action: Claribel wishes her dress hooked. Abby washes 
 her hands, fastens the dress, puts up a tendril of 
 Claribel's hair, and smooths a bit of lace. She ad- 
 
THE SCENARIO 151 
 
 vises Claribel to hurry while "father" is outside 
 talking. Claribel says she must have some thread 
 and "Hamburg." She is going to walk to the vil- 
 lage, and Ballard will overtake her. 
 Purpose: To introduce a third character and through 
 her the complicating thread. 
 Here Tonathan enters. 
 
 Part 3 
 
 Characters: All three mentioned above. 
 
 Time: Following events in part 2. 
 
 Place: The same. 
 
 Action: Jonathan asks Claribel where she is going, says 
 he has to go her way, looks into the glass, decides 
 he doesn't need to shave, and hurries out to the 
 barn, asking his wife to help him with the bits. 
 Claribel and Abby follow, hesitatingly. 
 
 Purpose: To show the frustration of Claribel's plans. 
 
 Scene II. Transition Scene: The three in various parts 
 of the space between house and barn, and in the 
 barn itself. 
 
 Time: Just following the action in scene I. 
 
 Action: Jonathan harnessing; Abigail consoling Claribel 
 (who tells her mother that Ballard and she had 
 meant to select a watch) and helping Jonathan. 
 Scene closes with Jonathan and Claribel driving off. 
 
 Purpose: To show Claribel's disappointment, and to 
 increase the complication. 
 
 Transition II. Time passes until 3 o'clock. (Action 
 further summarised until the next day.) 
 
152 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Scene III 
 
 Characters: Abby and Claribel. 
 
 Time: The day after events in scene I. 
 
 Place: The pantry. 
 
 Action : Claribel says she is going over to get a skirt pat- 
 tern from Ballard's mother. She reveals why the 
 day before was a particular day, etc. Abigail tells 
 her to run along. 
 
 Purpose: To motivate Abby's behaviour, further. 
 
 Transition III. Claribel departs. 
 
 Scene IV 
 
 Characters: Abby and Jonathan. 
 
 Time: A little later. 
 
 Place: Kitchen (and sitting room). 
 
 Action: Again Abby tells Jonathan she is mixing cake, 
 and she tells the first lie, "Cup cake." She breab 
 two eggs at the same instant on the edge of the bowl. 
 Jonathan wants Claribel. Abby says Claribel has 
 gone to Mis' Towle's to carry back a borrowed peck 
 measure. Jonathan, now in the kitchen doorway, 
 ponders. He thinks he took back the measure. "Oh, 
 no, you didn't!" Abby says, "Claribel took it." 
 Finally Jonathan asks whether Claribel needs more 
 clothes. Abby says yes. He asks whether Abby has 
 given Claribel any money. She tells her third lie, 
 "Not a cent." Jonathan says he will make a check 
 for what Abby thinks best. For a moment she soft- 
 ens. But when Jonathan asks next if she will make 
 wedding cake, she says no, she has a little on hand. 
 Fourth lie: Aunt Lucretia left it. Jonathan com- 
 
THE SCENARIO i53 
 
 ments that the egg is "terrible yeller." Fifth lie: 
 "It had two yolks." Abby closes the oven door, 
 clears the table and sits down to sew. Jonathan isks 
 the price of the edging. Sixth lie: "Two cents." 
 He asks about a wider piece. Seventh lie : "I made 
 it." Eighth lie: "On clo'es pins." 
 
 Transition IV. Jonathan goes out to the barn. Time 
 passes until dinner. 
 
 Scene V. At dinner. Abby tells her ninth lie, when 
 Jonathan suggests that he will step over to Ballard's 
 if Claribel is there and bring her home, in saying 
 that Claribel is upstairs with a headache. "I've 
 turned the key in the door." Dinner is concluded. 
 
 Transition V. After dinner Abby speeds upstairs and 
 after locking the door takes out the key. 
 
 Scene VI 
 
 Characters: The same. 
 
 Time: Five o'clock. 
 
 Place: Cellar and door above. 
 
 Action: Abby says she "never said any such thing" as 
 
 that she had the key. "Clary's locked it (the door) 
 
 and you let her be." Tenth lie. 
 Purpose: To show that Abby persists for Claribel's sake 
 
 in her falsehoods. 
 
 Transition VI. Jonathan goes off to the barn, grum- 
 bling. 
 
 Abby prepares supper. 
 Claribel comes home. 
 
154 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 Scene VII 
 
 Characters: Abby and Claribel. 
 Time: Before supper. 
 Place: In the kitchen. 
 
 Action: Revelation of Claribel of the day's events. 
 Purpose: To shovi? that Claribel has had a happy time 
 and to indicate Abby's repentance. 
 
 Transition VII. Time implied until supper. Suggested 
 supper scene. Claribel shows her watch; Jonathan 
 says they will get together more for "clo'es." Clara 
 goes to bed early. 
 
 Scene VIII 
 
 Characters: Abby and Jonathan. 
 
 Time: After supper. 
 
 Place: In the kitchen, and "moving" scene, as they go 
 to bed. 
 
 Action: Jonathan tells of the thief that has been caught. 
 Abby is tired and pale. She speaks insistently, "It 
 don't do to do the leastest thing that's wrong." 
 And she adds, "It's because wrong-doin's so pleas- 
 ant." She suggests that the thief probably started 
 his downward career by grabbing "an apple oil'n a 
 tree." As they go upstairs together, Abby says she 
 would never "dast" to have another such day. Jona- 
 than, who has preceded her, calls back, "Who you 
 talkin' to?" "I'm comin'," says Abigail; "I'll bring 
 the light." 
 
 Such analysis reveals that a scene need be, by no 
 means, fully developed; it may be condensed, even, 
 
THE SCENARIO 155 
 
 to a part of the transition. Always that which 
 should be expressed is the essential business or pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Exercises for Chapter VIII 
 
 Write out a scenic analysis of "The Three Strangers," 
 "On the Stairs," "They," "Rappaccini's Daughter," "The 
 Monkey's Paw," "Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff," 
 "T. B." 
 
 In stories having imperfect or broken scenic develop- 
 ment, is the break due to purposed fragmentary suggestion 
 of scenes, to exposition inserted, or to descriptive or straight 
 narrative material, to condensation of scenes, or to lack of 
 some element in the scene, — conversation, for example ? 
 
 What is gained or lost by the break, in each case ? What 
 is gained by the dramatic development in each well-marked 
 scene ? 
 
 Compare the effect of compactness in "Wireless" and 
 "The Sire de Maletroit's Door" with that of looseness in 
 "The Brushwood Boy," "A Humble Romance," "Vain 
 Oblations," and "The Beast in the Jungle." Does the 
 short-story, as a type, gain or lose by the compact as op- 
 posed to the loosely woven method? 
 
 Practise development of scenes, basing each on some situa- 
 tion that presents itself to you as good for one scene only. 
 For example: A teacher confers with a recalcitrant pupil. 
 2. A number of students discuss the ability of an absent 
 member. 3. One of those present reports to the absentee 
 what was said. 4. An interview between the tenant and 
 the landlord. 5. The landlord's account of the interview 
 to his wife. 6. The tenant's account of the interview to his 
 wife. 
 
156 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 What are the most interesting scenes in Mrs. Andrews's 
 "The Colors" (or "Old Glory") ? Why? 
 
 What is the best developed scene in "The Madness of 
 Philip," by Josephine Dodge Daskam Bacon? 
 
 Compare the brevity of "Thicker than Water," by Ralph 
 Barbour and George Osbourne, with the reduction of the 
 elements to a single scene, and note the interdependence. 
 
 What elements of the scene come to mind first as you 
 hear the titles (after reading the stories) of "The Ma- 
 donna of the Future," by Henry James; "Miss Tempy's 
 Watchers," by Sarah Orne Jewett; "The Comforter," by 
 Elizabeth Jordan? 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 CHARACTERISATION 
 
 Study from life the first requisite ; observation and its value ; 
 necessity for considering action and reaction even in 
 forming the plot; value of full knowledge; biography 
 or possible biography; inadequacy of incomplete knowl- 
 edge; laws of characterisation in short-story same as 
 those governing characterisation in the novel; points 
 of divergence; unity of effect demands a definite trait; 
 Poe; Hawthorne; Bret Harte; Henry Van Dyke; traits 
 found in contemporary stories; management of trait; 
 character at a crisis versus character development or de- 
 generation; illustrations; summary. 
 
 "How shall I paint a miniature?" asked a pupil. 
 
 "Go to a garden party," the master artist replied. 
 The connection though indirect is logical. At a gar- 
 den party the artist finds his type of woman in her 
 appropriate setting: in short, the time, the place, 
 and the subject are in harmonious adjustment. To 
 immortalise in sculpture the life of the workingman, 
 Constance Meunier studied the labourer in the 
 fields, the factories and the mines. Before he wrote 
 the dramas of New York working girls, O. Henry 
 talked with her in department stores, in laundries, 
 
 157 
 
158 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 In studios; as he looked from his window, roamed 
 about the city or dropped into restaurants, he found 
 everywhere something of pertinence to his subject. 
 Go for study of character to a garden party or 
 to Cooper Union; to the canons of the Rockies or 
 of lower Broadway, wherever men and women live 
 and move. The short-story field is bounded only by 
 the circumference of the earth. But to write with 
 concreteness and truth, the writer must cultivate 
 zealously the part of the field he chooses for his 
 own. For the study of men and women in their sur- 
 roundings Is a prerequisite to the technique which 
 recreates them for the printed page. And the 
 sooner the student convinces himself of this fact, 
 the sooner he will stop copying and begin to draw 
 from life. 
 
 To one writer observation comes with ease; to 
 another, with difficulty. One may label with smit- 
 ing aptitude a score of persons while the other is 
 enumerating with painful effort the salient charac- 
 teristics of a single man or woman. But fortunately 
 even for the most introspective, alertness and skill 
 In observation may be acquired through practice, 
 which requires mainly a keen eye and a sympathetic 
 curiosity. If the student Is wholly indifferent to 
 people, he may as well throw over any attempt at 
 writing stories. Let him build ever so good a plot, 
 if he cannot create living characters to dominate it 
 he has small chance of success. He need not special- 
 ise so intensely as the lady who declared she found 
 
CHARACTERISATION 159 
 
 the study of human ears the most fascinating thing 
 in the world, nor so shamelessly as Billy of "The 
 Harbor" » : 
 
 ... "I wormed my way into friends by the dozen. I 
 found it such an absorbing pursuit I could hardly wait to 
 finish up one before I went on to another. There were such 
 a bewildering lot of them, now that I had pried open my 
 eyes. Would-be painters, sculptors, poets, dramatists, nov- 
 elists, rich and poor, tragic ones and comic ones, with the 
 meanest pettiest jealousies, the most bumptious self-con- 
 ceits, the blindest worship of masters, the most profound 
 humility, ambition so savage it made men inhuman." 
 
 But observe he must, if he is to produce anything 
 bearing the hall-mark of originality and freshness. 
 Plot we studied to learn the construction of the 
 framework for a story which should present artisti- 
 cally characters in a struggle or complication hav- 
 ing a definite outcome. Part of the story, therefore, 
 has been composed when from the situation (char- 
 acter in conjunction with circumstance) the plot has 
 developed. For simplicity, we assumed in the study 
 of plot-making that the characters had no hand in 
 determining their fortunes. Yet at every point in 
 any construction not specifically labeled "For a 
 story of ^ plot," the character action and reaction 
 must of necessity be considered. Would that char- 
 
 '"The Harbor," Ernest Poole, The Macmillan Co., 1915. 
 
 'For in a story of plot, plot dominates; in one of character, 
 character dominates; and in one of atmosphere, atmosphere 
 dominates. 
 
i6o A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 acter so behave? Why? Why not? are questions 
 which may arise as preliminary to any plot step. 
 And the characters or the plot may change or grow 
 reciprocally to fit each other. In short, the concept 
 of character must exist while the plot is forming. 
 Character must, however, be presented to the 
 reader ; and as plot finally presented may differ from 
 plot as constructed, so character as finally presented 
 may offer only certain phases of character as con- 
 ceived. 
 
 It is necessary, then, for the writer to know his 
 men and women before he attempts introducing them 
 to the reader. Ibsen, it is said, as a preliminary 
 to his stories, wrote biographies of his characters. 
 Such a preparatory step should insure fidelity to life, 
 which is the highest praise a "book character" can re- 
 ceive. In the three year story writing course at Co- 
 lumbia University * we set aside the first term for 
 the study of characterisation. This means that by 
 the time the student begins to learn the process of 
 story writing, he may not need to put on paper the 
 facts about his dramatis persona; but he has ac- 
 quired the habit of studying character and of know- 
 ing so much about a particular personality that he 
 might write the biography. 
 
 "To have on one's hands a half-created being without the 
 power of finishing him must be a truly dreadful thing. The 
 only way out of it is to kill and bury him at once. I have 
 always thought, for instance, that the figure of Daniel 
 
 'Extension Teaching. 
 
CHARACTERISATION i6i 
 
 Deronda, whose portrait, blurred and uncertain as it is, has 
 been drawn with the most amazing care and with endless 
 touches and re-touches, must have become at last to George 
 Eliot a kind of awful spectre, always in her brain, seeming 
 about to reveal his true features and his mind, but never 
 doing it, so that to the end she never clearly perceived what 
 manner of man he was, nor what was his real character. 
 Of course, what the author cannot set down, the reader 
 cannot understand." * 
 
 It is necessary to know one's characters fully be- 
 fore incorporating them in short-stories, though 
 manifestations of character will be presented by a 
 highly selective process. 
 
 For although the laws of characterisation in the 
 short-story are the same that govern characterisa- 
 tion in the novel/ yet there are divergences in ap- 
 plication because of the divergence in Active type. 
 This divergence here needs consideration. 
 
 As compared with the novel, the short-story must 
 be more intense in any given space. The story must 
 make its appeal in two thousand to ten thousand 
 words; the novel may use fifty thousand or two 
 hundred thousand. The novelist may roam at will 
 through philosophical asides or cynical reflections, 
 may insert an entire story by way of episode, may 
 introduce many characters, many threads of inter- 
 est. The short-story writer must, as a rule, bar 
 
 '"The Art of Fiction," Walter Besant. See p. 334. 
 A subject which has been thoroughly discussed in works on the 
 technique of the novel. 
 
i62 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 philosophising, save what he can infuse throughout 
 the whole; he must adhere to one or two threads 
 of action, and in the latter choice must unify them 
 into one effect; he must make use of only a few 
 characters, one of which is dominant, and his work 
 with these characters must be marked by greatest 
 care in the selection of details. For the ideal is unity 
 of impression; and as plot simplicity contributes 
 thereto, so does limitation of character traits. 
 
 Poe set the example in presentation of character 
 as of plot. He not only recognised that a definite 
 trait exploited and Intensified would produce its 
 effect, but by an a fortiori argument he saw that 
 an abnormal trait or exaggerated characteristic 
 would produce a more powerful effect. His men 
 are monomaniacs, lunatics, victims of melancholia. 
 Montresor is a monomaniac, moved by the single 
 purpose of revenge to wall up his enemy; the mur- 
 derer In "The Tell-tale Heart" has committed a 
 crime the diabolism of which resulted from Insan- 
 ity induced by a single cause; Berenice's lover Is a 
 victim of melancholia which directs his acts to the 
 grave robbing climax; Roderick Usher Is the im- 
 personation of fear. In the tales of ratiocination, 
 where the plot is so much the main thing, the char- 
 acteristic most needed Is Ingenuity.® In the grue- 
 some stories, Poe's characters are exaggerations of 
 
 "This ingenuity is brilliantly exploited but not so convincingly, 
 as is the ingenuity of Sherlock Holmes by Poe's successor. For 
 example, in the street scene between Dupin and "I" ("The Pur- 
 
CHARACTERISATION 163 
 
 the normal man and woman ; with them he produced 
 his effect. 
 
 The overworking of the horrible, of the appeal 
 to the "thrill-seeker" it may be noticed in passing 
 has been relegated to melodrama. It may seem 
 rank heresy, to the critics who swear by Poe, to 
 affirm that he would not be read by the better class 
 of readers were he now writing what he wrote four 
 score years back. But it cannot be denied that his 
 situations are morbid and that his manner of devel- 
 oping them is sometimes melodramatic. The writer 
 of to-day may employ incidents as gruesome as 
 those of "The Black Cat" or "The Murders in the 
 Rue Morgue" or "The Tell-tale Heart." But it is 
 with a difference, if he finds acceptance by a discrimi- 
 nating public, the same public that recognises Poe as 
 important from a historical consideration. The dom- 
 inant incident in "The Duchess at Prayer" is identi- 
 cal with that in "The Cask of Amontillado." "The 
 Mark of the Beast" is a story of torture no less than 
 "The Pit and the Pendulum." But the later stories 
 leave the physical details of the torture largely to the 
 reader's imagination ; Poe emphasises them. He not 
 only inserts the knife but fiendishly twists it, pro- 
 longing agony. 
 
 But what of Poe's contemporaries and successors 
 
 loined Letter"), where Dupin follows the thought processes of 
 "I," he reasons logically, but overmarvelously, to be convincing. 
 There is a lack of inevitability. But it must not be forgotten that 
 Poe was the inventor, and that Sir Conan Doyle, having the form 
 ready, could direct his efforts to improving it. 
 
i64 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 with respect to the chosen trait? Hawthorne, who 
 was feeling his way to the short-story form, and 
 who achieved it by apparent accident in a few per- 
 fect examples,'' was in some respects more extreme 
 than Poe. He employed not only abnormal traits 
 but also made his characters half allegorical or sym- 
 bolic. "I wrapped myself in pride as in a garment," 
 says the Lady Eleanore, In the story which em- 
 phasises the proverb, "Pride goeth before a fall." 
 Rappaccini is swayed by his plan of dominating 
 the human race; Aylmer of "The Birthmark" is 
 moved by the desire to perfect it. Hawthorne, as 
 Poe, chose the unusual or extreme and intensified it. 
 Bret Harte, the American Dickens in characteri- 
 sation, succeeded Poe and Hawthorne. In his ear- 
 lier stories, particularly, his good characters are 
 over-pious, his simple men are simpletons, his bad 
 men consummate villains. Yet he had learned to 
 temper the dominant trait; he emphasised the out- 
 standing characteristic at the same time he noted 
 incongruities. His men are consequently more hu- 
 man than those of Poe and Hawthorne. Tennes- 
 see's Partner loved Tennessee, who was bad enough 
 to be hanged; Tennessee's death, therefore, is In- 
 vested with pathos. "The Outcasts of Poker Flat" 
 reveals self-sacrifice in dissolute Mother Shipley, 
 and in degenerate Oakhurst. Their final acts com- 
 pel the reader's admiration. In the first scene In 
 
 ' "Rappaccini's Daughter," "The Ambitious Guest," "The Birth- 
 mark," "Lady Eleanore's Mantle," "The Minister's Black Veil." 
 
CHARACTERISATION 165 
 
 "The Luck of Roaring Camp" the "greatest scamp 
 had a Raphael face, with a profusion of blond hair; 
 Oakhurst, the gambler, had the melancholy air and 
 intellectual abstraction of a Hamlet." Bret Harte, 
 in short, makes his emotional appeal, with his ex- 
 ploitation of a characteristic. Poe strikes horror, 
 induces awe, but rarely elicits sympathy. Bret 
 Harte is the more dramatic, in that he is the more 
 passionate. 
 
 Unless the contemporary writer wishes to write 
 melodrama, he chooses traits not unusual or bizarre, 
 but universally true. The normal is better for his 
 purpose than the abnormal. If every heart is 
 swayed by some passion, the passion need not run 
 into madness. 
 
 "In every life worth writing about there is a ruling pas- 
 sion — 'the very pulse of the machine.' Unless you touch 
 that, you are groping around outside of reality. 
 
 "Sometimes it is romantic love : — Music, nature, children, 
 honour, strife, revenge, money, pride, friendship, loyalty, 
 duty, — to these objects and others like them the secret power 
 of personal passion often turns, and the life unconsciously 
 follows it, as the tides in the sea follow the moon in the 
 sky. 
 
 "When circumstances cross the ruling passion, when rocks 
 lie in the way and winds are contrary, then things happen, 
 characters emerge, slight events are significant, mere adven- 
 tures are transformed into a real plot. What care I how 
 many 'hair breadth scapes' and 'moving accidents' your hero 
 may pass through, unless I know him for a man? He is 
 
i66 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 but a puppet strung on wires. His kisses are wooden and 
 his wounds bleed sawdust. There is nothing about him to 
 remember except his name, and perhaps a bit of dialect. 
 Kill or crown him, — ^what difference does it make?" 
 
 "But go the other way about your work: 
 
 " 'Take the least of all mankind, as I ; 
 
 Look at his head and heart, find how and why 
 He differs from his fellows utterly,' — 
 
 and now there is something to tell with a meaning." * 
 
 Select the prominent trait and exploit it in the 
 struggle or complication. Coolness in danger, ef- 
 ficiency, lack of common-sense, dare-deviltry, unself- 
 ishness, fortitude, truthfulness, love of a friend, de- 
 votion to beauty, gratitude, — these characteristics 
 find high-light exhibition in a number of stories re- 
 called by a glance at the titles.^ Exploit the chosen 
 trait as seriously as Kipling exhibits the imperturba- 
 bility of Little Tobrah, or as humorously as Kel- 
 land displays the efficiency of Edgar. But leave the 
 j reader in no doubt as to the traits or the purpose for 
 Iwhich they were selected. 
 
 Character should be revealed at a crisis, as the 
 
 'Preface to "The Ruling Passion," Henry Van Dyke, copyright, 
 1901, by Charles Scribner's Sons. Some of the titles in "The Ruling 
 Passion" are suggestive of the traits presented: "A Lover of 
 Music," "The Reward of Virtue," "A Brave Heart." 
 
 "Resemblance between the anecdote and the short-story recurs 
 here. The former reveals one of these traits at a single dra- 
 matic moment; the latter in a crisis or climax in a line of 
 interest 
 
CHARACTERISATION 167 
 
 brevity of the story, — or what Mr. James called 
 "the exiguity of the vessel," — determines. Charac- 
 ter growth or development may receive emphasis, 
 as "The Substitute" recounts the history of Jean Le 
 Turc's regeneration; but the steady development 
 without the dramatic climax to reveal it would make 
 an inconsequential story. So "Baa, Baa, Black 
 Sheep," in tracing the deterioration or negative 
 growth of Punch, but without the climax it would 
 lack that which makes it effective. That is, to indi- 
 cate crisis, the author must make his preparations. 
 The work he gives to development compared with 
 that allotted to crisis is a matter of proportion and 
 individual method. Notwithstanding, however, the 
 latitude of choice suggested, the truth is that empha- 
 sis on the crisis means a better story. "God has so 
 arranged the chronometry of our spirits that there 
 sjlall be thousands of silent moments between the 
 striking hours." ^° In choosing the title of his col- 
 lection from Dr. Martineau's words, Eden Phlll- 
 potts gives recognition to the importance of crisis. 
 Alice Brown evolved a title from the Persian prov- 
 erb, "One instant only is the sun at noon," suggest- 
 ing a similar recognition.^^ 
 
 A contributory reason for emphasising the crisis 
 lies In the fact that a short time and a single place 
 connote brief, well-unified action and consequent in- 
 tensity of effect. The acting time of "A New Eng- 
 
 ""The Striking Hours," by Eden Phillpotts, London, 1902. 
 " "High Noon," Alice Brown, Hougliton MifBin and Co., 1904. 
 
1 68 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 land Nun" is about twenty-four hours; the time in- 
 volved Is fifteen years. Louisa's development in 
 splnsterhood during that time Is indicated adequately 
 but summarily; the critical period of one day Is em- 
 ployed for the presentation of three or four Impor- 
 tant scenes. The acting time of "The Sire de Male- 
 troit's Door" Is only a few hours ; the very nature of 
 the crucial moment is such that it could not have 
 been but for the dominant characteristic revealed 
 In the Sire. 
 
 The various methods for indicating, summarising 
 and revealing character we shall study in the next 
 chapter. Meantime, It should be repeated that first- 
 hand study of men and women is necessary to suc- 
 cess in portraiture. The writer should not slavishly 
 copy, but he should imitate the workings of nature. 
 He will therefore not "lift" from life a character, 
 but will create his own. For story purposes, he will 
 then select a trait, not too abnormal or extreme, and 
 will demonstrate its action in a crisis. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 CHARACTERISATION (Continued) 
 
 Three methods of portrayal; description; relation of outer 
 man to inner; brief descriptions desirable; economy con- 
 served; main problem that of selection; Kipling, the 
 master of flash-light descriptions; consistency a requi- 
 site; Henry James, master of describing through repeti- 
 tion; cumulative method illustrated; description includes 
 name, dress, and personal appearance; three ways of 
 presentation; importance of nomenclature; dress should 
 be handled with discrimination ; value of ancestry, edu- 
 cation, etc.; illustrations; the analytical method; psycho- 
 logical analysis vs. psychological narration; Henry 
 James, again ; occasions for use of the analytical method ; 
 danger of over-use; the dramatic method the best 
 method; characters should stand on their feet; action 
 momentary and action habitual include dialogue, stage 
 business, etc.; O. Henry on momentary vs. habitual act; 
 three factors entering into behaviour; a combination of 
 description, analysis and dramatic act usually found in 
 characterisation; summary analysis of "Mary Postgate," 
 for author's methods. 
 
 To picture a character, to reveal his mental proc- 
 esses, and to translate his personality in terms of 
 
 169 
 
I70 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 behaviour the author brings into requisition respec- 
 tively, description, analysis, and dramatic action. 
 
 Since the reader will more readily find entertain- 
 ment in the motives and acts of characters with 
 whose outward appearance he is familiar, descrip- 
 tion is of first importance. The physical interprets 
 the mental. Even a photograph is a fair index of 
 the mind and heart of the original. 
 
 "For of the soule the bodie forme doth take; 
 For soule is forme and doth the bodie make." 
 
 In "The Tale That Wouldn't Do," Leonard 
 Merrick's Bachelor Girl says: 
 
 " 'Blue eyes — and a dolly complexion, and flaxen hair; 
 she only needed the ticket "My clothes take off!" But she 
 was very pretty — nothing to find fault with, excepting that 
 she hadn't a brain.' " ^ 
 
 The Bachelor Girl scarcely needed to add the sec- 
 ond sentence; the first conveyed the Idea. It should 
 be noticed, however, that the physical is occasion- 
 ally at odds with the mental ; as the inner fineness of 
 Philip Wakem's personality ^ Is at variance with 
 his deformed body. The outward may be integrated 
 with the Inner by harmonious detail, or the two 
 may be contrasted with a heightened effect. 
 
 Description, however, should be employed with 
 
 '"The Tale That Wouldn't Do" in "Whispers about Women," 
 Leonard Merrick, Mitchell Kennerly, 1912. 
 ""The Mill on the Floss." 
 
CHARACTERISATION 171 
 
 discreet frugality in a brief narrative. The reader 
 prefers to the tedious paragraph a word here, a 
 sentence elsewhere. The writer, therefore, who in- 
 serts his descriptions between commas will succeed 
 as a narrator more surely than one who masses 
 them. Entirely logical is the truth of these state- 
 ments; for the briefer the description, the less the 
 interference with the action. Moreover, the apt 
 brief description is efficient. It conserves by its 
 economy the reader's time and energy for the 
 enjoyment of the narrative. Unconsciously at all 
 points in an economically written story, the reader 
 is supplying for himself details evoked by the dis- 
 tinctive phrase. Since the human family is com- 
 posed of well-known type members, a feature com- 
 mon to a class connotes other characteristics, as 
 slanting eyes suggest the straight black hair and 
 yellow skin of the Oriental. In so far as he un- 
 consciously helps to supply, he is helping to build, 
 and therein has the greater pleasure. But for the 
 writer who uses this flash-light method, the apt and 
 telling phrase may not be easy to find. "I took to 
 myself the advice of Flaubert, and from a table be- 
 fore a cafe I would watch the people around me 
 and jot down the minutest details. I filled whole 
 pages with my strokes. But which to choose to 
 make this person or this scene like no other in the 
 world? ' Billy's perplexity was that which every 
 
 '"The Harbour," page 76. The italics are mine. 
 
172 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 serious student of technique will inevitably encounter 
 and clear up for himself. 
 
 Kipling, more than most English story writers, 
 knows the value of brief descriptions which bite 
 into the reader's consciousness. "She was a fat 
 woman in an apricot-coloured gown, with a heavily 
 powdered face, against which her black long-lashed 
 eyes showed like currants in dough." So brief a 
 sentence conveys an image adequate for the reader 
 throughout "The House Surgeon." The author adds, 
 if r recall, not another picturing detail, except for 
 the connoted one in "she surged across the lawn"; 
 but Mrs. McLeod lives, created by the single stroke. 
 A writer who calls up a general image of a character 
 needs to remember mainly that in subsequent refer- 
 ence to that character he should add nothing to con- 
 fuse the reader or to cause substitution of a new 
 image. As he is consistent so far will the impres- 
 sion he creates abide. 
 
 Of authors who drill images into the brain of the 
 reader, Henry James ranks first. Try the experi- 
 ment of asking anybody who has read "The Real 
 Right Thing" for a thumb-nail sketch of Mrs. 
 Doyne. The chances are that although the one who 
 answers may be unaware of the reasons for the defi- 
 nite impression, you will get this or its equivalent, "I 
 think of her as a large woman dressed in black, with 
 her face half hidden by a fan." The firmness of out- 
 line is produced by the cumulative method and by 
 
CHARACTERISATION 173 
 
 repetition. On page 87 * the author says, — "she 
 rose before him there in her large array of mourn- 
 ing — with her big black eyes, her big black wig, her 
 big black fan and gloves," etc. This brief descrip- 
 tion is clear, but the author takes no chances on its 
 being erased; therefore, he cuts it deeper: pages 
 91-92, "She had a way of raising to the level of 
 her nose the big black fan which she apparently 
 never laid aside and with which she thus covered the 
 lower half of her face, her rather hard eyes, above 
 it, becoming more ambiguous." Farther, page 92, 
 "Mrs. Doyne, still with her fan up, listened with in- 
 terest." And page 100, " 'Horror?' Mrs. Doyne 
 gasped with her fan up to her mouth." And page 
 102, " 'Guarding it?' she glowed over her fan." 
 Finally, page 103, "He saw at a glance, as she of- 
 fered him a huger, bleaker stare over the mask of 
 her fan. . . ." Whereas the more brilliant flash 
 may dazzle and stun the reader and so take him al- 
 together, this tap, tap, tapping at the door of his 
 mind will ultimately force the impression in. 
 
 Under description of a character are included 
 name, dress, and personal appearance. These may 
 be presented i. by the author, 2. by other char- 
 acters, 3. from the angle of other characters. 
 The sentence describing Mrs. McLeod is by the 
 author, here the same as the first person narrator; 
 the repeated descriptions of Mrs. Doyne are all 
 from the angle of George Withermore. The de- 
 
 *"The Soft Side," ist Ed., London, 1900. 
 
174 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 scription of Kipling's second-rate woman is given 
 by Mrs. Hauksbee and Mrs. Mallowe: 
 
 " <T 
 
 '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. . . . Who is she?' said Mrs. Hauksbee. 
 
 ..." 'Delville,' said Mrs. Mallowe, ' "Shady" Delville 
 to distinguish her from Mrs. Jim of that ilk. She dances 
 as untidily as she dresses, I believe, . . .' " 
 
 This last method is more dramatic, also more eco- 
 nomical ; for it offers a basis whereupon to judge or 
 estimate all the characters Involved. Obviously a 
 sneering remark of B, about A, of whom B Is jeal- 
 ous, let us say, throws light on both characters. The 
 reader may discount the sneer, but will hold It in 
 mind for future reference; at the moment he may 
 react against B. 
 
 The tyro or expert proclaims himself by the nam- 
 ing of characters. Best writers are masters In the 
 art of characterising through nomenclature. This 
 delicate business Is one In which the amateur usually 
 evinces no attempt to profit by the manner of the 
 professional. Mrs. Paige, Danyers, Mrs. Amyot, 
 Professor LInyard, Mrs. Quentin, Osrlc Dane, Ethan 
 Frome and a host of others bear witness to Mrs. 
 Wharton's elegance In the application of name to 
 character. Mora Montravers, Mrs. Rimmle, Mark 
 
CHARACTERISATION 175 
 
 Ambient, Greville Fane, Peter Quint, and Brook- 
 smith illustrate the answer of Henry James to the 
 question, "What's in a name?" Mr. James displays 
 that nice artistic finish which considers the small de- 
 tail when in "The Real Thing" he names a work of 
 fiction "Rutland Ramsay." He would not have used 
 the title for one of his own volumes; but he has em- 
 ployed it here with euphonious dignity to separate 
 the represented from the actual. Mulvaney, Lea- 
 royd, Ortheris, Dinah Shadd, Maddingham, and 
 Tegg are all as distinctly Kipling's as the characters 
 themselves. 
 
 The element of dress should be handled with dis- 
 crimination. A person in real life may attire him- 
 self in accord with conventional requirements, may 
 dress according to his own dictates, may wear what 
 others thrust upon him, or may make use of a com- 
 bination of methods. But story characters should 
 reflect their individuality or reveal their social status 
 in their apparel. It may be taken for granted, of 
 course, that dress is harmonious with setting and 
 no mention made of it. Major and Mrs. Monarch, 
 of "The Real Thing," mirror the social world in 
 which they have played a part; their reflection of 
 this world, as purposed by the author, demands that 
 they be attired conventionally, by their ideas of what 
 is "proper." The old clothes of Yancee Goree, in 
 0. Henry's "A Blackjack Bargainer," become the 
 lever which turns the action of the story to its tragic 
 denouement. In each of these stories, therefore, 
 
176 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 the author has with requisite significance handled the 
 matter of dress. 
 
 In addition to name, dress and personal appear- 
 ance, description includes also ancestry, education 
 or previous experience, in so far as they serve to 
 explain a crucial act of the character under consid- 
 eration. "Ardelia's origin, like that of the civilisa- 
 tion of ancient Egypt, was shrouded in mystery. At 
 the age of two months she had been handed 
 to a policeman by a scared-looking boy, who said 
 vaguely that he found her in the park under a 
 bench." ^ Such a bit of history serves to explain 
 Ardelia, to add to the verisimilitude of her be- 
 haviour in Arcady, and to justify the chief incident 
 of the story. Katherine F. Gerould's "The Great 
 Tradition" presents an instance of inherited tenden- 
 cies and conformity to convention conquering the 
 carefully thought out, self-willed intention of a 
 woman of gentle breeding, before her intention be- 
 comes an act. "The Long Inheritance," by Cornelia 
 Comer, conveys, as the title suggests, another ex- 
 ample of the same theme. The story of Little To- 
 brah grows naturally enough from the antecedent 
 circumstances of his life: the small-pox, the death 
 of his parents, the falling timber, the breaking of 
 the ox's back, the fleeing of the elder brother. With- 
 out doubt, whether it be connected directly or in- 
 
 ^"The Madness of Philip, and Other Tales of Childhood," 
 Josephine Dodge Bacon, The McClure Co., 1908. 
 
CHARACTERISATION 177 
 
 directly with the crucial incident of the story, past 
 experience has contributory value in proportion as 
 it serves to explain or justify the significant act of 
 the character. 
 
 By the second method of character portrayal, 
 analysis, is meant the baring of mental processes by 
 the omniscient author, to whom the minds of his 
 character lie open. If the author studies the men- 
 tality of his character dissociated from a particular 
 situation or in general, he uses psychological analy- 
 sis; for example, Galsworthy in "A Portrait" " pre- 
 sents an inner description or analysis of the eighty 
 year old gentleman, whose picture he also draws. 
 If however the author follows the specific mental 
 processes of a character, operations connected with 
 a phase of the situation at hand, he uses psychologi- 
 cal narration. The latter method, being more spe- 
 cific, is more frequently found in the short-story, and, 
 as its very designation implies, partakes both of the 
 nature of description and narration. Henry James's 
 extended use of psychological narration is responsi- 
 ble for the statement that he is a novelist who writes 
 like a psychologist, just as the concreteness of Wil- 
 liam James's methods labels him the psychologist 
 who writes like a novelist. In this typical passage 
 from "The Real Right Thing" the author is speak- 
 ing of George Withermore, who has been asked to 
 write the life of Ashton Doyne, deceased. 
 
 '"A Motley," Heioeman, London, 1910. 
 
178 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 "He was not a little frightened when, even the first 
 night, it came over him that he had really been most af- 
 fected in the whole matter, by the prospect, the privilege 
 and the luxury of this sensation. He hadn't, he could now 
 reflect, definitely considered the question of the book — as to 
 which there was here even already much to consider; he 
 had simply let his affection and admiration — to say nothing 
 of his gratified pride — meet to the full the temptation Mrs. 
 Doyne had offered him. 
 
 How did he know without more thought, he might begin 
 to ask himself, that the book was on the whole to be de- 
 sired? What warrant had he ever received from Ashton 
 Doyne himself for so direct and, as it were, so familiar an 
 approach? Great was the art of biography, but there were 
 lives and lives, there are subjects and subjects. He con- 
 fusedly recalled, so far as that went, old words dropped by 
 Doyne over contemporary compilations, suggestions of how 
 he himself discriminated as to other heroes and other pano- 
 ramas. He even remembered how his friend would at mo- 
 ments have shown himself as holding that the "literary" 
 career might — even in the case of a Johnson and a Scott, 
 with a Boswell and a Lockhart to help — best content itself 
 to be represented. The artist was what he did — ^he was 
 nothing else. ...'"' 
 
 The paragraph reveals the mental processes of 
 George Withermore with respect to memory, imme- 
 diate sensation, and contemplated action. 
 
 Introducing the reader to the mental recesses of 
 the character suits best the deliberate style. It may 
 be used in a story of rapid action when the plot 
 
 'The italics are mine. 
 
CHARACTERISATION 179 
 
 movement needs retardation, or the workings of the 
 character require exhibition with respect to the 
 struggle. But however used, it will contribute to 
 retarded movement. If excessively employed, the 
 result is loss in dramatic force; the study of char- 
 acter from an omniscient point of view supersedes 
 the study of character in dramatic action. Although 
 it is true that a story may be, as a whole, a psycho- 
 logical narrative and yet conform to the definition 
 offered in this text, it is also true that in proportion 
 as a story is presented objectively it adheres to 
 type ideal. Moreover, it is difficult for any person 
 to know just how another thinks. Too much "think- 
 ing" for characters inevitably means the infusion 
 of the author's personality. Characters are less 
 themselves, partaking largely of the nature of the 
 author. It is comparatively easy to recount or de- 
 scribe an outward act. And every reader may de- 
 duce for himself the mental processes concealed or 
 revealed by behaviour. Use analysis, therefore, 
 sparingly, and for the most part to motivate or ex- 
 plain what might be otherwise ambiguous or with- 
 out causation. 
 
 The dramatic method, or self-revelation through 
 speech and action, should be employed, on the con- 
 trary, wherever possible. "Know this, then," says the 
 Master, Rabelais, in Kipling's "The Last of the 
 Stories," "The First Law is to make them stand upon 
 their feet, and the Second is to make them stand upon 
 their feet, and the Third is to make them stand upon 
 
i8o A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 their feet." Whether action be momentary or ha- 
 bitual it includes, as I have already pointed out in 
 the chapter on the Scenario, speech and stage busi- 
 ness, or what the character does and says. There 
 some points have already been made in regard to 
 action, and others follow in the chapter on Dia- 
 logue. For the present, let us glance at the mo- 
 mentary speech and action of a character as com- 
 pared with his habitual manner. The relation be- 
 tween the two offers the story writer opportunity 
 for some of his best effects in contrast. For ex- 
 ample, De Maupassant's "Coward" throws into high 
 relief the habitual bravado of the Viscount by pre- 
 senting at a crucial moment his craven behaviour. 
 The relation also offers opportunity for strength- 
 ening by integration. Louisa Ellis's spinsterly hab- 
 its are confirmed by the crucial incident wherein, 
 remaining true to herself, she chooses spinsterhood 
 without a qualm. The fact that under stress of 
 emotion persons not only talk and act differently 
 from their ordinary manner, but differently even 
 from the way they have presupposed finds mirthful 
 exemplification in O. Henry's "Proof of the Pud- 
 ding.'; 
 
 Editor Westbrook, it will be recalled, argues with 
 his impecunious friend, the unsuccessful writer, 
 Shackleford Dawe that "all men and women have 
 what may be called a sub-conscious dramatic sense 
 that Is awakened by a sufficiently deep and power- 
 ful emotion — a sense unconsciously acquired from 
 
CHARACTERISATION i8i 
 
 literature and the stage that prompts them to ex- 
 press those emotions in language befitting their im- 
 portance and histrionic value." 
 
 " 'And in the name of the seven sacred saddle- 
 blankets of Sagittarius, where did the stage and lit- 
 erature get the stunt?' asked Dawe. 
 
 " 'From life,' answered the editor, triumphantly." 
 ..." 'Tell me,' asked Dawe, with truculent anx- 
 iety, 'what especial fault in "The Alarum of the 
 Soul" caused you to throw it down?' 
 
 " 'When Gabriel Murray,' said Westbrook, 'goes 
 to his telephone and is told that his fiancee has been 
 shot by a burglar, he says — I do not recall the ex- 
 act words — ' 
 
 " 'I do,' said Dawe. 'He says: "Damn Central; 
 she always cuts me off." And then to his friend, 
 "Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a big 
 hole? It's kind of hard luck, ain't it? ..." ' " 
 
 But the editor holds that these and other cita- 
 tions are absurdly inappropriate words: — "'they 
 mirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered 
 banal colloquialisms when confronted by sudden 
 tragedy.' " 
 
 To determine experimentally which of the two is 
 right, the author and the editor concoct a note to 
 the author's wife, Louise Dawe, which they will 
 leave on the table where she will see it as she enters 
 the door. The two men will be concealed by the 
 portieres. 
 
 " 'In that note I'll say that I have fled from her 
 
1 82 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 forever with an affinity who understands the needs 
 of my artistic soul as she never did. When she reads 
 it we will observe her actions and hear her words. 
 Then we will know which theory is the correct 
 one. . . .'" 
 
 After arriving at the flat, the conspirators find a 
 letter from Mrs. Dawe. Shackleford reads it 
 aloud. It is to the effect that Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. 
 Westbrook have joined the Occidental Opera Com- 
 pany. Mrs. Dawe did not want to starve to death, 
 she observed, and Mrs. Westbrook was tired of 
 living with a combination phonograph, iceberg and 
 dictionary. . . . 
 
 "Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his 
 trembling hands, and cried out in a deep, vibrating voice: 
 
 " 'My God, why hast thou given me this cup to drinkf 
 Since she is false, then let Thy Heaven's fairest gifts, faith 
 and love, become the jesting by-words of traitors and 
 fiends!' 
 
 "Editor Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor. The fingers 
 of one hand fumbled with a button on his coat as he blurted 
 between his pale lips: 
 
 "'Say, Shack, ain't that a hell of a note? Wouldn't 
 that knock you off your perch, Shackf Ain't it hell, now, 
 Shack — ain't it?' " 
 
 O. Henry, therefore, argues neither for the ex- 
 tremely commonplace nor the extremely histrionic. 
 But he suggests, playfully enough it is true, that 
 under the stimulus of momentary action a character 
 will behave not at all as he behaves habitually. A 
 
CHARACTERISATION 183 
 
 study of the final four paragraphs indicates that he 
 has taken account of both speech and act. Contrast 
 not only the exaggerated speeches of the two, but 
 also "dropped the letter" (deliberate act), with 
 "glasses fell to the floor" (lack of control) ; like- 
 wise, "deep vibrating voice" with "blurted between 
 pale lips." As the three factors entering into the 
 behaviour of a person under a given stimulus are im- 
 pulse, feeling and reason, so the dominance of any 
 one of these and the way in which it becomes domi- 
 nant reveal the inner personality, in short "reflect 
 character." 
 
 Characterisation, then, uses any of these meth- 
 ods or such combinations as are best suited to make 
 of the character a living human being. Examine, 
 for instance, the various elements as they are found 
 in "Mary Postgate." * The author's description of 
 Mary is given by the cumulative method. He first 
 tells us that she was not young and that her speech 
 was as colourless as her eyes or her hair. Later, 
 he gives mere definite details in saying that Young 
 Wyndham Fowler repaid her by "thumping her be- 
 tween her narrow shoulders, or by chasing her bleat- 
 ing round the garden, her large mouth open, her 
 large nose high in the air, at a stiff-necked shamble, 
 very like a camel's." Further on he uses the de- 
 tails, "long back," "her lean self," "lean arms," 
 "flat chest" and at the very end, "one faded canine." 
 
 'Before reading the following analysis the student should know 
 the story at first hand. 
 
1 84 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 In the first paragraph we are told that Lady Mc- 
 Causland wrote of Mary that she was " 'thoroughly 
 conscientious, tidy, companionable, and ladylike. I 
 am very sorry to part with her, and shall always 
 be interested in her welfare.' " (Impression of Mary 
 given by another character.) In the second para- 
 graph, after the introduction of Miss Fowler, part 
 of the personal description is given by the author. 
 Then, "She listened unflinchingly to every one; said 
 at the end, 'How interesting!' or 'How shocking!' 
 as the case might be (Half-dramatic suggestion of 
 habitual behaviour) . The rest of the paragraph 
 consists of details, given in catalogue fashion, which 
 the reader most needs for the fundamental concept 
 of Mary's character. The catalogue is given by the 
 all-observant, rather than by the omniscient author. 
 The third paragraph rehearses what Mary did 
 when the orphan, Wyndham, was thrown upon Miss 
 Fowler's hands. (Action of character, narrated, 
 not presented.) The fourth paragraph recounts 
 a speech of Mary's on hearing of the outbreak of 
 war, "most vexatious," and is followed by Mary's 
 services in the matter of the waistcoat in paragraph 
 five. 
 
 A brief dramatic presentation of character fol- 
 lows shortly when Wynn comes over from his train- 
 ing camp not thirty miles away. Uppermost, ap- 
 parently, is Mary's feeling for Wynn, her sympathy 
 in his preparation, and her ignorance of war machin- 
 ery. A second dramatic presentation follows when 
 
CHARACTERISATION 185 
 
 after a few weeks Wynn circles down in his own ma- 
 chine. Hereabouts, she gives her age ("'Forty- 
 four,' said truthful Mary,"), and declares that she 
 imagines she never would have been anything but a 
 companion. Her habit of waiting on others is indi- 
 cated in the sentence, "She fetched Miss Fowler her 
 eleven o'clock glass of Contrexeville." 
 
 The announcement of Wyndham's death is the 
 dramatic climax of the story. "The room was 
 whirling round Mary Postgate, but she found her- 
 self quite steady in the midst of it. "Yes," she 
 ■said, "it's a great pity he didn't die in action — after 
 he had killed somebody." (Dramatic action. This 
 speech marks the rise of hatred; the national spirit 
 begins to overtop the phlegmatic individuality of 
 Mary Postgate. So far, her love for Wyndham 
 and her habits of service are the main character- 
 istics.) That her mind instantly leaps to the 
 thought of the boy's suffering is indicated dramati- 
 cally, "But Wynn says the shock of a fall kills a 
 man at once, whatever happens to the tanks." For 
 two columns the speeches attributed to Mary are by 
 a master of psychology, by one who knows the 
 queerly irrelevant turns the human mind takes when 
 grieved and shocked past true expression. When to 
 Miss Fowler's question, "Have you cried yet?" 
 Mary answers, "I can't. It only makes me angry 
 with the Germans," she is expressing, as far as her 
 inhibited manner of speech allows, that strong feel- 
 
1 86 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Ing which is shown more dramatically at the close of 
 the story. 
 
 The way in which Kipling contrives to make the 
 reader understand that Mary Postgate was devoted 
 to Wyndham is never once effected by any expres- 
 sion on her part. But when Miss Fowler asks, "Do 
 you remember his sizes?" Mary answers promptly, 
 "Five feet eight and a half; thirty-six inches round 
 the chest. But he tells me he's put on an inch and 
 a half." (Use of suggestion to indicate feeling). 
 When having decided to burn his books and toys 
 Miss Fowler advises Mary to "get Nellie to help," 
 " 'I shall take the wheelbarrow and do it myself,' 
 said Mary, and for once in her life closed her 
 mouth." (Dramatic action: momentary vs. habit- 
 ual.) Mary's progress in disposing of the boy's 
 possessions is realistic and typical of her methodical 
 ways. (Stage business emphasised through all-ob- 
 servant narrator.) Later, "it seemed to her that 
 she could almost hear the beat of his propellers 
 overhead" (Omniscient author speaks). 
 
 With easy shifts from the objective to the omnis- 
 cient point of view and consequent dramatic or 
 analytic presentation of character, the author ap- 
 proaches the climax of action. After the bomb has 
 fallen and killed the child, and after Mary has re- 
 turned home to finish the burning of Wynn's toys 
 and books, the twilight shrubbery becomes the set- 
 ting for a drama wherein Mary finally reveals the 
 hatred and the desire for revenge which have been 
 
CHARACTERISATION 187 
 
 set in motion by the death of Wyndham. She dis- 
 covers the dying man, she leaves him long enough 
 to get a pistol from the drawer of her toilet table 
 (Significant dramatic act), she finds him expectant, 
 and sees that he is alive sufficiently to hope for suc- 
 cour. She lets him know in' German that his French, 
 which he fumbles, does not deceive her (Dramatic ac- 
 tion), and she waits for his death. As she waits, the 
 author catalogues from her past experience a num- 
 ber of integrative details. Her "pleasure" (Omnis- 
 cient author's word) "was broken by a sound that 
 she had waited for in agony several times in her 
 life." . . . "Go on," she murmured half aloud. 
 "That isn't the end." ... At the end "Mary 
 Postgate drew her breath short between her teeth 
 and shivered from head to foot" (Dramatic action). 
 "That's right," said she contentedly (Dramatic ac- 
 tion), "and went up to the house, where she scan- 
 dalised the whole routine by taking a luxurious hot 
 bath before tea, and came down looking, as Miss 
 Fowler said when she saw her lying all relaxed on 
 the other sofa, 'quite handsome.' " (Compare this 
 impression with that of Lady McCausland, para- 
 graph I.) This dramatic presentation is fitted to 
 the climax of action, and tells the reader more briefly 
 and effectively about Mary's revulsion of feeling 
 than could any amount of analysis on the part of 
 the author. And it comes as the climax in a com- 
 bination of methods for presenting the character of 
 Mary Postgate. 
 
1 88 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Exercises for Chapters IX and X 
 
 Make a st'udy of race characteristics by comparison of 
 the various nationalities whose representatives you meet. 
 Make a study of types as you sit in an assembly ( i ) at the 
 theatre, (2) in the class-room. Study the types you meet 
 in a walk, in a street car or subway train. Try to find in 
 a group of people some distinguishing outward mark for 
 each person; (2) describe one person as economically as 
 possible, to distinguish him or her from all others. 
 
 What value has the study of psychology for the story 
 writer? 
 
 Give some time to intensive study of mental operations, 
 that is, from the writer's point of view, and with regard 
 to his need for understanding motives. For example, a 
 handkerchief lies on the floor; a man neglects to pick it up. 
 Is he oblivious to the physical fact because of some pre- 
 occupation, or because he chooses not to stoop for it? Hav- 
 ing determined the reason, use the mental characteristic in 
 a more significant matter. 
 
 Writers occasionally in a character crisis determine the 
 behaviour of the given character by applying the question, 
 "What would / do here?" How far is this application 
 sound ? 
 
 Give some time to visualising imaginary persons. 
 
 Study the conversational habits of the people about you. 
 
 Observe men and women in real life, and notice how far 
 definite traits determine action; notice, also, how far life 
 itself affects the definite trait. 
 
 Review the stories you have read recently, recalling the 
 exploitation of traits. How does the author prepare for the 
 
CHARACTERISATION 189 
 
 crucial situation in each story? Is action harmonious with 
 character? 
 
 In these stories, are you most impressed by the author's 
 description and analysis of characters, or by what the char- 
 acters say and do? Mrs. Freeman's "A Church Mouse," 
 Kipling's "Second Rate Woman," Hamlin Garland's "Up 
 the Coolly," Henry James's "Brooksmith," "Europe," and 
 "John Delavoy," Stephen Crane's "The Angel Child," O. 
 Henry's "Municipal Report," Fannie Hurst's "Thine is not 
 Mine," Sarah Orne Jewett's "A White Heron," Jack Lon- 
 don's "Love of Life," Margaret Deland's "Many Waters," 
 Richard H. Davis's "A Bar Sinister," Conan Doyle's 
 "Giant Maximin," James Lane Allen's "The White Cowl," 
 W. D. Howells's "Editha," John Galsworthy's "Quality." 
 
 Study Margaret Deland's "The Thief" for balance and 
 contrast between the two main characters. 
 
 Study Gertrude Atherton's "The Sacrificial Altar" for bal- 
 ance of psychological and dramatic treatment. 
 
 Study the development of character in Rupert Hughes's 
 "The Last Rose of Summer." Note, in connection with 
 character development, the time element. 
 
 Study racial characteristics in Kipling's "Little Tobrah," 
 James Connolly's "Mother Machree," and O. Henry's 
 "The Atavism of John Tom Little Bear." 
 
 Observe how, in the following stories, the authors have 
 employed the influence of heredity: Wallace Irwin's "You 
 Can't Get Away from Your Grandfather," Mary B. Pul- 
 ver's "The Man Who Was Afraid," Frank Norris's "A 
 Reversion to Type," Josephine D. D. Bacon's "Reversion to 
 Type," Connolly's "Mother Machree," and K. F. Gerould's 
 'The Dominant Strain." 
 
 What is the significance of the name "Smith" in Bunner's 
 
igo A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 "Love Letters of Smith"? Can you recall other names of 
 frequent occurrence which authors have employed eifec- 
 tively ? 
 
 What traits in human nature interest you most? Think 
 of a number of characteristics and devise situations for re- 
 vealing them. 
 
 Write a characterisation of ( i ) one you pass by chance. 
 Exercise observation and imagination. (2) One you know 
 well. Offset your own judgment by that of others who also > 
 know the person. (3) One you know only through hear- 
 say. (4) A purely imaginary person. 
 
 Write a character story, using just enough action to give 
 the narrative effect. 
 
 Using the same character, introduce him or her into a 
 story of definite plot values. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 DIALOGUE 
 
 Dialogue versus conversation; relation to monologue; 
 specious dialogue; purpose of dialogue; qualities; nat- 
 uralness; vice of close imitation; what "talking in char- 
 acter" requires; fault; illustration; dialect; cautions 
 about its use; illustrations; foreign idiom; illustrations; 
 other qualities; dialogue should convince and interest; 
 the key of dialogue; growth in dialogue; a note on the 
 soliloquy ; dialogue used in three ways to further action ; 
 illustrations; the business of clues; in portraying char- 
 acter dialogue serves three functions; illustration; a 
 detail of composition. 
 
 Dialogue is that part of the action which gives 
 the conversational effect to the scene presented. It 
 is not the same as conversation, which may be 
 freighted with matter not pertinent to the main 
 thread of discourse or which may leave phases of 
 the subject undeveloped. Dialogue in the story, as 
 in the drama, must be economical; there can be 
 no waste either through inadequacy or surplusage. 
 Yet, paradoxically, the effect must be the same to 
 the reader or hearer as that created by a conversa- 
 tion which includes unfinished and irrelevant topics. 
 
 191 
 
192 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Here, again, the ruling principle of art is opera- 
 tive; truth in life is essentially identical with truth 
 in fiction ; but the facts of one are not identical with 
 the facts of the other. Life is concerned with actual, 
 ity; fiction with the semblance of actuality. 
 
 As dialogue is not promiscuous conversation un- 
 guided by the principles of economy and suggestion, 
 so it is not the speech of a single person. No 
 writer would question the self-evidence of this state- 
 ment. Yet frequently a succession of long speeches 
 is found distributed between two persons, much after 
 the manner in debate. The appearance is that of 
 dialogue, but so far as effect is concerned, each 
 speaker might offer his argument in full and with- 
 out interruption. Dialogue is not, then, a series 
 of alternating monologues. Again, the use of quo- 
 tation marks is only a specious indication of dia- 
 logue. If, without aptitude or fitness, the author 
 ascribes to a character his own philosophy, merely to 
 put that philosophy before the reader in attractive 
 guise, he is not writing a speech which has the true 
 conversational effect. Even the clever epigrams of 
 Oscar Wilde's men and women reflect the author 
 rather than the characters; the speeches are too sim- 
 ilar. 
 
 Dialogue is speech between two persons, or more 
 than two persons, revealing the character of those 
 persons and assisting vitally in the development or 
 revelation of character or in forwarding the action 
 of the story. "To give to the talk of a tale the air 
 
DIALOGUE 193 
 
 of naturalness and ease, to make it take its place 
 in the story and be attractive without being too 
 clever or too formal, to give it character and con- 
 sistency, to impart to it movement and vivacity, to 
 be sure that it helps forward the narrative in which 
 it is set, — all these difficulties must be overcome be- 
 fore the writer can be said to write good dialogue." ^ 
 The first essential is naturalness. The most pleas- 
 ing character delineation is got by making char- 
 acters speak as they naturally would speak. In the 
 historical novel all the characters talk in the same 
 grandiose, stilted and careful manner; in the modern 
 novel and short-story they must reflect their separate 
 individualities. "The First Law is to make them 
 stand upon their feet"; the first application of the 
 law is to make them speak for themselves. Close 
 imitation, however, does not mean naturalness. Un- 
 reality, even vulgarity, may result from too closely 
 copying persons who speak with a fair degree of 
 excellence, yet with colloquial freedom. One slang 
 expression or slight departure from grammar low- 
 ers the tone of dialogue more than the same expres- 
 sion does in actual conversation. The opposite er- 
 ror is excess of formality or stiffness. The charac- 
 ters of Mr. Henry James are, perhaps, all over- 
 nice. If they use a commonly accepted term, they 
 do so with quotations. "But Braddle had always 
 been, portentously, a person of free mornings — his 
 
 ^ "Talks on Writing English," Arlo Bates; First Series, page 
 250. 
 
194 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 nominal occupation that of looking after his father's 
 'interests,' and his actual that of spending, though 
 quite without scandal, this personage's money, of 
 which, luckily, there seemed an abundance." Here, 
 the recognition by Mr. James of the colloquial word 
 "interests" is indicated by the quotations; later, in 
 the same paragraph, Braddle brings out "You don't 
 then think there's anything 'off' about her?" The 
 marks enclosing "off" indicate that Braddle would 
 not condescend to slang without indicating that he 
 knew he was doing so. "You'll never, my dear 
 chap, get a 'rise' out of me" is subtly different from 
 "You'll never, my dear chap, get a rise out of me." ^ 
 "See that your characters talk 'in character' " is 
 advice of the sort frequently offered the young 
 writer. This is usually interpreted to mean that 
 the author must know his characters so well he will 
 write down their thoughts as if recording them 
 phonographically. But granted that the writer un- 
 derstands the psychology of his people, their mental 
 actions and reactions, their opinions and what they 
 would say on occasion, it is too often regrettably 
 true that he has not fully evaluated sentence struc- 
 ture and form. The young writer, in particular, 
 frees his characters with difficulty from the shackles 
 of his own speech habits. Diction, rhythm, manner 
 of phrasing, and length of sentence are more or less 
 individual with every man and woman. Differentia- 
 tion of characters in these particulars of style, there- 
 
 '"The Great Condition." 
 
DIALOGUE 195 
 
 fore, contributes to boldness and strength of outline, 
 and is not less essential than the matter itself. At 
 the same time, however, the writer avoids attribut- 
 ing to a character his own phraseology, he should 
 not be caught by the clap-trap of saddling upon a 
 character a peculiar trick of speech or other manner- 
 ism. It is a vicious and easy habit. "Making Port," 
 placed by Mr. E. J. O'Brien at the head of the list 
 of stories appearing in 19 16, has an example of this 
 fault. Tom "scratched his ribs with a slow mo- 
 tion" is a trick which the author too obviously re- 
 peats. If the purpose of the author is to show that 
 a character is possessed of a fixed idea, however, 
 he will of necessity use repetition. Neil Lyons' 
 dialogues ^ contain excellent examples. . . . 
 
 "Then an old woman came in — a very old woman, with 
 rosy cheeks and a clean apron, and querulous, childish eyes. 
 
 " 'I want some morphium,' she said, 'to soothe meself 
 down. Not that I got a right to look for much — at my 
 age.' 
 
 "The doctor became jocular. 'What!' he cried. 'A fine 
 woman like you? Morphia for you? What? . . .' 
 
 " 'I ain't got no happetite,' said the old woman. 'And 
 there's shooting pains in me 'ead, and I don't sleep proper, 
 and I seems to feel lonesome, and I wants some morphium 
 to soothe meself down with.' 
 
 " 'What's your favourite dinner dish ?' inquired our in- 
 consequent wag of a doctor. 
 
 " 'I ain't got no favourites,' replied the woman. 'I'm 
 
 "Sixpenny Pieces," John Lane, 1914. 
 
196 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 old, I am; what should I do with favourites at my age? I 
 want some morphium to soothe meself down. 
 
 ..." 'And you mean to tell me,' cried the doctor with 
 sudden heat, 'that you do not care for tripe? Good tripe, 
 mind you — tender tripe, very well boiled, with just a 
 flavouring of onions?' 
 
 " 'And if I did,' protested the woman, 'who's to cook it 
 for me? There's so many young women to get the favours 
 now, I find, and me so old. Can't I have a little mor- 
 phium. Doctor: the brown mixture, ye know? To soothe 
 meself down with.' " 
 
 After further dialogue the author concludes: 
 "The maiden got her morphia." 
 
 Another habit of the amateur, contributing to 
 stiffness and over-precision, is the completion of all 
 speeches. In life, speakers trail off, break oi 
 abruptly, or meet interruption by the interjections 
 of others. Represented life should reproduce such 
 trailing, breaking and interruption. But neither 
 lucidity of meaning nor consistency of character 
 should suffer. 
 
 The problem of effecting naturalness in speech 
 further calls for a consideration of dialect. We 
 shall have more to say about it in the discussion of 
 local colour; here let us observe that dialect is prop- 
 erly not to be defined merely as non-literary lan- 
 guage. Popularly it is applied to those distinctions 
 of speech characteristic of a locality or of the un- 
 educated; but it includes also the special vocabulary 
 of any class or profession. There is the dialect of 
 
DIALOGUE 197 
 
 trades, professions, provinces, nationalities or what- 
 not. Artistry demands that dialect be employed 
 with restraint. Even though intelligible to the ear, 
 it is comprehended with diiEculty by the eye of the 
 average reader. Moreover, for the author accu- 
 rately to convey the sounds in dialect variations re- 
 quires a special phonetic alphabet. Indications of 
 the general speech are easier for reader and writer 
 alike, and the selective process at work in the indica- 
 tion contributes to economy. Mr. J. J. Bell doubt- 
 less toned down considerably the Scotchiness of Wee 
 McGreegor and his Granpaw but it is doubtful 
 whether the American reader appreciates fully the 
 collection of which the following is a typical speci- 
 men: 
 
 " 'I'll tak' the richt, Granpaw,' said Macgregor. 
 
 "Mr. Purdie extended the member mentioned, disclosing 
 a slab of toffee done up in transparent paper. 'Ye're a rale 
 smairt laddie!' he observed with a chuckle. 'Ye aye guess 
 whaur the gundy is.' 
 
 " 'Ay, I'm gey fly,' returned Macgregor modestly, begin- 
 ning an onslaught on the sweetmeat. 
 
 "Mr. Purdie chuckled again, and slipped the packet of 
 toffee which had been concealed in his left hand into his 
 pocket. 
 
 " 'I'm aye richt, am I no' ?' inquired his grandson. 
 
 " 'Ay, are ye, Macgreegor ! It bates me to think hoo ye ken.' 
 
 "'Aw, I jist ken. . . . It's awfu' guid!'" 
 
 By his shading of dialect an author may distin- 
 guish in degree of refinement certain characters from 
 
198 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 others, all of whom in real life would employ the 
 same speech. For example, in "Calla Lilies and 
 Hannah," Mrs. Newhall says,. 
 
 "Well, 'tain't, that's a fact. Ellen thought hers was 
 pretty handsome, but it can't shake a stick at this. Hers 
 ain't got but three on it." 
 
 and Marthy answers in part, 
 
 "I allers had jest sech luck. ... I tell Hannah if I be 
 miser-ble in health, an' poor, flowers'll blow for me, and 
 that's more than they'll do for some folks. . . . Look at 
 Mis' Walker over there. I can't he'p thinkin' of it some- 
 times when I see her go nippin' past with her ruffles and 
 gimcracks." 
 
 But Hannah's speech is marked by better use of Eng- 
 lish. 
 
 "Said he couldn't trust me to take any more boots 
 
 home." . . . "Don't worry, I'll get some work somewhere, 
 
 I guess." . . . "Good evening, Mrs. Ward, are your board- 
 ers in?" 
 
 Obviously, in avoiding double negatives and clipped 
 g's, Hannah gains a certain distinction, which is 
 needed in the final differentiation of character. 
 
 Foreign idiom is used to advantage by Henry 
 James and Edith Wharton in their delineation of 
 the social classes. "I am afraid," remarks Paula 
 Fetherel, "of Its being a succes de scandale." This 
 French expression, the only one in "Expiation," hits 
 
DIALOGUE 199 
 
 off the taste, training and station of the chief char- 
 acter. "The Descent of Man" closes in emphasizing 
 the academic mind of Professor Linyard: "He 
 smiled and raised his hat to the passing victoria of 
 a lady in whose copy of 'The Vital Thing' he had 
 recently written : 'Labor est etiam ipsa voluptas.' " 
 In "Miss Gunton of Poughkeepsie" a speech of 
 Lady Champer concludes, "But she does nothing be- 
 fore. Tirez-vous de la!" She addresses the remark 
 to an Italian Prince, who later prefaces a speech with 
 "Dio mio!" These simple and natural departures 
 from English aid in differentiating the lady and 
 the gentleman, both of whom are contrasted with 
 Lily Gunton.* Kipling's neat inclusion of Indian 
 words contributes to local colour as well as char- 
 acterisation, and doubly therefore to verisimilitude. 
 The amateur, however, should beware of packing 
 his story with foreign diction; unless it has a real 
 purpose its value is only counterfeit. 
 
 Mr. Bates adds the qualities "convincing" and 
 "interesting" to his requirements of good dialogue. 
 If the characters under the given conditions "speak 
 in character" their speeches will be convincing. And 
 if natural dialogue, without unnecessary padding, 
 furthers the action of an interesting short-story 
 plot, the dialogue will be Interesting. Interest bars 
 tedium. The skilled dialogist bears in mind always 
 that economy which is wrought by suggestion, and 
 
 *But a step further is required to indicate a speaker whose 
 dialogue is too highly flavoured with foreign phrases. 
 
2CX) A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 by which one reads between the lines. Dialogue 
 should have a "general flavour of brightness or 
 wit" because the key of a drama or story, which 
 must be just a trifle higher than the key of the ac- 
 tion would be in real life, demands tensity and con- 
 centration. And here Stevenson's advice to the 
 young writer is most appropriate: "[Let him] 
 . . . pitch the key of conversation not with any 
 thought of how men talk in parlours, but with a 
 single eye to the degree of passion he may be called 
 on to express; and allow neither himself in the nar- 
 rative nor any character in the course of the dia- 
 logue, to utter one sentiment that is not part and 
 parcel of the business of the story or the discussion 
 of the problem involved." ^ 
 
 The growth in excellent dialogue, Mr. Archer 
 states, is one of the most apparent indications of the 
 extraordinary progress made by the drama of the 
 English language. "Tolerably well written dia- 
 logue is nowadays the rule rather than the exception. 
 Thirty years ago the idea that it was possible to 
 combine naturalness with vivacity and vigour had 
 scarcely dawned upon the playwright's mind. He 
 passed and repassed from stilted pathos to strained 
 and verbal wit (often mere punning) ; and when a 
 reformer . . . tried to come a little nearer to the 
 truth of life, he was apt to fall into babyish sim- 
 plicity or flat commonness." * Mr. Archer further 
 
 °"A Humble Remonstrance." 
 
 °"Play Making," William Archer, Boston, 1912. 
 
DIALOGUE 201 
 
 notes the reaction against long speeches and the 
 special soliloquy. 
 
 For obvious reasons the soliloquy or its equiva- 
 lent may be used to advantage in the story. The 
 soliloquy of the stage is unnatural; a normal person 
 in real life does not "talk to himself." 'And al- 
 though the convention may be granted, the soliloquy 
 detracts from verisimilitude. In the short-story, 
 however, the soliloquy is elaborated thought, not 
 necessarily expressed by a character, but given by 
 the writer as if educed or translated from the mind 
 of the character. The convention, in short, is a 
 corollary of that angle of narration by which the 
 omniscient author looks into the mind of a charac- 
 ter. If a story is told in the first person, that person 
 can "think" all he likes; no convention is needed to 
 accord him the act. The objective method, how- 
 ever, can indicate thought : a frown, a smile, a lifting 
 of the brows, — such outward signs "seem to say." 
 And, again, the more dramatic the writer, the 
 sooner will he suggest inner workings through su- 
 perficial indications. 
 
 The first use of dialogue, as suggested, is to fur- 
 ther action; the second use is to aid in portraying 
 character. This order is the order of importance in 
 the drama, in the novel and in the short-story. In 
 advancing plot action, dialogue has specific func- 
 tions. The first is to give the exposition of antece- 
 dent circumstances. This is the method which in 
 the drama is practically always employed. There 
 
202 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 is more choice as to method in the short-story. In 
 some stories, the omniscient author may summa- 
 rise; as in "A New England Nun," Mrs. Freeman 
 gives the exposition after the scene between Louisa 
 and Joe. But in other stories, the author lets the 
 characters give the exposition. In O. Henry's 
 "The Whirhgig of Life," the antecedent particulars 
 (which constitute reason for a divorce) are given in 
 the dialogue between Ransie Bilbro and his wife as 
 they stand before the justice of the peace. 
 
 "We-all," said the woman in a voice like the wind blow- 
 ing through pine boughs, "wants a divo'ce." She looked 
 at Ransie to see if he noted any flaw or ambiguity or eva- 
 sion or partiality or self-partisanship in her statement of 
 their business. 
 
 "A divo'ce," repeated Ransie, with a solemn nod. "We- 
 all can't git along together nohow. It's lonesome enough 
 fur to live in the mountin's when a man and a woman keers 
 fur one another. But when she's a-spittin' like a wildcat 
 or a-sullenin' like a hoot-owl in the cabin, a man ain't got 
 no call to live with her." 
 
 "When he's a no 'count varmint," said the woman with- 
 out any especial warmth, "a-traipsin' along of scalawags 
 and moonshiners and a-layin' on his back pizen 'ith co'n 
 whiskey, and a-pesterin' folks with a pack o' hungry, triflin' 
 houn's to feed!" 
 
 The second use of aiaiogue in furthering action 
 is to advance the business of the present. This is 
 by far the most important function. In the drama 
 
DIALOGUE 203 
 
 the main business of dialogue is with the present 
 scene; it is the vehicle for carrying out the action, 
 stage business and gesture being the accessories. 
 From the story just drawn upon, we may take also 
 an example of dialogue used to further the action. 
 After incidents important to the narrative, the de- 
 cree of divorce has been granted: 
 
 Each stood awkwardly silent, slowly folding the guar- 
 antee of freedom. The woman cast a shy glance full of 
 constraint at Ransie. 
 
 "I reckon you'll be goin' back up to the cabin," she said, 
 "along 'ith the bull-cart. There's bread in the tin box 
 settin' on the shelf. I put the bacon in the bi'lin' pot to 
 keep the hounds from gittin' it. Don't forget to wind the 
 clock to-night." 
 
 "You air a-goin' to your brother Ed's?" asked Ransie 
 with fine unconcern. 
 
 "I was 'lowin' to get along up thar afore night. I ain't 
 sayin' as they'll pester theyselves any to make me welcome, 
 but I hain't nowhar else fur to go. It's a right smart ways, 
 and I reckon I better be goin'. I'll be a-sayin' good-bye, 
 Ranse — that is, if you keer fur to say so." 
 
 "I don' know as anybody's a hound dog," said Ransie, 
 in a martyr's voice, "fur to not want to say good-bye — 'less 
 you air so anxious to git away that you don't want me to 
 say it." 
 
 Ariela was silent. She folded the five-dollar bill and her 
 decree carefully, and placed them in the bosom of her dress. 
 Benaja Widdup watched the money disappear with mourn- 
 ful eyes behind his spectacles. 
 
 And then with his next words he achieved rank (as his 
 
204 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 thoughts ran) with either the great crowd of the world's 
 sympathisers or the little crowd of its great financiers. 
 
 "Be kind o' lonesome in the old cabin to-night, Ranse," 
 he said. 
 
 Ransie Bilbro stared out at the Cumberlands, clear blue 
 now in the sunlight. He did not look at Ariela. 
 
 "I 'low it might be lonesome," he said; "but when folb 
 gits mad and wants a divo'ce, you can't make folks stay.'' 
 
 "There's others wanted a divo'ce," said Ariela, speaking 
 to the wooden stool. "Besides, nobody don't want nobody 
 to stay." 
 
 "Nobody never said they didn't." 
 
 "Nobody never said they did. I reckon I better start on 
 now to Brother Ed's." 
 
 "Nobody can't wind that old clock." 
 
 "Want me to go back along 'ith you in the cart and wind 
 it fur you, Ranse?" • 
 
 By the end of the scene Ranse and Ariela are re- 
 united. 
 
 The third way in which dialogue advances the 
 action is by preparing for the future. In this re- 
 spect it especially concerns itself with the throwing 
 out of "clues." In "The Revolt of 'Mother,'" 
 Nanny says, "We might have the wedding in the 
 new barn. Why, what makes you look so, Mother?" 
 Mrs. Penn has conceived the idea of moving into 
 the bam, — as the reader learns by subsequent events. 
 Meantime, the clue serves to heighten expectation. 
 
 In "A Charmed Life," an officer says, "The road 
 to Mayaguez is not healthy for Americans. I don't 
 
DIALOGUE 205 
 
 think I ought to let you go. The enemy does not 
 know peace is on yet, and there are a lot of guerril- 
 las. ..." A reader anticipates that the hero will 
 have trouble on the road, though Mr. Davis has 
 purposefully weakened the strong clue by saying, 
 "Chesterton shook his head in pitying wonder." 
 
 On this matter of clues, Mr. Barry Pain has ex- 
 pressed himself in an interesting manner: "You 
 must give your reader information without letting 
 him know that you are doing it. 
 
 "Suppose that at the end of your story the villain 
 is to throw the heroine down a well in the garden. 
 You may describe the well at the very beginning of 
 the story, dwelling upon its depth, its position, its 
 picturesqueness. He will say, 'This well is not here 
 for its health. Somebody will be going down it 
 directly!' 
 
 "Now information about the well can be given 
 skilfully in many ways. For instance, it is not nec- 
 essary to mention it at all. If you speak of the rust 
 from the chain in the drinking water, and describe 
 the old men coming through the garden with pails 
 of water hanging from yokes, the reader will know 
 about the well, but not know how he knows about 
 it. 
 
 "Or the well may be put in as a side issue. You 
 may speak of the beauty of the syringa bushes in 
 full bloom beside the old well. Then the reader 
 will think it's the syringa bushes you are worrying 
 about. 
 
2o6 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 "Another way is to give your reference to the well 
 in the dialogue. Let the characters talk about it, not 
 the novelist." 
 
 I have quoted at length to give the greater em- 
 phasis to the climax : Let the characters talk about 
 it. Let dialogue contain the clues. 
 
 In furthering action, it should be noted that well- 
 written dialogue aids swiftness of progression, but 
 over-abundance or plethora will retard as much as 
 masses of description or philosophy. The compensa- 
 tion is obvious : if a deliberate style is desired, such 
 fulness may be employed with discretion to gain the 
 desired effect, even at the risk of irrelevance or pad- 
 ding. Again, humour may be increased or suspensft 
 may be aided, in that action is held up while some 
 character parenthesises. 
 
 In the portrayal of character, dialogue has three 
 main functions: it reveals the character of the per' 
 son speaking, the one spoken of, and the one spoken 
 to. The principle of suggestion is again at work 
 in this use of good dialogue : every speech conveys 
 much more than it says, because of the subtle inter- 
 action of personalities. 
 
 William uttered a cry; he knew that he was struck, but 
 he was not sure how or where. He was left with a blank 
 mind and no repartee. Again he dashed from the back 
 room. 
 
 In the hall, near the front door, he came to a sudden 
 halt, and Mrs. Baxter and Jane heard him calling loudly 
 to the industrious Genesis: 
 
DIALOGUE 207 
 
 "Here! You go cut the grass in the back-yard. And 
 for heaven's sake, take that dog with you !" 
 
 "Grass awready cut roun' back," responded the amiable 
 voice of Genesis, w^hile the lawn-mower ceased not to whir. 
 "Cut all 'at back-yod 's mawnin'." 
 
 "Well, you can't cut the front-yard now. Go around in 
 the back-yard and take that dog with you." 
 
 "Nemmine 'bout 'at back-yod! Ole Clem ain' trouble 
 nobody." 
 
 "You hear what I tell you?" William shouted. "You 
 do what I say and you do it quick !" 
 
 Genesis laughed gaily. "I got my grass to cut!" 
 
 "You decline to do what I command you?" William 
 roared. 
 
 "Yes, indeedy! Who pay me my wages? 'At's my 
 boss. You' ma say, 'Genesis, you git all 'at lawn mowed b'fo 
 sundown.' No, suh! Nee'n was'e you' bref on me, 'cause 
 I'm got all my time good an' took up !" ' 
 
 This brief passage at arms between William Syl- 
 vester Baxter and his antagonist Genesis hardly car- 
 ries on the action ; it is rather an eddy in the current. 
 But the story is essentially one of character ; the boy 
 is the centre of interest. And any of the pauses in 
 the relation of how Silly Bill actually received his 
 friends are compensated for in that they reveal the 
 personality of the boy, his hopes and his dreams of 
 the lady who deigns to become his guest. 
 
 In Kipling's "A Second-Rate Woman," the dia- 
 logue between Mrs. Hauksbee and Mrs. Mallowe, 
 although having for its main purpose the exposition 
 '"At Home to His Friends," in Seventeen, by Bootli Tarkington. 
 
2o8 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 of Mrs. Delville's character, reveals the personalities 
 of the speakers. 
 
 Attending to the details of dialogue composition, 
 the author should exercise judgment in choice of 
 words used by way of explanation, or to indicate 
 stage business. The inexperienced writer relies 
 upon the word "said," even to point out that a ques- 
 tion has preceded. " 'What turned his hair blue?' 
 she said." One remedy for this trouble is to pre- 
 fer another word: asked, exclaimed, dashed in, 
 whispered, sneered, interrupted, ventured, mur- 
 mured, muttered, retorted, growled, wondered — oi* 
 another from the long list, which the student should 
 here extend for himself.^ Or, and this is the more 
 dramatic way, let the writer try to show within the 
 speech both the speaker and the manner. Fanny 
 Hurst's vivid dramatic quality owes no small part 
 of its effect to the riddance of all pointers-; and it 
 is a matter on which the author, by her own testi- 
 mony, spends time and care. 
 
 'The frequent misuse of the stock melodramatic "hiss"' prompts 
 the caution, Do not try to "hiss" a word without the s or z 
 sound. 
 
 " ' "You little fool ! What did you want to come here for, 
 then?" he hissed. Forgotten were all his traditions on lingual 
 subtlety. — Town Topics.' 
 
 "Forgotten, too, the traditions of lingual sibilance." 
 
 This brief quotation brings together the instance and the re- 
 proof; it is taken from "The Conning Tower" of The Tribune 
 (New York). Mr. F. P. Adams's pungent sarcasm and whimsical 
 irony make always for higher standards of usage both in the 
 oral and the written language. 
 
DIALOGUE 209 
 
 It is hoped that in the foregoing discussion cer- 
 tain points have been made which will prove help- 
 ful. First, to write dialogue one must understand 
 its nature; second, must realise the essential quali- 
 ties for which to strive, and, finally, must direct it to 
 certain definite ends. 
 
 Exercises for Chapter XI 
 
 Make a study of the dialogue in Anthony Hope's "The 
 Little Wretch." From the speeches of Mrs. Hilary and Mr. 
 Carter what would you judge to be the characteristics of 
 each? What do you gather of Little Johnny Tompkins? 
 Of Hilary? Put into straight narrative the story conveyed 
 by dialogue. WTiat is gained? What is lost? Are you 
 interested in the dialogue for ( i ) its exposition of preceding 
 circumstances, (2) its "present business," or (3) its fore- 
 cast of the future? 
 
 William Dean Howells says, in his "Criticism of Fiction," 
 Scott made his characters talk "as seldom man and never 
 woman talked." What characteristic is lacking? 
 
 What is the purpose of the dialogue between Markheim 
 and the dealer? Between the hangman and the criminal, 
 in "The Three Strangers," while the party is searching for 
 the latter? Among the men in "The Master," by Alice 
 Brown? between the two characters in the first scene of 
 Wallace Irwin's "The Echo"? 
 
 What is the purpose of the remarks made by "I" during 
 Camahan's recital ("The Man Who Would be King") ? 
 
 Consider the possibilities for dramatising "The Sire de 
 Maletroit's Door," "The Three Strangers," "A Day Off," 
 on the one hand, and "The Real Thing," "The Great Con- 
 dition," "Souls Belated," "The Pelican," on the other 
 
2IO A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 hand. To what conclusions are you led in regard to the 
 two general types of story? 
 
 Write a dialogue between two students. Through their 
 speeches with accompanying gesture and "business," present 
 (i) the character of the speakers, (2) some incident or 
 episode. 
 
 Two motion picture "fans" are present at a theatrical 
 performance. Write a dialogue to reveal the nature of the 
 play, and the character of the speakers, by their compari- 
 sons between the "movies" and the regular drama. 
 
 Penrod Schofield meets William Sylvester Baxter. Write 
 the dialogue that ensues. 
 
 Bernard Shaw meets William Shakespeare. Write the 
 dialogue that follows. 
 
 Two on the college tower. ( i ) Through dialogue present 
 the character of the speakers, (2) the scene from their 
 point of view. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 
 
 1. Tragedy. The office of tragedy; fear and pity two 
 members of a class; first essentials for emotional reac- 
 tion ; value of restraint ; illustrations ; tools of emotion ; 
 consideration of fear ; Foe's appeal ; his successors ; death, 
 and the maimed body; attendant circumstances; sounds; 
 curiosity provoked by disguise; consideration of pity; 
 Bret Harte ; his successors ; illustrations ; love as a mo- 
 tive ; renunciation ; situations that draw sympathy ; tragic 
 incident most real; value of technique. 
 
 2. Comedy. Cause, source, and object of laughter; su- 
 periority ; exuberance of spirits ; incongruity ; apprecia- 
 tion of humour; burlesque; requirements of burlesque 
 writer ; humour of character and situation ; illustra- 
 tions; irony; turn of tables, or boomerang; W. W. 
 Jacobs; illustrations. 
 
 I . Tragedy 
 
 "As for the proper function [of Tragedy]," said 
 Aristotle, "it is to arouse the emotions of pity and 
 fear in the audience; and to arouse this pity and 
 fear in such a way as to effect that special relief 
 of these two emotions which is the characteristic of 
 Tragedy." It is a far call from Greek dramatist 
 
212 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 and critic to twentieth century playwright and critic; 
 from the theatres of ancient Athens to those of 
 Broadway. But tragedy, with its effect upon the 
 sensibiUties, exists now as then and universally. 
 "The playwright has his audience at a distinct ad- 
 vantage.i It comes to the theatre for a definite 
 purpose, to have its emotions played upon; this 
 experience gives such exquisite delight and satisfac- 
 tion, indeed, that the average citizen is willing to 
 pay liberally for it." In the first chapter of this 
 book, art was defined with emphasis on its primary 
 function, that of moving the emotion. It matters 
 not what the emotion may be : pity and fear are but 
 two members of the general class ranging from sim- 
 plest feeling to complexes of feeling — as from mild 
 wonder to a complex of admiration, regret and pity. 
 The play, the story, the statue, the musical number, 
 any example of art may be excellent technically;' but 
 without the breath of life it is only dead matter. Art 
 begins where the "wee bit" begins, as the Russian 
 artist said, who by a touch had quickened the dead 
 work of a student. The final cause of this diver- 
 gence between the technician and the artist, 0. 
 Henry has illustrated in "The Plutonian Fire": 
 
 "Pettit brought me his returned manuscripts and we 
 looked them over to find out why they were not accepted. 
 They seemed to me pretty fair stories, written in a good 
 style, and ended, as they should, at the bottom of the last page, 
 
 ^ "The Mechanics of Emotion," by George J. Nathan and 
 George M. Cohan, McClure's, November, 1913. 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 213 
 
 "They were well constructed and the events were mar- 
 shalled in orderly and logical sequence. But I thought I 
 detected a lack of living substance — it was much as if I 
 gazed at a symmetrical array of presentable clamshells from 
 which the succulent and vital inhabitants had been re- 
 moved." 
 
 After Pettit had been advised to become better 
 acquainted with his theme, he fell in love. Under the 
 influence of his own passion, he wrote a story of 
 "sentimental drivel." There was now an overplus 
 where formerly there had been a lack. After he was 
 cured, he wrote stories just short of good enough; 
 that is, the emotional experience was not without 
 value for his creative efforts. But having observed 
 the passion of another, while he himself went heart- 
 whole, he felt he could do a great story. And he did. 
 His past experience joined to his present observation 
 and sympathy turned the trick: 
 
 "Just as though it lay there, red and bleeding, a woman's 
 heart was written into the lines. You couldn't see the join- 
 ing, but art, exquisite art, and pulsing nature had been com- 
 bined into a love story that took you by the throat like the 
 quinsy." 
 
 The author need not coldly profit by the feeling 
 of another living person as Pettit felt he had done ; 
 rather must he feel the feeling of his own creation 
 and sympathise. And this knowledge of his char- 
 acter's emotions, and his sympathy with that char- 
 acter, are the two-fold requisites, and the prime re- 
 
214 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 quisites, for seizing the reader in an emotional grip. 
 The high art of Daudet's "Last Class" consists of 
 the direct appeal made by the old French Master, 
 who after forty years of service found it necessary 
 to leave Alsace forever. 
 
 "He had the courage, however, to go on with the class to 
 the end. After the writing, we had the lesson in history; 
 then the little ones sang all together the ba, be, bi, bo, bu. 
 Yonder at the back of the room, old Hauser had put on his 
 spectacles, and holding his spelling-book in both hands, he 
 spelled out the letters with them. He, too, was visibly 
 applying himself. His voice shook with emotion, and it 
 was so funny to hear him that we all longed to laugh and 
 to cry. Ah! I shall remember that last lesson. 
 
 "Suddenly the church clock struck twelve, then the An- 
 gelus rang. At the same moment the bugles of the Prus- 
 sians returning from drill blared under our windows. M. 
 Hamel rose, pale as death from his chair. Never had he 
 seemed to me so tall. 
 
 " 'My friends,' he said, 'my friends, I — I ' 
 
 "But something suffocated him. He could not finish the 
 sentence. 
 
 "Thereupon he turned to the black-board, took a piece of 
 chalk, and, bearing on it with all his might, he wrote in the 
 largest letters he could: 
 
 '"Vive la France!' 
 
 "Then he stood there, with his head pressed against the 
 wall, and, without speaking, he motioned to us with his 
 hand: 
 
 "'That is all; go.'" 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 215 
 
 He must be a cold and callous reader who does 
 not respond to the suffering In the old Frenchman's 
 heart. That the picture is presented by Daudet 
 with restraint is the more effective. The good taste 
 by which an author lets facts speak for themselves, 
 presenting them objectively and with simplicity of 
 expression, contributes to strength of impression. 
 Dickens, who was unable to sleep because of the sor- 
 rows of Little Nell, indulges at her death in rhetori- 
 cal abandon which conveys a mawkish and senti- 
 mental feeling, rather than dignified sentiment. Re- 
 straint should characterise likewise the presentation 
 of those incidents which appeal to the sense of fear. 
 Irvin Cobb's "An Occurrence Up a Side Street" tells 
 its denouement with fine brevity and without com- 
 ment: 
 
 "She put the glass down steadily enough on the table; 
 but into her eyes came the same puzzled, baffled look that 
 his wore, and almost gently she slipped down into the chair 
 facing him. 
 
 "Then her jaw lolled a little, too, and some of the other 
 flies came buzzing toward her." 
 
 Marion Crawford in "The Dead Smile" draws a 
 charnel-house picture which in its naturalistic and 
 hideous detail surpasses melodrama. The reader 
 feels more like succumbing to the laughter of hys- 
 teria than to the shudder of revulsion as he finishes 
 the chapter wherein the skull of old Vernon Ockam 
 drops off the dead body and rolls grinning on the 
 
2i6 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 floor, wherein his son Gabriel opens the winding 
 sheet about Sir Hugh and struggles with the claw- 
 like fingers which seem to close more tightly . . . 
 "and when he pulled harder the shrunken hands and 
 arms rose from the corpse with a horrible look of 
 life following his motion." Such exaggeration, of 
 whatever tragic picture, act, or situation, strains the 
 capacity of the audience or reader for tragic effect; 
 as under-stimulation leaves the hearer indiferent, 
 over-stimulation, pushes beyond the mark to a less 
 noble reaction than the one sought. Experience the 
 emotion, but beware of loquacity! 
 
 Feeling the emotion, however, is not a warrant for 
 transmitting it to the reader. Without the technique 
 of his art the writer is handicapped. He may be 
 swayed by feeling, and yet, lacking the "tools of 
 emotion," find himself unable to sway his readers. 
 Now, playing upon the emotions is effected by me- 
 chanical devices dependent for their success upoir 
 certain psychological bases. If we are normal, we 
 are all moved by the same things. We are all 
 thrilled at the same things, "we all cry at the same 
 things, laugh at the same things, and the expedients 
 for producing thrills, laughter, and tears are so 
 artless and simple that under ordinary circumstances 
 we should indignantly repudiate the suggestion that 
 they could move us.' But the playwright knows ex- 
 actly what they are. His predecessors used them 
 over and over again ; his successors will use them to 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 217 
 
 the end of time." ^ No less than the play-producer, 
 the story writer must know his "bag of tricks" if he 
 meets with success in his appeal. He lacks the 
 stage, but in so far as his story is dramatic just so 
 far will he be able to employ dramatic methods of 
 producing mechanically the desired reaction. 
 
 Let us examine briefly the nature of Fear, the 
 one universal and uncontrollable passion, possessed 
 alike by man and the lower animals and let us ob- 
 serve the nature of the objects, characteristics and 
 situations which appeal to the sense of fear and kin- 
 dred emotions. 
 
 "Real fear," says De Maupassant, "is a sort of 
 reminiscence of fantastic terrors of the past. An en- 
 ergetic man never Is afraid in the presence of great 
 danger; he is aroused, excited, full of anxiety. But 
 fear is something quite different . . . when one is 
 brave he feels it neither under fire, nor In the pres- 
 ence of sure death, nor In the face of any well- 
 known danger." Again In commenting on the na- 
 ture of the horrible, he distinguishes It from the ter- 
 rible. "A frightful accident upsets, terrifies. In 
 order that you should experience horror, something 
 more is needed than emotion, something more than 
 the spectacle of a dreadful death; there must be a 
 shuddering sense of mystery, or a sensation of abnor- 
 mal terror more than natural." * Now, if we glance 
 at the work of the early story writers, we shall find 
 
 ' See further, "The Mechanics of Emotion," cited above. 
 •"Fear," and "The Horrible." 
 
21 8 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 that the more elementally tragic stories make their 
 appeal through the horrible, .the gruesome, the de- 
 cadent, straight to the sense of fear, with attendant 
 loathing or disgust. The act of fearing may be 
 vicarious, the reader may be afraid for some charac- 
 ter in the story only. But the horror may become 
 so real as to secure from the reader a very definite 
 personal reaction. "The Black Cat," "Berenice," 
 "The Tell-tale Heart," and "Ligeia" are examples 
 of Poe's stories which appeal through the morbid 
 and the gruesome. "The Facts in the Case of M. 
 Valdemaar," "Loss of Breath," and "A Premature 
 Burial" bring the reek of death and the stench of 
 decay too violently to the reader to harmonise with 
 dictates of good taste. "The Cask of Amontillado" 
 I regard, personally, as Poe's best tragedy. It 
 holds the reader by its recountal of inevitable and 
 awful revenge, from the initial words. The ominous 
 first sentence provokes sure expectation of impend- 
 ing doom ; the enticement of Fortunato arouses sus- 
 pense, the actual occupation of walling him up thrills; 
 the placing of the last brick compels a sense of final- 
 ity, and the re-erection of the rampart of bones 
 closes the incident. Poe creates here, as elsewhere, 
 a feeling of apprehension, and satisfies expectancy 
 by fulfilment of tragic promise. His subject is death, 
 and he runs the range: from possible death, as in 
 "A Descent into the Maelstrom" and "The Pit 
 and the Pendulum" ; through the accomplishment of 
 death, as in "The Cask," to the decay of the dead 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 219 
 
 body or its exhumation as in "Valdemaar" or "Bere- 
 nice." In his poetry he chose the nobler aspects of 
 death; he made his poetic appeal through beauty, 
 awe and mystery. But in his stories I do not recall 
 an instance of death used in any way other than to 
 thrill, to shock or to disgust. Obviously, the physi- 
 cal aspect of death in its most repellent phases is the 
 first and most important consideration for the work- 
 ing of the primitive passion of fear. 
 i Have the successors of Poe shunned his methods? 
 Is It still possible to use the devices he employed 
 without bringing an hysterical over-charge of feel- 
 ing? In general, they are still used but with a dif- 
 ference in the Active type, according as the narrative 
 may be psychologically fine or melodramatically 
 gross. The degree of skill employed in manipulat- 
 ing the devices, combined with the author's purpose, 
 determines to what type of mentality the story will 
 at last appeal. Mrs. Wharton's "The Duchess at 
 Prayer" thrills by the suggested walling up, even as 
 "The Cask" thrills ; but it emphasises motive and in- 
 terplay of character rather than the horrors of en- 
 tombment. Poe reverses the order of emphasis. 
 Marion Crawford's "The Dead Smile," which has 
 been mentioned as an extreme example of appeal to 
 the sense of fear, visualises too frightfully the loath- 
 some details of the crypt. And these two stories may 
 fitly stand as antipodal tragedies In modern story 
 writing. Thomas Bailey Aldrich satirises the melo- 
 dramatic extreme in "A Struggle for Life." De- 
 
220 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 liberately overshooting the mark in the tragic ap- 
 peal of his inner story, he puts an envelope around it 
 to explain it as the stock tale of a gentleman of liter- 
 ary proclivities, slightly demented from brooding on 
 the great American novel. 
 
 Among stories making a legitimate tragic, rather 
 than melodramatic appeal, through death and the 
 dead body, Joseph Conrad's "The Inn of the Two 
 Witches" and Irvin Cobb's "An Occurrence Up a 
 Side Street" deserve study. 
 
 Next in order to the dead body, objects address- 
 ing themselves to the sense of fear are : ghosts, the 
 maimed body, and the accessories of death. Of 
 these, the first is so important In many ways as 
 to have given vogue to a distinct type of story. It 
 is perhaps less necessary to mention specific examples 
 of the maimed body than it is to emphasise the fact 
 that best writers also use It with restraint and true 
 tragic effect. "Beyond the Pale" remains In the 
 reader's memory largely because of the two sen- 
 tences: "From the black dark, BIsesa held out her 
 arms into the moonlight. Both hands had been cut 
 off at the wrists, and the stumps were nearly healed." 
 An amateur or a sensational writer would have 
 drawn a fuller picture; Poe might have done so. 
 Kipling makes the reader draw It, and therein he is 
 the better artist. In "Because of the Dollars," Jo- 
 seph Conrad depicts a villainous character who, 
 after having caught the reader's attention with his , 
 stumps of hands, holds attention by attaching a 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 221 
 
 stone to the stumps. Later, he tests the efficacy of 
 the arrangement by attempting murder. Katherine 
 FuUerton Gerould employs a maltreated body in 
 "Vain Oblations," one of the secrets of whose draw- 
 ing power is the physically horrible In connection 
 with consummately artistic treatment. 
 
 Accessories of death serve various purposes, from 
 arousing the reader's expectancy, as the trowel in 
 "The Cask" whets it, to aiding verisimilitude, as 
 the swathing bandages In "Ligeia" help to create the 
 picture. In "The Pit and the Pendulum" the de- 
 scending axe and all the Inquisitional traps are sug- 
 gestive of death. In "An Occurrence" Irvin Cobb 
 makes a significant tool out of a steel hat pin, and 
 he holds the breath of his reader until the tool is 
 effective. In Cynthia Stockley's "The Molmeit of 
 the Mountain," the whetting of the knife makes the 
 reader run hot and cold. And knife-whetting has 
 thrilled the playhouse audience since Shylock's case 
 in court. In Hardy's "The Three Strangers," the 
 suggestion of death In the person of the hangman is 
 so strong as to hold the reader spellbound. 
 ; Among other exciting forces may be mentioned 
 signs and omens. Thirteen at table, an Instance of 
 hypnotism, a witch's prophecy, a curse, an object 
 that has had a spell put upon It, crystal gazing — all 
 appeal to the reader's superstition, either active or 
 dormant, which awaits the fulfilment of the omen or 
 the working of the spell. Coningsby Dawson's "The 
 Poison Word" employs the number thirteen at the 
 
222 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 foundation of the tragic narrative; Richard Mid- 
 dleton's "The Coffin Agent" rests its case on hypno- 
 tism in connection with the accessory of death. 
 
 In addition to the list of objects the nature of 
 which induces fear, and the student should complete 
 the list for himself, certain attendant circumstances 
 aid or intensify the effect. Darkness, lightning, 
 thunder and rain, for example, are the conventional 
 accompaniment of crime, ghosts, grave-robbing and 
 wizard demonstrations. The omission of the con- 
 vention may be made for a preferred contrast, which 
 heightens by its more novel use. "On the Brighton 
 Ro,ad" ends in a startlingly original manner, but pre- 
 fers the conventional darkness for the ghostly visi- 
 tation : 
 
 "It was dark when he woke, and started trudging once 
 more through the slushy roads. 
 
 "Two miles beyond Reigate a figure, a fragile figure, 
 slipped out of the darkness to meet him. 
 
 " 'On the road, guv'nor?' said a husky voice. 'Then I'll 
 come a bit of the way with you if you don't walk too fast. 
 It's a bit lonesome walking this time of day.' 
 
 " 'But the pneumonia !' cried the tramp aghast. 
 
 " 'I died at Crawley this morning,' said the boy." 
 
 The ghosts in "The Turn of the Screw," how- 
 ever, appear in broad daylight, startling the reader 
 Into accepting their ghostships. 
 
 Of sounds which contribute to agitate the reader 
 there are varieties: habitual and unexpected, low 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 223 
 
 and high, soft and shrill. The stories of Irving 
 which most grip the average youngster are not "Rip" 
 and "The Legend," but "Dolph Heyliger's Ghost" 
 and "The Student of Salamanca." The auto da 
 fe probability in the latter romance whets the ap- 
 petite of the young savage; the "tramp, tramp, 
 tramp" of Dolph's ghost pleasantly "scares" him, 
 as does the tapping of the blind man's cane in Ste- 
 venson's "Treasure Island." Tramping and tapping 
 have a climax in knocking. And as the porter dis- 
 turbed Macbeth and his Lady, so did the jovial gen- 
 tleman break in upon the security of Markheim. By 
 its direct appeal any sound is probably more eftpc- 
 tive on the stage than it can be in a story where it 
 must work indirectly. But the representation is pro- 
 portionately as valuable for the story as the actual 
 sound, is for the stage. Marion Crawford's "The 
 Screaming Skull" illustrates the fact that even in 
 the story the effect of a represented cry may ap- 
 proach that of the real. 
 
 The writer should find the fit and apt detail, as 
 a curiosity inciting force, to Integrate with his major 
 cause of tragic excitement. For example, disguise 
 in any form is as old as the Greeks. In connec- 
 tion with the marred or disfigured face, a mask 
 has often provoked curiosity. Hawthorne wrote 
 a masterpiece In "The Minister's Black Veil" ; Mrs. 
 Gerould has employed swathing muslins with fine 
 restraint in "The Toad and the Jewel." 
 
 In thus briefly calling attention to the objects and 
 
224 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 attendant conditions which appeal to the sense of 
 fear, it is to be understood that the present writer 
 recommends not one of them unless the student 
 wishes to excite, to horrify, to hold the reader's 
 breath, or to make him shudder In revulsion. If he 
 does wish such an effect, he must go boldly to these 
 or to their kindred. But the appeal to fear and 
 similar emotions is less noble than the appeal to pity 
 and related emotions; and after understanding the 
 operation of the more primitive elements, the student 
 will do better to work for the effect which is created 
 by a more laudable purpose. 
 
 As was illustrated by way of introduction to this 
 chapter, tragic objects, characteristics, and situa- 
 tions may invoke also pity or compassion. The 
 difference in reaction arises from different treatment, 
 with emphasis on particulars and combinations not 
 found in the grosser appeal. The entire motivation 
 is different; the whole purpose of the author is di- 
 rected to another end. For example, let us take 
 death, which we placed first as a fear-producing 
 agent. Just as certain aspects address themselves to 
 fear, loathing or disgust, so other aspects or treat- 
 ment may "purge the emotions" in the best sense 
 of the term. Working historically, we began with 
 Poe and ended with contemporary writers, to Illus- 
 trate the employment of the horrible. In like man- 
 ner let us begin with the first short-story writer who 
 elicited tears from his readers. "The Luck of Roar- 
 ing Camp" has been called the most popular short- 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 22s 
 
 story ever written. It has the elements which solicit 
 universal sympathy: it opens with the death of an 
 outcast woman and the birth of the Luck; it closes 
 with the death of the Luck and his best friend. Be- 
 tween beginning and end the author "plays up" the 
 contrast between the child and his rough surround- 
 ings, shows his influence on the miners, his quaint 
 lovableness, and illustrates anew that "A little child 
 shall lead them." Three deaths set the pathetic ele- 
 ment uppermost; but sympathy and tenderness first 
 had to be aroused, else the deaths would have been 
 mere uncanny facts. So in "Tennessee's Partner" 
 the love and grief of the Partner find an answering 
 chord in the heart of the reader. So in "The Out- 
 casts" the despair of the party compels pity, as the 
 death of Oakhurst moves the reader to regret and 
 something akin to admiration. 
 
 When is death the saddest thing? Poe asked and 
 answered in "The Philosophy of Composition." 
 When a bereft one is left to mourn, he thought. The 
 partner mourns Tennessee, and the Innocent re- 
 mains to mourn Piney. QuIUer-Couch's "The Drawn 
 Blind" makes its impress through the mother left 
 solitary by the execution of her only son. "La 
 Mere Sauvage" employs the same family relation. 
 The grief of the mother for the son is as old in 
 story as the sorrow of Mary; the grief of the father 
 for the son is found in the tale of David and Absa- 
 lom; the grief of father for daughter is poignant in 
 the story of Jephtha. Such instances are universal in 
 
226 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 time and place. But there may be other answers to 
 the question, When is death the saddest thing? And 
 if the writer can find a novel instance of what to 
 him seems saddest, he is far on his way to the read- 
 er's sympathy. Death after renunciation of some 
 ideal or dream, death of an innocent person sup- 
 posed guilty, and other answers have found exem- 
 plification in short-stories. Irvin Cobb's "The Exit 
 of Anse Dugmore" and Elizabeth Jordan's "The 
 Comforter" are among recent stories which should 
 be studied for the treatment of tragic character and 
 situation, making their appeal to pity. 
 
 Love, as a motive, may prompt a person to lay 
 down his life, to suffer life-long imprisonment, to 
 renounce something for another's sake. "The Sub- 
 stitute," by Coppee, illustrates the statement, 
 "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man 
 lay down his life for his friend." "The Bunker 
 Mouse," by Frederick Stuart Greene, presents a 
 derelict redeeming his past in saving the life of his 
 daughter's husband; Bret Harte's "Miggles" de- 
 votes her own life to taking care of the wreck of a 
 man. Connolly's "The Trawler" and Norman Dun- 
 can's "The Last Shot in the Locker" present ad- 
 mirable examples of death from sacrifice; the hero 
 in each story voluntarily transferred his own cloth- 
 ing to another and In so doing gave up his own life. 
 The latter story presents with grim realism a pic- 
 ture of men freezing solid on the Ice fields off Labra- 
 dor. Old Jonathan fights to save the life of Toby, 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 227 
 
 his grandson. As a last resort, he calls the nar- 
 rator, Tumm. 
 
 "Heed me, Tumm. An' mark well what I says. I 'low 
 a dead man's clothes would be cold an' damp anyhow. The 
 lad needs a shift o' warm clothes. An' I'm warm, Tumm. 
 An' my underclothes is dry. I been warm an' dry all day 
 long, an' wonderful strong an' wakeful, too, with the fear 
 0' losin' Toby. I'll jus' go away a little piece an' lie down 
 an' die. I'm tired an' dull. It won't take long. An' you'll 
 strip me, Tumm, while I'm still warm." 
 
 "It might do," says I. 
 
 " 'Tis the only sensible thing t' do." 
 
 "Nothin' else t' do?" 
 
 "No ; nothin' else t' do that I can think of right now." 
 
 I couldn't think o' nothin' else t' do. 
 
 " 'Tis hard for you, Jonathan," says I. 
 
 "Oh, no!" saj^s he. "I don't mind." 
 
 "Then make haste," says I. 
 
 "Don't waste no heat," says he. "Fetch Toby alongside 
 jus' as soon as I'm gone an' strip me afore I'm cold." 
 
 "Ay," says I. "That's a good idea." 
 
 "An' you keep Toby alive somehow, Tumm," says he, 
 "God help you!" 
 
 "I will." 
 
 Jonathan moved away. 
 
 "Watch where I goes," says he. "Don't lose me. I 
 won't be far." 
 
 An' then Toby: 
 
 "Where you goin', gran 'pa?" says he. 
 
 Jonathan stopped dead. He turned. An' he made back 
 toward Toby. An' then he stopped dead again. 
 
228 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 "I'm jus' goln' t' look for somethin'," says he. 
 
 "What you goin' t' look for?" 
 
 "I'm goin' t' find a shift o' warm clothes for you." 
 
 "A dead man, gran'pa?" 
 
 "Ay; a dead man." 
 
 "Don't be long," says Toby. "I'll miss you." 
 
 "I'm glad o' that," says Jonathan. 
 
 "You might get lost in the snow," says Toby. "Hurry 
 up. I'll wait here." 
 
 "I'll be back jus' as quick as I'm able," says Jonathan. 
 "You wait here, Toby, an' mind Mister Tumm, won't 
 you, while I'm gone?" 
 
 "Ay, sir. An' I'll keep movin' jus' the same as if you 
 was here. Hurry up." 
 
 By an' by, when I thought 'twas time, I went t' where 
 Jonathan was lyin'. 
 
 "Is you dead?" says I. 
 
 "Not yet," says he. "Come back in a few minutes." 
 
 Pretty soon I went back. 
 
 "Is you dead?" says I. 
 
 "Not yet," says he. "I'm makin' poor work of it." 
 
 An' I went once more. 
 
 "Is you dead?" 
 
 "I'm goin' fast." 
 
 An' yet again. 
 
 "Is you dead?" 
 
 An' he was dead. 
 
 'Twas worth doin'. It saved Toby Farr alive from that 
 gale. 'Twas no easy thing t' clothe un anew in the wind — 
 him weepin' for his dead gran'pa an' wantin' t' lie down an' 
 die by hjs side. Newf'un'land-born. an' used t' weather, he 
 lived through the night. 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 229 
 
 An' when Cap'n Saul gathered the dead from the ice in 
 the quiet weather o' the nex' mornin' the lad was carried 
 aboard an' stowed away, frostbit in a sad way,, yet bound 
 t' hang on t' life. He said never a word about his gran'pa 
 then. Nor did he weep any more. Nor did he ask me any 
 questions. But he brooded. An' I wondered what he was 
 thinkin' so deep about. 
 
 An' then we put into port — flag at half-mast an' a hun- 
 dred an' twenty-one men piled for'ard like cordwood. An' 
 Toby Farr come on deck, clad in his gran'pa's clothes, an' 
 watched the dead go ashore until his gran'pa went by, 
 wrapped in a union jack. 
 
 "Mister Tumm!" says he. 
 
 "Ay, Toby?" 
 
 "Did my gran'oa gimme his clothes?" 
 
 "He did." 
 
 "I'll be worthy !" says he. 
 
 An' he've growed up since then. An' he is worthy.* 
 
 Renunciation whether of life, of worldly goods, 
 love, or revenge, though of ancient origin is not 
 fossilised for purposes of fiction. It is coeternal 
 with life, and whatever associates itself with life 
 offers possible material for literature. In "A 
 White Heron," Sylvia gives up the sum of ten dol- 
 lars — to her a small fortune — rather than betray the 
 white heron. In "Patches," ^ a "wretched human" 
 refuses a thousand dollars for his wretched beast. 
 This story found high place in a contest, doubtless 
 
 'This selection occurs, with certain changes, in Chapter XLI of 
 "Billy Topsail, M.D.," Fleming H. Revell Company. 
 'F. E. Norris, Life, September 9, 1915. 
 
230 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 because of the universal appeal made by the re- 
 nunciation. Such appeal strikes a chord of admira- 
 tion, because in a struggle between two ends the 
 character has chosen the worthier. "Christmas Eve 
 on Lonesome" first stirs the reader to fear, then to 
 pity for Buck, who refrains from shooting Jim. 
 Buck renounces revenge for the sake of the wife and 
 child. The heroine of Miss Jewett's "Marsh Rose- 
 mary" gives up her husband to the second wife, 
 without letting either know that she has viewed the 
 family scene from her post outside the window. The 
 Enoch Arden situation rarely fails to elicit sympathy. 
 The maimed body also becomes a cause for pity 
 when found in conjunction with bravery and fineness 
 of character, and when emphasis is placed on the 
 irony of the contrast. "The Body and Soul of Miss 
 Azulay" is a worthy attempt of Leonard Merrick 
 to stir the reader through this contrast. Charac- 
 ters otherwise moving to pity are victims of mis- 
 understanding or circumstance, of unrequited love, 
 of false systems of justice ; characters who are brave 
 under declining power. And It must be remembered 
 that pity is closely akin to admiration, regret, love 
 and kindred emotions. "The Regent's Wager," for 
 example, presents an instance of death occurring 
 when It might have been prevented. "Oh, the pity 
 of It !" the reader exclaims, but perhaps the strongest 
 element In the "feeling complex" Is that of unavail- 
 ing regret. When Mere Sauvage stands against the 
 burning ruins of her house, to be riddled by Prus- 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 231 
 
 slan bullets, the reader admires her superb Indiffer- 
 ence to death as he was shocked at her cremation 
 of the soldiers. In all likelihood he feels no pity, 
 sheds no tears. 
 
 In striving for emotional reaction, the author 
 needs to ask himself, "What moves me most?" For 
 if he Is affected by a cause in actual life different 
 from these in representations of life the chances are 
 in favour of his handling It to better advantage. He 
 may, for example, feel that "The Luck of Roaring 
 Camp" has too much of the Dickens sort of senti- 
 ment; that it has overshot Its mark. He may be 
 moved, rather, by a situation in v?hich some char- 
 acter receives reward after hardship or adherence 
 to duty, a good example of which is found in Richard 
 Harding Davis's "The Consul." To move men In 
 the greatest degree, the author must use tragic in- 
 cident. "Under the scheme of the universe it is the 
 tragic things that seem most real," writes Melville 
 Davisson Post; "Things pleasing and comfortable do 
 not strike us with the same emotions of pity and 
 fear as do things terrible and tragic. Moreover, as 
 Talne says, we must deal with tragic incidents to 
 produce our greatest effects, because It Is the tragic 
 incident that epitomises life." 
 
 Having decided, then, what moves himself most, 
 or what he believes to have the most nearly universal 
 appeal, the author should gather such attendant con- 
 ditions and motivations as will strengthen the ap- 
 peal of his concrete choice. Nor should he forget 
 
232 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 that he must address himself to the Intellect In or- 
 der to reach the emotion. Unless the reader "be- 
 lieves" or Is convinced of the truth of what he reads, 
 It cannot move him greatly. And, finally, It must be 
 admitted that having striven through his own feel- 
 ing, the feelings of his characters, and through em- 
 ployment of all technical "tools of emotion," the 
 writer may not quite succeed. He may achieve 
 technical correctness, and fall short of the "con- 
 tagion" or ignition which takes places only when he 
 discovers the wee bit of under- or over-emphasis, and 
 evaluates correctly t^e Infinitely minute degrees. 
 Otherwise, he may Interest by his skill, but he does 
 not move. The value of teaching art, — ^the technique 
 of an art, — Is that It places an Instrument in a man's 
 hand which he may use nobly when the time comes. 
 A good Instance may be adduced from Turgenev's 
 "Nobleman's Nest." Old Lemm, a German musi- 
 cian and teacher, plays technically well — he does not 
 more. One night, under the influence of a strong 
 unselfish emotion in the happiness of the lovers, 
 into which his fondness for Lisa has given him In- 
 sight, he plays in a way that moves his unsuspected 
 hearer to rapture. But If he had not first known 
 the use of his instrument, how could he have ex- 
 pressed his emotion? 
 
 2. Comedy 
 
 Why do we laugh, at what, and when? The an- 
 swers of psychologists and philosophers to these 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 233 
 
 and similar questions bear information pertinent to 
 the writer of fiction. For although analysis of the 
 comic appeal offers small constructive help, yet it 
 may at least suggest a channel into which a writer's 
 spirits may find outlet. "Sudden glory," says 
 Hobbes,® "is the passion which maketh those grim- 
 aces called laughter; and is caused either by some 
 sudden act of men, that pleaseth them; or by the 
 apprehension of some deformed thing in another, 
 by comparison whereof they suddenly applaud 
 themselves." That is to say, men laugh from the 
 feeling of superiority. Bergson, separated by three 
 hundred years from Hobbes, declares that the ridicu- 
 lous is present where the automatic is detected in the 
 flexible spirit of the living." The divergence in the 
 cause for laughter argues for greater charity in the 
 twentieth century; but the feeling of superiority is 
 still a condition.'^ An inferiority not native to the 
 object causes laughter from the superior observer. 
 Boris Sidis, in his "Psychology of Laughter," dis- 
 cusses at length the nature of the ludicrous. "We 
 laugh at others when we find them wanting. . . . 
 What is not customary, is not usual, is laughed at 
 . . . old worn out ideals, beliefs, are subject for 
 laughter. Whenever we can prick a vital point in 
 our neighbour . . . there we find the ludicrous. 
 . . . We laugh because we feel superior." 
 
 Addison asserts that laughter is an elation arising 
 in man, from his comparing himself with an object 
 
 '"Leviathan," Part I, Ch. vi. 'And see appendix. 
 
234 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 below him, whether It be a natural or an artificial 
 fool. From Addison to Stephen Leacock, whose 
 essay on humour the student should read, English 
 humourists grant that superiority Is a first condition 
 for laughter. 
 
 But not all superior persons laugh : exuberance of 
 spirits is necessary to Its expression. We laugh in 
 play; the play instinct must be dominant. And, 
 finally, as superiority is a condition, and exuberance 
 of energy the source, so some element of incongruity 
 must effect the release of energy. The Incongruous 
 Is everywhere ; but not every one can see It, or make 
 another see it. If the foregoing things are true, the 
 statement of George Eliot that a difference In the 
 appreciation of humour Is a strain on the affections 
 Is easy to rationalise. Not all persons are superior 
 or superior In equal degree; not all are accustomed 
 to the same things; not all simultaneously see cer- 
 tain beliefs outworn; not all have the same exuber- 
 ance of spirits. Humour varies from horse play to 
 subtle humouristlcs ; the extremes of the scale are not, 
 however, common to everybody. An appeal to hu- 
 mour, therefore, Is one of the best means of find- 
 ing what a person Is by finding what he likes. High- 
 est humour delights in the ludicrous only when sym- 
 pathy Is present with the inferior object or persons 
 ridiculed. The laughter In humour, then, acts as a 
 relief to the emotions In the way described by Aris- 
 totle In the case of tragedy; it establishes a ground 
 of human sympathy. 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 235 
 
 Among the forms of humour, burlesque is unique 
 in that it imitates for the purpose of deriding. It, 
 therefore, finds easy operation in the mimicry of 
 art as opposed to the imitation of nature. The crea- 
 tive ability of the art-Imitator need not be so great 
 as that of the one who selects from life itself the 
 laughable and holds It up to ridicule in some original 
 example of his own; but if he creates a high order 
 of burlesque, he will find appreciation by those who 
 read and think. For example, only a person who 
 has read Omar's "Rubalyat" and felt its unique 
 quality in matter and manner will care a whit about 
 the imitation. Who that has not read "Jane Eyre" 
 would laugh over Bret Harte's "Miss Mix"? If 
 the reader of Stephen Leacock's "Hero in Home- 
 spun" is by any chance unfamiliar with the outworn 
 story of the country boy who has come to the city 
 a-seeking his fortune, he will not appreciate its 
 broad humour : 
 
 "All that day and the next Hezekiah looked for work. 
 "A Wall Street firm had advertised for a stenographer. 
 " 'Can you write shorthand ?' they said. 
 " 'No,' said the boy in homespun, 'but I can try.' 
 ". . . The Waldorf-Astoria was in need of a chef. 
 "Hezekiah applied for the place. 
 " 'Can you cook ?' they said. 
 
 " 'No,' said Hezekiah, 'but, oh, sir, give me a trial, give 
 me an egg and let me try — I will try so hard.' " 
 
 For the writer to create effective burlesque stories, 
 he must keep a prospective eye on his audience ; fur- 
 
236 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 ther, he must himself have keen appreciation of the 
 fact that a particular type has been overworked, or 
 that it is absurd in one or more particulars; then 
 he must exaggerate those absurdities or salient char- 
 acteristics, that he may reveal them to the reader as 
 unmistakably outworn. 
 
 The creative humourist goes directly to life itself, 
 rather than to the created work of another, finding 
 his material in characters and situations. Humour 
 of character is distinct from humour of situation, 
 but the two usually walk hand in hand. For in- 
 stance, brogue or dialect is an indication that the 
 person using it has not adapted himself to the speech 
 standard: he is so far inferior, from the point of 
 view of one who adheres to a known standard. If 
 the dialect speaker, then, is placed in a situation 
 where by contrast his deficiency is notably incongru- 
 ous, the opportunity is good for humorous effect. 
 Almost any story of negro dialect illustrates the 
 truth of this statement. Likewise, persons and things 
 of important and solemn aspect shown to be really 
 unimportant, for example, the hypocrite, are sub- 
 jects for laughter. Booth Tarkington has treated 
 with justice the affected clergyman in the person of 
 Mr. Kinosling. First, his preciosity is attacked in the 
 situation which represents him as being presented 
 to Penrod: 
 
 " 'How do you do, my little lad,' said Mr. Kinosling, 'I 
 trust we shall become fast friends.' 
 
 "To the ear of his little lad, it seemed he said, 'A trost 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 237 
 
 we shall bick-home fawst frainds.' Mr. Kinosling's pro- 
 nunciation was, in fact, slightly precious. . . ." 
 
 Later, his vanity of person display itself : 
 
 ..." 'Yes, for me a book, a volume in the hand, held 
 lightly between the fingers.' 
 
 "Mr. Kinosling looked pleasantly at his fingers as he 
 spoke, waving his hand in a curving gesture which brought 
 it into the light of a window faintly illumined from the 
 interior of the house." . . . 
 
 Later, still, his vanity of accomplishment finds an 
 outlet in his recitation of Longfellow's poems. The 
 climax of the travesty arrives with his request for 
 his "bowler hat," which he places, besmeared with 
 tar, upon his head. The unexpected situation re- 
 duces his seeming superiority to a helplessness where- 
 at the reader, as well as Penrod, rejoices: 
 
 To the humour of characterisation, irony fre- 
 quently contributes a large fund. If the butt of 
 irony is unconscious of the irony, the greater the 
 chances for success with the forces of ridicule. The 
 immortal deliciousness of Dogberry lies in his words : 
 "Oh, that he were here to write me down an ass ! 
 But, masters, remember that I am an ass; though 
 it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an 
 ass." The man who is pretentious, conceited, arro- 
 gant, foolish, shallow or vain is the man whom the 
 humorous writer may safely use as a target for 
 the shafts of ridicule. 
 
 The situation, it will be noticed, for reducing the 
 
238 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 superior person to an inferior position, usually con- 
 sists of some turn of the tables. "He fell into the 
 pit he dug for some one else," "The fooler was 
 fooled," "The biter was bit," "They got the best of 
 him," — these and other colloquial expressions con- 
 note some situation which has a possible comic de- 
 velopment. 
 
 It is easy to reduce to formula plans for certain of 
 the instances falling under the general change of for- 
 tune type. A is defiant of B (B may be A's wife, or 
 his enemy, or his employer, — a school-boy enemy, 
 more definitely) . A waxes loud in threats against 
 B — when B is absent. When B appears, A draws 
 back in terror, or meekness. Then B will execute 
 what A threatened. Or A may plan to trick B, but 
 be tricked in turn or even before he has carried 
 out his plan. An illustration from the short-story 
 field is Jacobs's "The Changeling." The case of 
 George Henshaw Is not extreme ; one knows he never 
 would pursue violent measures with Mrs. Henshaw. 
 But his failure to deceive her becomes the more 
 laughable because of his hurried retreat. He shows 
 himself inferior. When Mrs. Henshaw ultimately 
 turns the tables against him, she draws another 
 laugh from the reader. Mr. Jacobs has so leavened 
 his characters that although the humour for the 
 reader arises out of a situation wherein the man was 
 worsted, yet sympathy Is with the man. Most of 
 this author's situations may be reduced, in the final 
 analysis, to some instance of turning the tables, or 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 239 
 
 some unexpected recoil of the boomerang. "Law- 
 yer Quince," "Back to Back," "The Weaker Ves- 
 sel," "The Love Knot," "The Lady of the Barge," 
 "The Golden Venture," — these all exemplify it in 
 marked degree. Meredith's "The Case of General 
 Ople and Lady Camper," in its gradual shifting of 
 the balance of power from the general to the lady 
 is an instance, in high comedy, of turning the tables. 
 In Bret Harte's "Colonel Starbottle for the Plain- 
 tiff," the chief source of satisfaction is in the turning 
 of the tables against Adoniram Hotchkiss. A dea- 
 con is, in his way, a superior person ; his condescend- 
 ing to mark passages of scripture by way of love- 
 making marks him as really inferior. The incon- 
 gruity is pronounced. Likewise the incongruity be- 
 tween the Colonel's impassioned manner and his 
 ludicrous appearance as he demonstrates the inter- 
 esting features of his argument is a cause for mirth. 
 One of the best contemporary examples of boomer- 
 ang recoil is Irvin Cobb's "The Undoing of Stone- 
 wall Jackson Bugg." 
 
 Any author not wholly lacking in a sense of hu- 
 mour can devise humorous situations. If he can 
 reach the feeling of giupg riority, and release laughter 
 by some incongruity, he has learned the trick of pro- 
 ducing fun. And there's the rub. 
 
240 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Exercises for Chapter XIl 
 
 What is the emotional appeal in the following stories: 
 Wells's "The Cone," Morris's "The Claws of the Tiger," 
 Duncan's "Romance of Whooping Harbour," Hawthorne's 
 "The Snow Image," K. F. Gerould's "The Eighty-third," 
 Mary E. W. Freeman's "Big Sister Solly," Gordon A. 
 Smith's "The End of the Road," Richard H. Davis's "The 
 Derelict," Phyllis Bottome's "The Derelict," Neil Lyons's 
 "Love in a Mist," Mary R. S. Andrews's "The Colors," 
 Hetty Hemenway's "Four Days," W. M. Garshin's "Four 
 Days"? 
 
 How does Artzibashef emphasise the horror in "Nina"? 
 
 Study "The Fall of the House of Usher" for the dupli- 
 cation of sound effect in the falling of the shield, " 'which 
 in sooth tarried not for his full coming, but fell down at 
 his feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty great and ter- 
 rible ringing sound,' " and the "hollow, metallic and 
 clangorous, yet apparently mufiled reverberation." 
 
 Study Chekov's "The Death of an Official" for a bal- 
 ance of pathos and satire. Which, for you, predominates? 
 
 What in J. C. Harris's "Tar Baby" gives greatest satis- 
 faction ? 
 
 In the following stories study the cause for smile or 
 laugh. Is the humour in character, situation, or both? In 
 which stories is burlesque used? farce? Notice whether 
 the subject for laughter is one of human folly, stupidity, 
 arrogance, absurdity, ignorance, conceit, or vanity. In 
 which stories do you find clumsiness, awkwardness or re- 
 straint used as the motivation for laughter In all the sto- 
 ries is there an element of novelty without which the hu- 
 morous would be absent.'' In how many is there an ele- 
 
THE EMOTIONAL ELEMENT 241 
 
 ment of inferiority compared with which the conscious 
 superiority of the reader forms one of the reasons for 
 laughter? Do you notice examples of the incongruous? In 
 how many do you find the significant in conjunction with 
 the insignificant? the noble with the ignoble? the important 
 with the trivial? Is the reader made to sympathise with 
 the inferior object? Does dialect contribute to humour? 
 
 Mark Twain's "The Jumping Frog," Bret Harte's 
 "Prosper's Old Mother," and "Colonel Starbottle for the 
 Plainti£E," Frank Stockton's "The Christmas Wreck," Miss 
 Jewett's "The News from Petersham," "Fame's Little 
 Day," and "The Dulham Ladies," H. C. Bunner's "Love 
 Letters of Smith," Julian Street's "In Need of Change," 
 Howard Brubaker's "Intemperate Zone." 
 
 What is the logic of the ludicrous in T. B. Aldrich's 
 "A Struggle for Life"? In Josephine D. D. Bacon's "The 
 Madness of Philip"? Richard H. Davis's "Billy and the 
 Big Stick"? Stephen Leacock's "The Snoopopaths" ? 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 LOCAL COLOUR AND ATMOSPHERE 
 
 1. Local Colour. Definition; range; authors; error of 
 
 over-emphasis; O. Henry; best manifestation of local 
 colour; examples; identity of the masters with definite 
 locale; the search for local colour and the value of 
 imagination; Irvin Cobb's emphasis on first-hand knowl- 
 edge; exceptions. 
 
 2. Atmosphere. Confusion with local colour; comparison 
 
 with physical atmosphere; range; discussion of relation 
 with local colour; illustrations, divergence; illustrations, 
 harmony; range of atmospheric effects for "atmosphere 
 story" ; best type for experimentation ; a note on sub- 
 jectivity, its bearing on atmosphere; subordination of 
 other elements to atmosphere in "The Fall of the House 
 of Usher"; supreme importance of diction. 
 
 /. Local Colour 
 
 From everyday exposure the term "local colour" 
 has paled to dim metaphor, and is therefore self- 
 explanatory. In order, however, to consider briefly 
 its technical significance, we may do well to keep in 
 mind that it is the detailed representation of charac- 
 teristic features, such as manners, dress, dialect, 
 scenery, and the like, of a particular time and place. 
 
 242 
 
LOCAL COLOUR AND ATMOSPHERE 243 
 
 The object of its use in fiction is to secure an impres- 
 sion of verisimilitude or reality. Local colour in 
 the story may range from slightest hint of year, 
 month or day and an implied setting, to an accumu- 
 lation of detail which dominates other elements. It 
 may be found as an "elusive tincture of affairs" or 
 as the most pronounced feature. 
 
 Authors of the distinctive local colour story can 
 be classified easily by their districts; "like wheat or 
 apples," as Mr. Canby suggests.^ Bret Harte was 
 the first of the conte writers to bring into service 
 time and setting as an integral and integrative de- 
 tail of his narrative. George W. Cable, for Creole 
 New Orleans, Miss Murfree for the Tennessee 
 Mountains, Thomas Nelson Page for Virginia, Miss 
 Jewett and Mrs. Freeman for New England, Hamlin 
 Garland for the Middle West — these, after Bret 
 Harte, are the chief leaders of the school. "And a 
 general exploitation of dialects, customs, scenery, 
 the rags, tatters, waifs, strays, and left-behinds of 
 civilisation generally, accompanied these finer ex- 
 amples." Too many followers who emphasised set- 
 ting at the expense of action made the mistake of 
 assuming that a clever handling of local colour con- 
 notes excellence in narrative. Descriptions of peo- 
 ple and places do not make a story ; scenes elaborated 
 carefully with respect to dialect, dress and other in- 
 signia of local colour may contribute only to spec- 
 tacle. A stage may be well set and peopled but with- 
 '"A Study of the Short-Story," Henry Holt, 1913. 
 
244 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 out dramatic action there is no play. Peculiar cus- 
 toms, superstitions, ways of dressing and ways of 
 speaking are undoubtedly accessory to the truth and 
 interest of the narrative, because of the close rela- 
 tionship between character and environment. But the 
 author must take care that through their embellishing 
 office he does not hide his essential struggle or com- 
 plication. O. Henry, who has been lauded for his 
 skill in handling local colour, saw that it did not pre- 
 dominate. "Just change Twenty-third Street in one 
 of my New York stories to Main Street; rub out the 
 Flatiron Building, and put in the town hall, and the 
 story will fit just as truly in any up-state town. At 
 least I hope this can be said." 
 
 In its best manifestation, local colour should be 
 so unobtrusive, so skilfully handled that the reader 
 will fail to notice it as an entity or to feel it as a 
 distinct presence. But on reflection he should ob- 
 serve that nowhere else than in the given place and 
 time would the action seem quite so fitting and 
 natural. The action of the so-called local colour 
 story would occur, probably, nowhere other than in 
 the recorded setting. "The Outcasts of Poker Flat" 
 would lose its value if time and place were changed; 
 "The Lady of the Barge" could have its action no- 
 where but on the Thames in recent years. Take 
 away the New England element from any one of 
 Mrs. Freeman's earlier stories, and you depress the 
 value of the remainder. Of historic value for their 
 locale are the stories in Professor Matthews's "Out- 
 
LOCAL COLOUR AND ATMOSPHERE 245 
 
 lines in Local Colour" and "Vignettes of Manhat- 
 tan." 
 
 Besides bearing in mind the cautions relative to 
 overloading, the amateur also must know that the 
 master who identifies himself with a given locale 
 does not secure local colour by chance acquaintance. 
 If an author represents a people faithfully and ac- 
 curately in story after story to the degree that his 
 name is well-nigh symbolic of a country at a certain 
 period, he must live among the people. Kipling on 
 a visit to India for the purpose of "picking up" story 
 material never could have imbued with the essence 
 of time and place his "Plain Tales," "Life's Handi- 
 cap," and "Under the Deodars." To Kipling the 
 Indians were "Mine Own People" : 
 
 "I have eaten your bread and salt, 
 
 I have drunk your water and wine; 
 The deaths ye died I have watched beside, 
 And the lives that ye led were mine." 
 
 I do not mean to say that one or two good stories 
 may not be written by a writer who experiences a 
 place temporarily or even ephemerally. He will not 
 be identified with the place, however, except under 
 the conditions laid down. And if he makes a pil- 
 grimage for the purpose of studying peoples and 
 places, let him be wary of preconceived opinions and 
 of observations that mislead. O. Henry's "A Little 
 Local Colour" presents a quest which came to grief 
 because of the unlooked-for reversal in the expected. 
 
246 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Out of the mouth of the college professor emerged 
 slang; from that of the Bowery youth, Johnsonese. 
 Writers there are who assert that imagination does 
 for them what experience does for others. "Make a 
 chart of your imagination; write only about what 
 appeals to your imagination" is a piece of advice fre- 
 quently given to the incipient writer. The sugges- 
 tion, which is not without value, is here passed 
 on for what it is worth. Mrs. Gerould affirms that 
 she can "imagine" Africa; that although she has 
 not seen Africa, she can create the illusion better 
 than she can that of China, which she has seen. For 
 most of us, she succeeds; and we may grant, there- 
 fore, that excellent stories result from imagination 
 as a scene-maker, without experience. In no such 
 instance, however, will local colour be a reproduc- 
 tion of life in the sense that literature reflects life 
 or the actual. 
 
 "It is one of the inexplicable mysteries of the trade of 
 writing that no man, however well he handles the tools of 
 that trade, can write convincingly of things about which 
 he personally does not know. A man might aspire, let us 
 say, to write a story with scenes laid in Northern Africa. 
 In preparation for this task he might read a hundred vol- 
 umes about Northern Africa; its soil, its climate, its na- 
 tives, its characteristics. He might fairly saturate himself 
 in literature pertaining to Northern Africa; then sit him 
 down and write his story. Concede him to be a good crafts- 
 man; concede that the story was well done; that his de- 
 scriptions were strong, his phrasing graphic, his technic 
 
LOCAL COLOUR AND ATMOSPHERE 247 
 
 correct, — nevertheless it would lack that quality they call 
 plausibility. Somehow the reader would sense that this 
 man had never seen Northern Africa with his own eyes or 
 breathed its air with his own nostrils." ^ 
 
 The two exceptions noted by Mr. Cobb deal with 
 historical events and future events, and with places 
 which no man has seen, — say, the planet Mars. 
 This judgment is in harmony with that of other 
 critics, who admit historical novels, such as Sienkie- 
 wicz's "Quo Vadis"; or stories of impossible adven- 
 tures made to seem probable, as Francis Godwin's 
 "Strange Voyage and Adventure of Domingo Gon« 
 zales to the World in the Moon." 
 
 2. Atmosphere 
 
 Atmosphere is here noted in connection with local 
 colour, first to aid the student in guarding against 
 the confusion of terms; second, to prevent his at- 
 tempt to create atmosphere by emphasising local col- 
 our elements. Though of necessity having inter- 
 dependent relations, the two are distinct entitles. 
 
 In its literal sense atmosphere is a gaseous en- 
 veloping medium, ordinarily synonymous with the 
 air surrounding the earth. Air is tenuous, intangi- 
 ble, yet it has a pressure of something like fifteen 
 pounds to the square inch. It may manifest itself 
 as light or heavy, cold or warm, bright or gloomy. 
 Withdrawal of air results in vacuity. Atmosphere 
 
 'Irvin Cobb, "Local Color." 
 
248 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 in fiction is likewise the feeling that permeates a 
 given environment. It may be whimsical or dull, 
 light or serious, cheerful or grave. Lack of atmos- 
 phere means an emptiness of which the uncritical 
 reader is dimly aware, and of which the critic is 
 fully conscious. Without it, a character has no 
 element in which to move and breathe. Now just 
 as local colour ranges from a few details of time 
 and place to the setting predominant as a story 
 feature, so atmosphere is at one extreme only a 
 vague and at the other an all-persuasive medium. 
 To create a story of atmosphere, the author must 
 harmonise setting and character with feeling. Feel- 
 ing must predominate. 
 
 By way of illustrating the fact that atmosphere 
 and local colour are diverse, let us suppose that the 
 writer has in mind an atmosphere story in which 
 the majesty of mountains and the presence of pri- 
 meval forests constitute elements of local colour. 
 Let the writer introduce into the stately setting a 
 dialect speaking mountaineer, and observe how 
 easily the atmosphere previously suggested by the 
 local colour element may be changed. Unless the 
 dignity of the mountaineer be made to dominate his 
 dialect, the chances are that the story will be one 
 not of atmosphere, but one wherein local colour and 
 characterisation are at odds with tone impression. 
 That is to say, atmosphere is strengthened not by 
 laying on local colour, but by selection for unity of 
 tone and feeling between man and setting. A more 
 
LOCAL COLOUR AND ATMOSPHERE 249 
 
 concrete illustration of the divergence between local 
 colour and atmosphere may be adduced from a com- 
 parison of two stories, one by Thomas Hardy, the 
 other by Arthur Quiller-Couch. Hardy's Active 
 "Wessex" embraces part of Devonshire: Quiller- 
 Couch's Delectable Duchy is Devon and Cornwall. 
 "A Corrected Contempt" has for its setting a train 
 passing through Devon. At Newton Abbot is in- 
 troduced an old man who speaks in broad dialect. 
 "The Grave by the Handpost" is, like the one just 
 mentioned, a tragic story of father and son. More- 
 over, the general setting and the peculiar dialect of 
 both are In themselves similar. But the two atmos- 
 pheres or feelings are widely different. In the 
 first narrative we are concerned mainly about the 
 merely human relations between father and son ; in 
 the second we are dominated by the fatalistic feeling. 
 "The Grave by the Handpost" resembles, rather, in 
 its atmosphere, Hawthorne's "Roger Malvin's 
 Burial," which is steeped in the same fatalism. There 
 are other reasons operating to individualise the 
 stories of Hardy and QuIUer-Couch, but they do not 
 destroy the point of the illustration that atmospheres 
 wholly different may be Integrated with similar local 
 peculiarities. Conversely, atmospheres remarkably 
 similar may be found with different locales. 
 
 Of stories harmonising carefully the setting and 
 the mood, "At the End of the Passage" and "Ethan 
 Frome" are worthy of careful study. The former 
 has for local colour intense heat, a "tattered, rotten 
 
2SO A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 punkah of whitewashed calico," which was "pud- 
 dling the hot air dolefully at each stroke," clouds 
 of dust, parched trees, and huts of baked mud, all 
 of which are consistent with the ghostly horror of 
 the story. The bleakness of Ethan Frome's life Is 
 emphasised by the hardship and the cold, character- 
 istic of his New England environment. Local colour 
 and atmosphere unite to carry the plot of Owen 
 Wister's "Philosophy Four." The college atmos- 
 phere is strengthened by scenes in the neighbourhood 
 of Cambridge. Of all the available places the author 
 chose those which best suit the dominant mood. 
 "The Night Call," by Henry Van Dyke, also Illus- 
 trates an atmosphere of dreaminess and the harmon- 
 ising of the supernatural with the local sights of 
 Calvinton. One more example may be offered: 
 Richard Rice's "The White Sleep of Auber Hurn" 
 emphasises harmony between locale, atmosphere and 
 plot, with atmosphere dominant. Auber Hum's pic- 
 tures presented landscapes "emphasised through a 
 subtle ominousness of atmosphere. You perceived 
 what the place stood for, its sensational elements, 
 and you began vaguely to imagine the kind of event 
 for which it would form a suitable background." 
 The end of the quotation recalls Stevenson's advice : 
 "lastly . . . you may take a certain atmosphere and 
 get actions and persons to realise and express it." 
 
 The range of atmosphere effects for a so-called 
 "story of atmosphere" Is narrow; the mysterious, 
 the gloomy and the fatalistic having been most aptly 
 
LOCAL COLOUR AND ATMOSPHERE 251 
 
 chosen by successful authors. For the amateur the 
 best type for experimentation is that wherein human- 
 kind is subordinated to nature or setting. Thomas 
 Hardy's "The Return of the Native" is a familiar 
 example of such subjection throughout an entire 
 novel. The first chapter is a fit preliminary to the 
 thesis that Egdon Heath moulds the destinies of the 
 men and women involved in the action. 
 
 But it must be remembered that to achieve success, 
 the author first conceives a feeling for the place 
 which he, in turn, re-creates that it may produce its 
 feeling for the reader. In the art of description two 
 points of view are generally recognized; the objec- 
 tive and the subjective. The latter is synonymous 
 with the mental attitude of the observer; the objec- 
 tive is merely the physical point of vantage. An older 
 writer of fiction chose — and usually stated — an ob- 
 jective point of view, whence he gave a long, ac- 
 curate, and sometimes tedious catalogue of details 
 composing the picture. He Imbued the picture with 
 little of his own personality, though he presented it 
 so fully and with such verisimilitude that the reader 
 might see It through his own eyes and colour it with 
 his own subjectivity. The moderns are given to 
 suffusing the picture with their own personal inter- 
 pretation of the original. Said another way, skill in 
 showing the appeal of nature to a temperament is 
 modern. The more the object takes on the hue of 
 the glasses through which the author sees — and every 
 
252 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 one has his own, provided he has not thrown them 
 away for something hopelessly conventional — the 
 more subjective is the resultant description. There 
 is a close connection between the author's subjectiv- 
 ity, then, and atmosphere. By first seeing, then feel- 
 ing, he may use to dominate all other story elements 
 the "ominousness of locality." 
 
 "The Fall of the House of Usher," popularly 
 regarded as the best atmosphere story, begins to 
 produce its effect by a description of the house and 
 its environment. The following summary reveals 
 that elements contributing to atmosphere are inte- 
 grated with the setting. 
 
 A. Setting: 
 
 1. Time — fall of the year. 
 
 2. Place — a stretch of gloomy country, name un- 
 
 known; the "melancholy house of Usher." 
 
 B. Characters : 
 
 1. Mysterious, emaciating illness of Usher. 
 
 2. Ghostly appearance of Lady Madeline. 
 
 3. Similarity of tone in characters and in the house 
 
 itself. 
 
 4. Gloominess of the characters emphasised by the 
 
 presence of the man from the world outside. 
 
 C. Action : 
 
 1. Mysterious behaviour of Lady Madeline. 
 
 2. Mysterious behaviour of Usher. 
 
 3. Death and burial of Lady Madeline. 
 
 D. Sentences : 
 
 A peculiar, sometimes monotonous rhythm. 
 
LOCAL COLOUR AND ATMOSPHERE 253 
 
 E. Diction : 
 
 1. Cumulative effect of adjectives intensifying gloom 
 
 and mystery. 
 
 2. Use of contrasting words to heighten the effect. 
 
 3. The predominance of heavy sounds, as d and b. 
 
 4. Almost absolute lack of colour words. 
 
 Nothing has been said throughout this volume re- 
 garding the importance of diction. The accurate and 
 effective use of words has been presupposed. But 
 just at this point let the student remember that 
 his own feeling expressed through the apt word will 
 transmit the Impression to the reader. And "feeling" 
 Is to be interpreted here as "mood," — not as "emo- 
 tion." Take the first sentence in "The Fall of the 
 House of Usher" : "During the whole of the year, 
 dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, 
 when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heav- 
 ens, I had been passing alone on horseback, through 
 a singularly dreary tract of country; and at length 
 found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, 
 within view of the melancholy House of Usher." 
 Observe, first, how the key is changed by a begin- 
 ning which in meaning and intent shows an antithesis : 
 "On the morning of a bright, clear day in the 
 springtime of the year, when the sun rode high in 
 the heavens, I had been journeying with friends 
 through a singularly beautiful section of the country; 
 and as noontime came on, we found ourselves within 
 view of the House of Usher." The sentence rhythm 
 Is now out of harmony with the new impression ; that 
 
254 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Is, the rhythm Poe secured was in keeping with the 
 atmosphere of gloom; and it still retains, in spite of 
 the changes, something of its prime character. 
 
 Specifically, the words "dull," "dark," "sound- 
 less," "autumn," "clouds," "oppressively," "pass- 
 ing," "alone," "dreary," "tract," "shades," "even- 
 ing," "melancholy" strike and maintain the prevalent 
 tone. Later, Poe speaks of the "tarn." "Pool" or 
 "pond" would have marred the effect. 
 
 By the author's feeling for a place, by his crea- 
 tion of characters and Invention of Incidents to fit 
 the place, and by his choice of words to convey the 
 feeling to the reader, he will be in the direction of 
 an atmosphere story. 
 
 Exercises for Chapter XIII 
 
 Study with respect to local colour aU the stories in 
 previous exercises. Which elements of local colour are used, 
 in each, to greatest advantage? 
 
 Give particular study to the New England stories of 
 Miss Brown, Miss Jewett, and Mrs. Freeman, to the 
 Labrador stories of Norman Duncan; to the Devon and 
 Cornwall stories of Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch ; to the Lou- 
 isiana stories of Ruth McEnery Stuart; to the Tennessee 
 stories of Charles Egbert Craddock. 
 
 Read Annie T. Slosson's "A Local Colourist," O. Henry's 
 "A Little Local Colour," Brander Matthews's "In Search 
 of Local Colour." 
 
 "Silence," by Leonid Andreiev, brought the author im- 
 mediate recognition. Study the story for the dominance of 
 
LOCAL COLOUR AND ATMOSPHERE 255 
 
 the atmosphere, the subordination of characters and inci- 
 dent. 
 
 Read De Maupassant's "Moonlight," Henry James's 
 "Flickerbridge" and Frederick Wedmore's "Dream of 
 Provence," as types of atmosphere stories. 
 
 Mr. E. J. O'Brien says, "Miss Hurst's stories . . . may 
 prove to be the most essential literary documents of our 
 city life to the inquiring literary historian of another cen- 
 tury." What elements of local colour does Miss Hurst 
 emphasise and how? 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION : BEGINNING, BODY, AND 
 
 END 
 
 a. The beginning. Where to begin, with what, and how; 
 
 beginning should strike the tone, indicate setting or 
 introduce character; expository and narrative beginning 
 versus the descriptive and dynamic. 
 
 b. The end. Progress of story determined by denouement; 
 graduation of steps to denouement necessarily kept in 
 view; ideal ending should be logical and should contain 
 some unlooked-for element; the surprise ending; "Mar- 
 jorie Daw"; the manner of creating the surprise; deceit 
 practised by one character upon another; "The Fur- 
 nished Room," similar deceit held in reserve until end; 
 Leonard Merrick's "Tragedy of a Comic Song" de- 
 pendent for surprise upon deceit implied, on clever use 
 of angle of narration, and on reader's expectancy of a 
 more conventional ending ; other examples ; order of plot 
 details may be so arranged as to effect surprise, a blanket 
 method, in fact; "The Necklace"; surprise should deal 
 fairly with reader. 
 
 c. The body. Chief problems are those of proportion, sus- 
 pense, tempo; use and management of clues; clues with 
 regard to coincidence; coincidence; integration of detail. 
 Proportion easy for artistic mind; its relation to total 
 
 256 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 257 
 
 effect of story; "On the Staircase"; "The Necklace," 
 again; tempo; ways for accelerating the tempo; sus- 
 pense; manner of its operation; may work from begin- 
 ning to end; may operate in the climax scene; or after 
 the dramatic climax; illustrations; i. Poe's method of 
 attaining suspense; 2. episodes, moral reflections; 3. ad- 
 hering to point of view ; conversely, shifting the point of 
 view; illustrations; clues; coincidence; first requisite is 
 seeming naturalness; coincidence in life versus coinci- 
 dence in fiction; ways for making coincidence seem logi- 
 cal; base of story; rationalisation of coincidence in cli- 
 max; in denouement; clues important in rationalisation; 
 serious use versus humorous use of coincidence; adjust- 
 ment of all story features and problems for unity of 
 effect. 
 
 /. The Beginning 
 
 Having studied plot, characterisation, the emo- 
 tional element, and other larger phases of story mak- 
 ing, we may turn to a few details of composition. 
 These have to do with the problems of beginning, 
 or of catching the reader's interest; the problems 
 of the body, or of holding his interest; and the 
 problems of the end, or of satisfying his interest. 
 
 Over the first of these the inexperienced writer is 
 wont to affirm his trouble by an exclamation of dis- 
 couragement: "If I only knew how to begin I" 
 Nine out of ten thus wailing have not thought out 
 their plans; they are trusting for future develop- 
 ments upon the growth of inspiration out of what- 
 ever beginning they finally hit upon. But the tenth 
 
258 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 student may have both material and plan, yet be at 
 a loss for an effective attack. 
 
 "Where shall I begin?" is perhaps the first ques- 
 tion to be answered. The answer to it is this : "Be- 
 gin as near to the climax of action as you possibly 
 can, without loss of force and effect or overcrowd- 
 ing." The qualifying clause is not to be forgotten. 
 The initial incident may lie so near in place and time 
 to the climax of action that a chronological order 
 of events is not too long for the presence of time 
 unity. But it may lie so far back that if the actual 
 story is not to seem diffuse through a long chronology 
 of events it had best be tucked in unobtrusively after 
 the start is already made. "The Mark of the Beast" 
 illustrates the first kind of story, so far as plot de- 
 tails are concerned; "A New England Nun," the 
 second kind. Again properly for its due effect a 
 story may present the first of the plot incidents at 
 the beginning and then condense or "strike the high 
 places" throughout a long time before the climax 
 of action. "The Brushwood Boy" is an example of 
 such management. 
 
 "What shall I begin with?" finds answer in the 
 practice of Edgar Allan Poe, as summed up by Clay- 
 ton Hamilton: ^ "Poe began a story of setting with 
 description; a story of character with a remark 
 made by or about the leading actor; and a story of 
 action with a sentence pregnant with potential inci- 
 dent." The modern story writer may conform to 
 
 '"Materials and Methods of Fiction," page 185. 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 259 
 
 these methods safely; he will, however, usually be 
 briefer than Poe and Hawthorne. Present day 
 readers expecting and desiring action anticipate that 
 they will be satisfied by a story which has a dynamic 
 beginning. Long descriptions, except for atmos- 
 phere stories, may intrude too far upon the domain 
 of the narrative. A dynamic beginning enters at 
 once into the drama of the story. " 'Yes,' said the 
 dealer, 'our windfalls are of various kinds.' " This. 
 first sentence of "Markheim" informs the reader 
 that he has stepped into the very midst of a dia- 
 logue between the dealer and some one else. Wish- 
 ing to hear what it is all about, he reads on. O. 
 Henry skilfully worked into the beginning of his 
 "Blackjack Bargainer" the place, the character and 
 the tone of the story: 
 
 "The most disreputable thing in Yancey Goree's law 
 office was Goree himself, sprawled in his creaky old arm- 
 chair. The rickety little office, built of red brick was set 
 flush with the street — the main street of the town of Bethel." 
 
 In "Girl," he conveys the setting, the character, 
 and the time: 
 
 "In gilt letters on the ground glass of the door of Room 
 962 were the words: 'Robins and Hartley, Brokers.' The 
 clerks had gone. It was past five, and with the solid tramp 
 of a drove of prize Percherons, scrub women were invading 
 the cloud-capped twenty-story office building. A puff of 
 red hot air flavoured with lemon peelings, soft-coal smoke 
 and train oil came through the half-open windows." 
 
26o A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 At another extreme in style Miss Alice Brown 
 uses in "Old Immortality" a similar compact form: 
 
 "Old John Buckham stood at the kitchen door, watching 
 his wife while she picked her way along the path between 
 his house and the Fosters'." 
 
 Just as the beginning of "Girl" indicates a city, 
 perhaps New York, suggests that the brokers will 
 perhaps figure in the story, tells the time of day 
 and describes the air, so does the beginning of "Old 
 Immortality" convey a rural setting, and introduce 
 the two main characters. 
 
 The difference in style between the last two ex- 
 amples quoted suggests the third question, "How 
 shall I begin?" to which the answer is "In the right 
 key." "Girl" will be a whimsical story, if the tone 
 of the first paragraph is preserved; "Old Immortal- 
 ity" will be a serious story, if the first paragraph 
 is in key. On the careful adjustment of tone effects, 
 the convincing power of the story may in the ulti- 
 mate rest. The humorous story has its tone; the 
 serious story has one quite different; romance is con- 
 veyed by a certain manner of striking the beginning; 
 realism by another manner. 
 
 The beginning of a story may also serve a con- 
 vincing purpose by recounting matter which argues 
 for the truth of what follows. Richard Harding 
 Davis tells a story in which the "God of Coinci- 
 dence" runs so wild that not only is this title neces- 
 sary to apprise the reader; but further a series of 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION a6i 
 
 incidents in which the god figures are judicious 
 for the effect on the reader, in that they pave the 
 way for credulity. He will believe the first inci- 
 dent, nothing depends upon it; it is merely illustra- 
 tive. But by the time he has finished the series he 
 is of a mind to believe any coincidence probable. 
 
 If the short-story beginning, then, can strike the 
 tone, indicate the setting, and suggest character, it 
 is obviously more economical than if it does only 
 one of these three things. If expanded into an in- 
 troduction, it may by an accumulation of instances 
 serve to convince the reader of an unusual concur- 
 rence of events in the main action. Or it may merely 
 recount the events preceding the beginning of the 
 immediate action. 
 
 The expository or narrative beginning is, in gen- 
 eral, not so good as the dynamic or the descriptive. 
 And of these two the dynamic is preferable. In or- 
 der to secure a reader, the writer must use the intro- 
 duction as a hook; it is a first and necessary tool. 
 
 2. The End 
 
 Since the progress of the story from the beginning 
 is determined almost entirely by the end, let us 
 turn to the problems of the end. The denouement 
 is the great accomplishment to which the writer must 
 direct all his skill; with it in view, he will graduate 
 his steps so as to rise steadily to a climax of action. 
 "Something is described that must bring about some 
 conclusion. A problem is presented which must be 
 
262 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 solved. In the beginning are all the elements of 
 the situation. The question immediately arises as 
 to how the conclusion worked itself out of the sit- 
 uation and indeed what the conclusion really was. 
 As the writer proceeds from his problem to his con- 
 clusion he tells everything except the vital point. 
 Just the thing that happened he is very careful to 
 conceal. The reader- may know in a general way 
 what it must be. If he is at all clever, he should be 
 able to guess this, for all the facts in the case must 
 be before him, and if he puts them together properly 
 he will know. But the actual material event which 
 happens must be strictly held in reserve." ^ 
 
 The reader of short stories expects, nowadays, 
 the surprise ending. Rather is he surprised if he 
 fails to find it. He feels as insipid, and judges 
 as commonplace, the ending, which however strong 
 and logical, contains not some unlooked-for ele- 
 ment. The ideal denouement is striking yet natural; 
 the unexpected, unnatural ending is as absurd as the 
 simple, natural solution is too "easy." Yet not- 
 withstanding that this is the era of the surprise de- 
 nouement — for it finds its greatest development in 
 the twentieth century — it made classics of at least 
 two stories long before 1900. Thomas Bailey Al- 
 drich's "Marjorie Daw" is nigh unto fifty years of 
 age; De Maupassant's "Necklace" is somewhat 
 younger. Among the authors following Aldrich and 
 De Maupassant are O. Henry, Leonard Merrick, 
 
 ""How to Write Fiction," p. 93. 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 263 
 
 William Wymarck Jacobs, and their disciples. Hosts 
 of minor writers are learning this "trick of the 
 trade." 
 
 Everybody knows the letters that Edward De- 
 laney wrote to his friend John Flemming. And 
 everybody knows that the young woman so deli- 
 cately yet so powerfully described as to catch the 
 fancy of Flemming did not, after all, exist. And 
 nearly everybody remembers that it is the very last 
 sentence which reveals the hoax Delaney has played, 
 and the consequences of which he has fled to escape : 
 "For, oh, dear Jack, there isn't any colonial mansion 
 on the other side of the road, there isn't any piazza, 
 there isn't any hammock — there isn't any Marjorie 
 Daw!" 
 
 Not everybody recognises, however, nor for some 
 time did story writers themselves seem to recognise, 
 that this denouement is but an instance of a general 
 method. It is being used frequently now. Deceit 
 practised by one character upon another need not be 
 revealed until the end of the story. Such deceptive- 
 ness may be unpleasant or pleasant. Now, the 
 reader of "Marjorie Daw" just escapes the bitterest 
 disappointment; but, fortunately, he may guess be- 
 fore the denouement what Flemming did not foresee 
 — and will, therefore, find compensation in his own 
 superiority, or in Flemming's discomfiture. Even 
 if he does not begin to suspect Delaney's ruse, still 
 he finds consolation in the fact that Flemming was 
 hoaxed: Misery loves company. 
 
264 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 This means of creating surprise, O. Henry em- 
 ployed — with variations — in "The Furnished 
 Room," "The Caballero's Way" (wherein disguise 
 enters, by way of carrying out the artifice) , "Lost on 
 Dress Parade," and elsewhere. The best example 
 of the type, perhaps, is "The Furnished Room." 
 The story opens with a young man who is searching 
 among the tenements in a squalid section of New 
 York. At the last house he takes lodgings. 
 
 "As the housekeeper moved away, he put for the thou- 
 sandth time the question that he carried at the end of his 
 tongue : 
 
 " 'A young girl — Miss Vashner — Miss Eloise Vashner — 
 do you remember such a one among your lodgers? She 
 would be singing on the stage, most likely. A fair girl of 
 medium height and slender, with reddish, gold hair, and a 
 dark mole near her left eyebrow.' 
 
 " 'No, I don't remember the name. . . .' " 
 
 the housekeeper deliberately replies. 
 
 The story continues with the young man's despair, 
 the visitation of the mignonette ghost, and the sui- 
 cide. 
 
 Then comes the revelation of the deceit : 
 
 "It was Mrs. McCool's night to go with the can for 
 beer. So she fetched it and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of 
 those subterranean retreats where housekeepers foregather 
 and the worm dieth seldom. 
 
 " 'I rented out my third floor back this evening,' said 
 Mrs. Purdy across a fine circle of foam. 'A young man 
 took it. He went up to bed two hours ago.' 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 265 
 
 " 'Now, did ye, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am ?' said Mrs. McCool 
 with intense admiration. 'You do be a wonder for rentin' 
 rooms of that kind. And did ye tell him, then?' She con- 
 cluded in a husky whisper laden with mystery. 
 
 " 'Rooms,' said Mrs. Purdy in her furriest tones, 'are 
 furnished for to rent. I did not tell him, Mrs. McCooL' 
 
 " ' 'Tis right ye are, ma'am ; 'tis by renting rooms we 
 keep alive. . . . There be many people will rejict the rent- 
 in' of a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin' 
 in the bed of it.' 
 
 " 'As you say, we has our living to be making,' remarked 
 Mrs. Purdy. 
 
 " 'Yis, ma'am, 'tis true. 'Tis just one wake this day I 
 helped ye lay out the third floor, back. A pretty slip of a 
 colleen she was to be killin' herself with the gas — a swate 
 little face she had, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am.' 
 
 " 'She'd a-been called handsome, as you say,' said Mrs. 
 Purdy, assenting but critical, 'but for that mole she had 
 a-growin' by her left eye-brow. . . .' " 
 
 The shock of this ending is dependent on Mrs. 
 Purdy's lie. The reader is not hoaxed or cheated, 
 however ; for the tragedy she concealed, outweighing 
 the secondary consideration of the falsehood, stag- 
 gers one by its importance and impresses by its fit- 
 ness. Moreover, the narrator dares use adequate 
 clues. The personality of the woman is such that 
 one may suspect her of lying, even before the act; the 
 suggestion in the fragrance of mignonette confirms 
 the suspicion that Eloise Vashner has occupied the 
 third floor back. It is also true that by keeping the 
 spot light on the young man — until the final shift — 
 
266 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 the author makes easier the working of the deceit. 
 The influence of "Marjorie Daw" Is traceable also 
 in the stories of Leonard Merrick. This English 
 writer's own testimony indicates as much : 
 
 "I never hear the absorbing art of the conte mentioned 
 without my thoughts darting to a short story that I read 
 more than twenty years ago and have never seen since. 
 Sometimes I wonder whether I have been unconsciously in- 
 fluenced by it in determining the form of several of my 
 own experiments in this field of fiction. It happens occa- 
 sionally that I am paid the high compliment of being told 
 that as a short-story writer I 'owe much to an attentive 
 study of the methods of Maupassant and Anatole France.' 
 And then I have not the least hesitation in saying that I owe 
 nothing at all to it. But I would not declare with such 
 certainty that I owe nothing to the swirl of enthusiasm that 
 I felt as a boy on the afternoon that I read Thomas Bailey 
 Aldrich's 'Marjorie Daw.' . . ." ^ 
 
 Mr. Merrick's surprises, as mere exercises of the 
 technical gymnast, are marvels of cleverness. Study, 
 for example, "The Tragedy of a Comic Song." 
 
 "I like to monopolise a table in a restaurant, unless a 
 friend is with me. So I resented the young man's presence. 
 Besides he had a melancholy face. If it hadn't been for the 
 piano-organ, I don't suppose I should have spoken to him. 
 As the organ that was afflicting Lisle Street began to volley 
 a comic song of a day that was dead, he started. 
 
 "'That tune!' he murmured in French. If I did not 
 deceive myself tears sprang to his eyes. 
 
 'N. Y. Times, Jan. 25, 1914. 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 267 
 
 "I was curious. Certainly, on both sides of the Channel, 
 we had long ago had more than enough of the tune. That 
 the young Frenchman should wince at the tune I under- 
 stood. But that he should weep! 
 
 ... "I smiled sympathetically. 'We suffered from it 
 over here as well,' I remarked. 
 
 " 'I did not know,' he said in English that reproved my 
 French, 'it was sung in London, also — "Partant pour le 
 Moulin"?' 
 
 ..." 'Monsieur, it is my 'istory, that comic tune !' " 
 
 The narrative told by the gentleman centred 
 about three young people; the poet Tricotrin, the 
 composer Pitou, and the singer Paulette Fleury. 
 Poet and composer, each in love with the girl, made 
 for her the song, "Partant pour le Moulin." The 
 raconteur concluded : 
 
 " 'Listen ! when they have gone to call on her one after- 
 noon, she was not at 'ome. What had happened? I shall 
 tell you! There was a noodle, a rich — what you call a 
 "Johnnie in the Stalls" — who became infatuated with her 
 at the Ambassadeurs. . . . Well, she was not at 'ome be- 
 cause she had married him. . . . 
 
 " 'What a moment ! Figure yourself what they had suf- 
 fered — both! They had worshipped her; they had made 
 sacrifices for her; they had created for her her grand suc- 
 cess; and as a consequence of that song, she was the wife of 
 the "Johnnie in the Stalls"!'" 
 
 As he finished, he heard again the strains of the 
 tune floating up from the street. 
 
268 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 " 'I cannot bear it,' he murmured. 'The associations are 
 too pathetic' 
 
 " 'They must be harrowing,' I said. 'Before you go, 
 there is one thing I should like to ask you, if I may. Have 
 I had the honour of meeting Monsieur Tricotrin, or Mon- 
 sieur Pitou?' 
 
 " 'He stroked his hat and gazed at me in sad surprise. 
 'Oh, but neither, Monsieur,' he groaned. 'The associations 
 are much more 'arrowing than that — I was the "Johnnie 
 in the Stalls"!'" 
 
 It is clear that the surprise in this last line results 
 from a new turn. The man who told the story did 
 deceive, it is true ; but he did so by implication, trust- 
 ing to a false inference on the part of his auditor. 
 The reader does not enjoy the story less because — on 
 retrospect — he indulges the suspicion that the 
 stranger was "working off" a trick, quite consciously, 
 upon his friend of the restaurant. But more impor- 
 tant with respect to the surprise of the reader are 
 these truths: First, the author has skilfully em- 
 ployed the "angle of narration" or "point of view" 
 — in the technically narrative sense; second, he has 
 calculated on the reader's expectancy of a more con- 
 ventional conclusion. As the story progresses, the 
 reader is sure — as the auditor was sure — that the 
 tearful gentleman is one of the rejected suitors. All 
 the details seem to bear him out in this assurance. 
 But the ending offers an entirely different reason for 
 the tears. 
 
 This means of effecting surprise has been em- 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 269 
 
 ployed recently in a story by Holworthy Hall, "The 
 Luck of the Devil"; it was thoroughly understood 
 by O. Henry, as any one may deduce from a study 
 of "The Hiding of Back Bill." The tactics in all 
 three stories are identical. O. Henry elsewhere took 
 a clever advantage of the well-known principle that 
 a reader helps to invent the story. O. Henry grants 
 this privilege, and then by his own actual ending 
 shows the reader that he, the author, has not fallen 
 back on the hackneyed situation and obvious conclu- 
 sion the reader has constructed in a too conventional 
 way. "Girl" is an excellent illustration. 
 
 The first scene, as above suggested, is in the 
 law office of Robbins and Hartley. A man with an 
 air of mystery about him enters and speaks to Hart- 
 ley: "I've found out where she lives." Then he 
 presents the name, Vivienne Arlington, and the ad- 
 dress. Hartley shortly afterward leaves the office 
 and makes his way to the Vallombrosa apartment 
 house. He finds Vivienne in. Observe the descrip- 
 tion of Vivienne: 
 
 "[She] was about twenty-one. She was of the purest 
 Saxon type. Her hair was a ruddy golden, each filament of 
 the neatly gathered mass shining with its own lustre and 
 delicate graduation of colour. In perfect harmony were 
 her ivory clear complexion and deep sea blue eyes." 
 
 Hartley reproaches her for not having answered 
 his letter. By this time the reader is somewhat 
 puzzled, wondering whether Hartley's design is 
 
270 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 laudable. When he recalls meeting her at the Mont- 
 gomery's, he gives the reader a clue, "I shall never 
 forget that supper!" There is a hint of complica- 
 tion in the question he puts to her: "Is there any- 
 body else?" There Is. Mr. Rafford Townsend is 
 coming for his answer. Hartley goes out, meets 
 Townsend in the hall, and declares by the law of 
 the jungle that the kill is his. 
 
 After he goes back "to his wooing," there is a 
 hint of further complication. 
 
 "Do you think I would enter your house while 
 Heloise is there ?" 
 
 "She shall go," he declares; "I will send her away 
 to-night." 
 
 Then follows the dramatic climax, "My answer 
 is yes; come for me when you will!" 
 
 The swift drop to the denouement shows Hartley 
 one hour and forty minutes later at his suburban 
 home. He is met by a woman who runs gladly to 
 meet him. Hartley whispers to her. "Oh, Mamma !" 
 she cries ecstatically, "Vivienne is coming to cook 
 for us. . . . Go down, Billy, and discharge Heloise. 
 She has been drunk again the whole day long." 
 
 Now, there Is no reason why two servants should 
 not have the names of Vivienne and Heloise. But 
 conventions in literature, which follow conventions 
 In life, do not usually regard these as Instances of 
 typical nomenclature. Bridget and Becky are the 
 conventional representatives. But O. Henry caught 
 his opportunity for securing material out of the in- 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 271 
 
 congruous. It is incongruous that a beautiful cook 
 should live in the Vallombrosa ! So far as fairness 
 to the reader is concerned, the surprise is better 
 than that of "Marjorie Daw"; so far as possibili- 
 ties are concerned, the result is better than "Goliath." 
 For Aldrich's story by this title counts for its effect 
 on the reader's assumption that a dog by the name 
 of Goliath must of necessity be a giant. O. Henry 
 repeated this surprise trick In "October and June." 
 Gouverneur Morris played with it entertainingly in 
 "Suffrage in the Wildwood." The method may be 
 represented in diagram: 
 
 -'-"^'' I 
 
 -^1 ., 
 
 A Z is the course of the story as the author de- 
 vised it. But the reader falling upon a false clue at 
 C, let us say, a clue derived for the most part from 
 his reliance on the hackneyed, constructs the story 
 In his own manner, and foresees an ending at Z'. 
 He receives a shock on leaping from Z' to Z 1 
 
 Besides open deceit, implied deceit, clever man- 
 agement of the "angle of narration," and the re- 
 liance on a reader's sense of convention to finish the 
 story differently from the author's plan, the order 
 of plot details may be regarded as a blanket method, 
 covering under its folds the cases mentioned above. 
 A surprise may be effected by lifting an event or fact 
 
272 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 out of its natural order, and placing it at the end 
 of the story. There, if suspense has been adequately 
 handled, its effect is in proportion to the time it has 
 been withheld. Plot, order and method of narration 
 are both responsible for the shock. If A B C, and 
 so on, down to Z, represent the regular sequence of 
 events, then an important point — represented by any 
 letter — may be deferred and placed after Z. Thus: 
 
 A Z (N).* 
 
 This is the method which is most outstanding in 
 "The Necklace," in O. Henry's "Double Dyed 
 Deceiver," and in Jacobs's "The Third String." The 
 former as the pioneer deserves attention. Madame 
 Loisel borrowed from Madame Forestier a diamond 
 necklace. Having lost it, she replaced it with an- 
 other. For the new necklace she paid a large sum, 
 and then worked ten years to repay it. At the end 
 of the time she learned that the first necklace was 
 paste. She might have found this out in the usual 
 course of events, when she borrowed the necklace, or 
 when she replaced it. Why was it that she did not 
 find out? A careful reading of the story will justify 
 the assertion that although there are two "scenes" 
 between the ladies, there is no reason why, in either, 
 Madame Forestier should have mentioned that the 
 necklace was not genuine. On the other hand, it 
 would have been natural enough had Madame For- 
 esee Chapter VI. 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 273 
 
 estler said, "It's only paste; your delay does not mat- 
 ter." If she had done so, however, the story would 
 not have existed. It is, then, the withholding of the 
 fact that makes the astounding denouement, joined, 
 as it is to the method of narration which keeps in 
 prominence the figure of Madame Loisel. 
 
 These, then, are the chief methods of creating sur- 
 prise.^ They are found usually in combination, but 
 may operate singly; they may be employed without 
 end, but not always with ease and effect. Obviously 
 some character in the story may be surprised, and 
 with him the reader ; or the reader may be the only 
 one not "in the secret" ; again, the reader may find 
 out what some character never learns. But whatever 
 the nature of the surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, 
 to character alone or reader alone, or both, it should 
 enhance the comedy of a humorous story and the 
 tragedy of the one that is gruesome. Though un- 
 expected, it should be natural. It should stand the 
 test always, by a second reading of the story which 
 will corroborate fair dealing on the part of the au- 
 thor. 
 
 "It is true that a pun may be at the basis of surprise; for ex- 
 ample, see O. Henry's "Ransom of Mack." It is true that a char- 
 acter's forgetfulness may be used to end a farcical story in a 
 humorous way; for example, "The Romance of a Busy Broker." 
 But these methods are trivial, and by their very nature have not 
 been adapted to the more pretentious conte. Some of the narra- 
 tives dependent on lapse of memory are mere farcical anecdotes; 
 for example, "From the Cabby's Seat." Moreover, most of these 
 instances come within the general method of securing surprise by 
 withholding a fact and releasing it subsequently. 
 
274 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 The Body 
 
 In the progress from beginning to end, the au- 
 thor must set forth facts and ideas which bring 
 the reader nearer and nearer to the conclusion, yet 
 he must also hold the reader back while the story 
 moves on. He must omit no detail of importance; 
 he must pause for none that is without value. He 
 will find that his chief problems, then, are those of 
 proportion, suspense, and tempo. Clues, coincidence, 
 and integration of elements are also among details of 
 workmanship which demand flawlessness. 
 
 The more artistic the author, the more readily 
 will he solve the problem of proportion, or conform 
 to what Kipling has termed the Holy Law of Pro- 
 portion. If he is inclined to be mathematical, the 
 harder he will find it. 
 
 "It is the very difference between the artistic mind and 
 the mathematical," says Gilbert Chesterton,* "that the 
 former sees things as they are in a picture, some nearer and 
 larger, some smaller and farther away: while to the mathe- 
 matical mind everything in a million, every fact in a cosmos 
 must be of equal value. That is why mathematicians go 
 mad, and poets scarcely ever do. A man may have as wide 
 a view of life as he likes, the wider the better; a distant 
 view, a bird's eye view, but still a view and not a map. 
 The one thing he cannot attempt in his version of the uni- 
 verse is to draw things to scale." 
 
 '"Essay on Watts." 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 275 
 
 In the nature of an artistic piece of work, 
 certain passages must be elaborated; others must be 
 repressed. Upon the author's skill in subduing and 
 elevating detail, In preserving balance of parts, will 
 depend not only architectural beauty, but also the 
 gripping power of the story. And the longer the 
 period of time the greater the need for careful plan- 
 ning of proportion. Katherine FuUerton Gerould in 
 her story, "On the Staircase," drops a few words in- 
 dicating her recognition of this important problem : 
 "This story has almost the gait of history. I have 
 to sum up decades In a phrase. It Is really the span 
 of one man's whole life that I am covering, you see. 
 But have patience with me while I skim the inter- 
 vening voids, and hover meticulously over the vivid 
 patches of detail. . . ." De Maupassant's success 
 in "The Necklace" Is accomplished in no small part 
 by the excellence of proportion. Two pages are 
 required for the purposes of Introduction, with em- 
 phasis on character; seven pages for the events of 
 some days ; one page for the summary of ten years ; 
 one and a half pages for the final scene df a few min- 
 utes. If the time of the whole action Is brief, as that 
 of Morrison's "On the Stairs," the scale is smaller, 
 and the problem becomes one rather of selection 
 among the minute details which are available. 
 
 The student should not confuse the business of pro- 
 portion with that of tempo or the gait of action. 
 The latter may be accelerated or retarded, while the 
 proportion may remain the same. Fannie Hurst 
 
276 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 and Edna Ferber secure a lively effect from accelera- 
 tion. Prominent among the devices for "speeding 
 up" action are these : Rapid dialogue,'^ without the 
 insertion of stage directions or other explanatory 
 matter; terse sentences rather than loose involved 
 sentences of many "hinge" words and cumbrous 
 phrasings ; diction suggestion of rapid action. Many 
 amateur stories condemned as dragging or tedious 
 lose much of the objectionable quality and gain a 
 corresponding value by a tightening of tempo in the 
 ways suggested. 
 
 With the third problem, suspense, both tempo and 
 proportion are bound up. A slow movement of plot 
 action, for instance, will hold the reader longer from 
 the point he is travelling toward as his objective, an 
 objective the value of which depends in a measure 
 upon proportion. If the beginning of the story is 
 likened unto a hook, then the principle of suspense 
 and its operation may be compared to the clamp or 
 vise which holds the reader firmly. Let us study 
 the manner of Its operation. Primarily It works 
 through curiosity, apprehension or anxiety. The 
 reader must desire to know what happened, who did 
 It, to whom happiness or disaster was brought, what 
 consequences ensued, and must desire Increasingly 
 through the right application of suspense on the 
 part of the author, i. Suspense may operate from 
 the beginning or near the beginning throughout the 
 narrative. For example, the reader of "A Journey" 
 
 ' See Chapter XI. 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 277 
 
 wonders almost from the first whether the woman 
 of the story will be able to carry out her purpose in 
 the fact of the odds against her; not until the end 
 does the strain relax. 2. It may operate in the cli- 
 max scene, as in "Markheim," where the reader 
 awaits the outcome of the struggle between the lower 
 and the higher natures. "The Weaker Vessel," by 
 Katherine FuUerton Gerould, is a veritable tour de 
 force of a story, since the action is practically all con- 
 fined to the climax scene : the psychic struggle be- 
 tween the husband and the wife. The reader won- 
 ders what will happen from the time he hears the 
 clacking of the wife's slippers down the hall to the 
 time when he hears the clacking die away. 3. Sus- 
 pense may operate most strongly after the dramatic 
 climax, or after the turning point in the struggle. 
 After Mrs. Penn moves into the new barn, the read- 
 er held in waiting wonders what Mr. Penn will say 
 and do. After Delia, in "The Gift of the Magi," 
 cuts off her hair the reader awaits with curiosity the 
 outcome. 
 
 The principle of suspense which operates through 
 character or action or both may be attained in a 
 number of ways. Every writer in every story has 
 his individual task of creating it ; but every one may 
 find general help in the following suggestions : i . 
 The method most often used by Poe consists of 
 three stages. Poe (a) placed his character in a dan- 
 gerous situation, then (b) offered scientific explana- 
 tion of the danger or lingered otherwise upon it, and 
 
278 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 (c) set forth the exposition of means taken by the 
 character to escape. "The Descent into the Mael- 
 strom" and "The Pit and the Pendulum," for ex- 
 ample, follow this order. 2. The author may intro- 
 duce episodes, and philosophical or moral reflec- 
 tions; but must be careful in the short-story not to 
 disintegrate his effect. In "The Brushwood Boy," 
 the episode of Madame Zuleika and her interest in 
 Georgie is well handled. A similar caution applies 
 to 3. The author may place emphasis on a charac- 
 ter or a thread of interest which at the moment the 
 reader is not worried about, leaving for a time the 
 source of suspense. He may do this, for example, 
 by shifting the point of view. By telling the story 
 of A and B from A's angle and involving A in some 
 action which arouses curiosity, the author may sus- 
 pend the reader at any given point while he switches 
 to B's story. Or he may do so, conversely, by ad- 
 hering to the angle of narration. By telling only 
 what A knows and sees, the author holds the reader 
 suspended over B's case. When A finally learns the 
 outcome as regards B, so will the reader. 
 
 In the chapter on the emotional element some at- 
 tempt was made to suggest to the student the im- 
 portance of technical features in appealing to the 
 emotions of pity and fear, and to the sense of the 
 ludicrous. It is hoped after this discussion of sus- 
 pense the student will more readily follow the ad- 
 vice of Trollope : "Make 'em laugh ; make 'em weep ; 
 make 'em wait." 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 279 
 
 With regard to the management of clues some- 
 thing has already been said under Dialogue. The 
 clue need not, of course, be included in the speeches 
 of the characters, though that is the more dra- 
 matic manner. In "Mary Postgate," Kipling says, 
 as the omniscient author: "It seemed to her that she 
 could almost hear the beat of his propellers over- 
 head, but there was nothing to see. ..." At the 
 moment, the reader thinks the fancy on Mary's part 
 to be only a fancy. But a few paragraphs later, 
 the "seeming" proves to have been a cleverly in- 
 serted clue to immediate events. Such links with 
 the future should be not too obscure nor too patent. 
 One of the best examples of proper management is 
 to be found in "The Three Strangers." 
 
 "But what is the man's calling . . . that he should come 
 in and join us like this?" 
 
 "I don't know. I'll ask him again." 
 
 . . . When he had tossed off his portion [of mead], the 
 shepherd renewed his inquiry about the stranger's occupa- 
 tion. 
 
 The latter [the second stranger] did not immediately 
 reply, and the man in the chimney corner, with sudden 
 detnonstrativeness, said, "Anybody may know my trade — 
 I'm a wheelwright." 
 
 Presently the shepherd observes that "You may gen- 
 erally tell what a man is by his claws," whereupon 
 the "hands of the man in the chimney corner instinc- 
 tively sought the shade." By this clue the reader is 
 
28o A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 convinced that the stranger in the chimney corner Is 
 guilty, or at least desirous of remaining unknown. 
 Later, the reader is thunderstruck to see a third 
 stranger appear upon the door-sill and after a glance 
 at the company run as if he were the guilty man. 
 Hence, the clue is not too strong, after all, for the 
 effect upon the reader is exactly what it should be. 
 
 The connection between dramatic forecast in 
 general or of clues in particular, and the whole sub- 
 ject of coincidence is one calling for earnest study. 
 In most text-books, however, the student will look in 
 vain for suggestions about the employment of coin- 
 cidence. He Is told to use It sparingly, and then 
 left to find the secret of success. The following 
 paragraphs should be of value to him who seeks for- 
 mulations of laws for its use. 
 
 A thorough treatise would necessarily take ac- 
 count of the philosophical groundwork of coinci- 
 dence. What to the incomplete vision of mankind 
 may seem chance may be part of a prearranged pur- 
 pose on the part of omniscience and all-wisdom. To 
 the fatalist, there is no such thing as accident; it Is 
 part of the plan. To one not of necessity fatalistic, 
 the accident is natural, however strange it may be 
 or unusual. To the reader of the short-story, there 
 must be no chance occurrence ; It must be part of the 
 plan; otherwise. It will not seem natural. "The 
 number of people who die by accident every day is 
 considerable," says de Maupassant. "But we can- 
 not make a tile fall on the head of a principal char- 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 281 
 
 acter or throw him under the wheels of a carriage 
 in the middle of a story, under pretext that it is neces- 
 sary to introduce an accident." The accident must 
 seem natural ; the coincidence must seem natural. 
 
 Coincidence in its simplest denotation means oc- 
 currence at the same time; but in fiction it usually 
 connotes a concurrence of events startling in nature 
 or effect. For example, the following story has the 
 characteristics of so-called "coincidence." It was 
 contributed, in substance, some months ago, to The 
 American Magazine. A woman traveller was vis- 
 iting California. At the close of her visit her host- 
 ess gave her a novel to read on the train. On her 
 way to the station she stopped to have her watch re- 
 paired and when the jeweller handed her his card, 
 she placed it in the novel. She did not read the 
 book, however, but laid it away, until two years 
 later, when she sailed for Europe. Neither on the 
 journey over nor during her stay did she read the 
 novel, but on her return journey she took it out. 
 As she settled herself to read, she observed sitting 
 near her a melancholy foreign youth, to whom she 
 made some kindly remark. On his bursting into 
 tears, she inquired the cause, and found that he had 
 lost all his family in an epidemic. He was journeying 
 to America to his only brother, whom he had not 
 heard from for years. "But he told me the name of 
 the town he expected to move to," he said. "It is 
 called Out West!" As gently as she might, the 
 traveller explained to him the difficulty of his under- 
 
282 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 taking. The boy was in despair. As she tried to 
 comfort him, she dropped her book; he stooped to 
 pick it up, and the watchmaker's card fell out. The 
 watchmaker was the long-lost brother. 
 
 Such a coincidence is in accord with the strange 
 happenings of real life. To be natural and logical 
 in the story, it must be prepared for, must seem part 
 of a story plan, as in actuality it is a part of the 
 whole universal scheme. How, now, can it be made 
 to seem logical? 
 
 In the first place, coincidence may be used as the 
 foundation of a story. If, for example, the coin- 
 cidence just summarised were the starting point, we 
 should accept it easily. That is, the story could 
 not exist but for the coincidence with which it begins. 
 So "The Sire de Maletrolt's Door" rests on the 
 coincidence that Denis happened to be pursued by 
 soldiers and took refuge in the doorway, falling into 
 a trap prepared for some one else. Richard Har- 
 ding Davis's "The Boy Scout" grows out of the co- 
 incidence that the scout was given a lift by the Young 
 Man of Wall Street. The last-named story also 
 suggests that a train of events, however remark- 
 able, growing logically out of a coincidence accepted 
 as the base of the story will find acceptance with the 
 reader. 
 
 In the second place, coincidence may occur in 
 the rising action or dramatic climax of a story or 
 in the denouement, if it Is made to seem logical and 
 natural. In Mrs. Freeman's "A Humble Romance," 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 283 
 
 it is natural that the pedlar should meet at an inn 
 his former wife. This coincidence forms the dra- 
 matic climax of the story; it is momentous, but it is 
 well prepared for. Two persons travelling about 
 the country long enough may meet almost any one. 
 "The Outcasts of Poker Flat" contains the coinci- 
 dence which forms the dramatic climax: the out- 
 casts are on the trail at the time of a snow-storm. 
 The locale in this case furnishes the logic for the 
 coincidence. The snow-fall was natural to the place. 
 In "The Pin-Prick," May Sinclair uses coincidence 
 with a question-mark, thus suggesting a "problem" 
 story. Here is the situation : Daisy Valentine and 
 Frances Archdale were interrupted in an intimate 
 conversation by May Blissett. After they had let 
 May see they wished to be alone, she left. A few 
 hours later, the occupants of the studio apartment 
 found May Blissett dead. "She was lying on the 
 couch . . . dressed in her night-gown, with a sheet 
 drawn up to her chin. The whole place was dim 
 with the fog of the sulphur still burning." May 
 left a farewell letter to Frances; in which occurred 
 the passage: "Forgive me for stopping on like 
 that. It was very thick-skinned of me when I saw 
 you so happy there together. . . ." The result of 
 May's act upon the mind of Frances is to convince 
 her, Frances, that "if she had only sent Daisy Val- 
 entine away and kept May, May would have been 
 living and happy now." The question in the nar- 
 rator's mind and in the reader's, then, is this : Was 
 
284 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 May's reception, to her overcharged mind, not a 
 "pin-prick," but the "last straw"? If the latter 
 then, the case becomes one of coincidence, which 
 determines the tragedy, constituting as it does the 
 dramatic climax or turning point. 
 
 In the denouement, coincidence may be equally 
 convincing. The best instance of a story which suc- 
 ceeds mainly because of a singular concurrence in 
 the denouement is, in my opinion, "The BeUed Buz- 
 zard." Just at the time when the squire's nerves 
 had reached breaking point, just as he momentarily 
 awaited the jangling from the bell of the buzzard, 
 a little negro walked through the hall ringing an old 
 cow-bell. This coincidence is made to seem natural 
 from the clues. Irvin Cobb i. has Included the fact 
 that the buzzard had had a cow-bell attached 
 to its neck; 2. he has related also that the two men 
 as they drove up to the scene of the inquest saw 
 the child grubbing under a feed rack. The reader 
 scarcely takes note of either fact as he hurries on 
 over the story, but as soon as he sees the youngster 
 appear in the doorway, he recalls both the former 
 hints. Or perhaps he Is unconsciously satisfied, 
 because of the skilful management. In "The Exit 
 of Anse Dugmore," coincidence is used not quite 
 so effectively. In "A Walk Up the Avenue," Rich- 
 ard Harding Davis employs a logical coincidence in 
 the denouement; for after a break of the kind set 
 forth nothing could be more natural than that the 
 lady should have repaired to the former rendez- 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 285 
 
 vous. The argument for the gentleman's retreat 
 thither forms the preceding part of the narrative. 
 
 Coincidence may be used in its most serious sig- 
 nificance; as in "The Ambitious Guest," where the 
 fatalistic sense is uppermost. It may be employed 
 in a clever way, as in "A Charmed Life," where 
 (for the superstitious) its occurrence is shrewdly 
 explained by the use of charm or spell; or where 
 conversely (for the matter-of-fact mind) charm or 
 spell Is explained through trivial coincidence. It 
 may be used In a weak manner, as In "The Man 
 Who Could Not Lose," which becomes downright 
 farce, and In descending to farce drags the reader 
 along to the acceptance of the coincidence values. 
 Farce, or the lightly comic manner, will obviously 
 carry coincidence where the serious tone would fail. 
 
 But whatever the nature of the style, whether 
 serious or humorous, coincidence may be found at 
 any point in the story, provided it is rationalised. 
 Clues aid effectively In the task. Be sure of the 
 need and the purpose for coincidence, the method of 
 handling it, and then use it with a free, long arm. 
 
 In the foregoing pages, some attempt has been 
 made to meet the questions arising with regard to 
 the beginning, the middle and the end. The how, 
 the where, and the with what to begin must be met 
 by every writer of every story. But the specific 
 answer will fall under the answers herein set forth. 
 So the creating of an effective ending, an ever re- 
 
286 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 curring task, has been discussed with respect to in- 
 clusive methods. Proportion, tempo, suspense, clues, 
 and management of coincidence, problems of the 
 body of the story which must be solved for every 
 Individual narrative, have been studied, of necessity, 
 as a class. Finally, an object to keep in view Is the 
 harmonising of all the story elements. In general, 
 character, plot, and atmosphere should be adjusted 
 carefully to one another ; and in no less degree illus- 
 trations and figures, words, and sentence rhythm 
 should be so integrated as to produce a strong ef- 
 fect. 
 
 Exercises for Chapter XIV 
 
 Study the value of the integrating detail in "Ironstone," 
 by Phyllis Bottome; for example, in the denouement, 
 "Mary's lips moved, and her eyes darkened till they looked 
 as black as wet ironstone." 
 
 Frederick Stuart Greene's "The Bunker Mouse" is an 
 ocean story. After the author wrote that the voice of a cer- 
 tain character was like the purr of a tiger, he erased it. "It's 
 a jungle simile," he said. Was his rejection based on a 
 sound concept of the need for harmonious detail? 
 
 What values do you find in Kipling's "Mark of the 
 Beast," in the passage, . . . "though the Silver Man had 
 no face, you could see horrible feelings passing through the 
 slab that took its place, exactly as waves of heat play across 
 red-hot iron — gunbarrels for instance"? 
 
 Find other examples of minor details so introduced and 
 expressed as to strengthen the unity of effect. 
 
 Study Mrs. Deland's "Stuffed Animal House" for clues 
 
PROBLEMS OF COMPOSITION 287 
 
 and integration of elements. Notice the nice contrast be- 
 tween the settings — Miss Harriet's house and the circus tent. 
 
 Study the use of the crow in Gouverneur Morris's 
 "The Hoard" as a bird of omen (serving for dramatic fore- 
 cast) and as an integrative detail. 
 
 What is the clue to the denouement in Irvin Cobb's 
 "Blacker than Sin"? In Mrs. Freeman's "The Ring with 
 the Green Stone".? 
 
 What is the value of the curse as a clue in Donn Byrne's 
 "The Gryphon"? 
 
 How is the reader prepared for the main struggle in 
 Norman Duncan's "A Nice Little Morsel o' Dog Meat"? 
 
 How is suspense secured in the crucial situation of this 
 story by Mr. Duncan? 
 
 How is suspense secured in the beginning of "The Sui- 
 cide," by Anne D. Sedgwick? In the climax of Aldrich's 
 "A Struggle for Life"? Of James Lane Allen's "A Cathe- 
 dral Singer"? Of Connolly's "The Trawler"? Of Fannie 
 Hurst's "White Goods"? 
 
 Is the denouement of Norman Duncan's "A Point of Hon- 
 our" clear? 
 
 Holworthy Hall's "The Man Killer" begins: "There 
 are innumerable ways of beginning a story and only four 
 are absolutely unpardonable. This, of course, is one of the 
 four." What is his "way" in this story? How in "The 
 Luck of the Devil" does the narrator's comparison of Brown 
 and Smith prepare the reader? 
 
 In Alice Brown's "The House with the Tower" is the 
 advent of the storm over-propitious? 
 
 What devices of the author make "By Favour of the 
 Gods" {Harper's, 107: page 172) plausible? Has the title 
 contributory value? 
 
288 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Study the use of coincidence in these stories of O. Henry : 
 "The Green Door," "No Story," "Makes the Whole Worid 
 Kin," "The Church with an Overshot Wheel," "A Double 
 Dyed Deceiver," "Christmas by Injunction," "A Chaparral 
 Prince," "At Arms vi^ith Morpheus." 
 
 Study Thomas Hardy's "A Mere Interlude" for the ele- 
 ments of chance and coincidence; likewise "The Three 
 Strangers." 
 
 Study the use of coincidence in Henry James's "The Tone 
 of Time." 
 
 What makes plausible Richard Harding Davis's "The 
 Long Arm"? "A Walk up the Avenue".? "The Boy 
 Scout"? 
 
 Why is the coincidence easy of acceptance in Miss Jew- 
 ett's "The Queen's Twin"? 
 
 By what means does Leonard Merrick create surprise in 
 "The Bishop's Comedy"? in "The Back of Bohemia"? 
 
 Study the management of surprise in Barry Pain's "The 
 Marriage of Miranda." 
 
 On what hinge does surprise turn in Mrs. Wharton's 
 "Xingu"? 
 
 Account for the surprise in O. Henry's "Tobin's Palm," 
 "The World and the Door," "Christmas by Injunction," 
 "After Twenty Years." 
 
 Study Henry James, Edith Wharton, and Katherine Ful- 
 lerton Gerould for deliberate tempo; Fannie Hurst for 
 rapid tempo. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 A SHORT-STORY TYPE : THE GHOST STORY 
 
 Story of the supernatural good for investigation; reasons 
 for universal interest in ghosts; ghosts in fiction seem 
 natural and logical; a tentative classification; the ghost- 
 story of plot gives greatest satisfaction; reasons for 
 ghostly visitations; physiological appeal; first appeal to 
 sight; methods for creating vivid presentation; the tour 
 de force invisible ghost; exemplification of principles in 
 "The Phantom 'Rickshaw"; ghost story and dual per- 
 sonality illustrated in "The Triumph of Night" ; Henry 
 James a master of the ghost story; illustrations; a study 
 of "The Turn of the Screw"; the aftermath an aid to 
 convincing power. 
 
 Presenting the main principles and problems of 
 technique, this study would be incomplete without 
 examination of a definite story type. The detective 
 story has already illustrated plot development and 
 presentation, and for the avoidance of repetition 
 may be debarred from further service. The love 
 story might be chosen, but rarely enough in best 
 short-story literature does love supply the prevail- 
 ing interest. Love is found in the secondary line 
 of action, as in "The Negative Gravity," or more 
 
 289 
 
290 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 frequently in a losing struggle with duty or some 
 other ideal, as in Stevenson's "Olalla." For pres- 
 ent purposes the story of the supernatural offers a 
 better field for investigation. 
 
 Man doubtless will be interested in ghostology 
 until the last of the race has given up the ghost. 
 In the first place, phenomena beyond the probings 
 of philosophy allure man to the supernatural. He 
 sees through a glass darkly. The riddle of the uni- 
 verse, itself, as Lafcadio Hearn puts it, is a ghostly 
 mystery.^ From curiosity, which cannot be satisfied 
 by mere science, springs an attempt to pierce the 
 darkness and to solve the mystery. Intellect alone 
 creates a supernatural world. In the second place, 
 human affection, grieved at the passing of the be- 
 loved, strives to conquer sorrow by envisioning the 
 dead as living anew in some hereafter. Out of that 
 realm, the rustle of a wing or the touch of a hand 
 suffices to comfort. It is but a truism that all 
 heavens are ghostly, from the Elysium of the Greeks 
 to the supernatural plane of Sir Oliver Lodge's 
 "Raymond." As a corollary, all hells are ghostly. 
 Desire evokes the heavenly spirit, fear dreads the 
 one from hell. 
 
 Besides, there are persons who possess "nerves," 
 persons whose acute sensibilities enable them to see 
 what the average of men and women may not see. 
 
 ' "Interpretations of Literature," selected and edited with an in- 
 troduction by John Erskine, Ph. D., Dodd, Mead and Co., 191 5. 
 See "The Supernatural in Fiction," II, 90. 
 
A SHORT-STORY TYPE 291 
 
 Does not one give to them, and to clairvoyants, a 
 certain degree of credence — even though one may 
 dispose of the vision as a mental projection? Does 
 not one discuss the subjective manifestation as though 
 it were in very truth objective? 
 
 Finally, how can the evidence of the camera be 
 doubted? "Vicar Says He Took Picture of Ghost 
 . . . Plate Reveals Old Man . . . Wraith Has 
 'Flowing Beard and Abundant Hair.' " These are 
 head-lines from the New York Times, March 21, 
 1916. 
 
 From the above brief suggestions, it is evident 
 that universal, every-day interest in ghosts, alone, 
 will warrant their appearance in fiction. It is not 
 even necessary to fall back on the truth that fiction, 
 governed by laws of its own, may justifiably create 
 its own world with fit inhabitants. For a considera- 
 tion of the ghost story enforces the recognition that 
 most of the apparitions presented are such as may 
 appear to any one at any time. They are so sub- 
 stantiated by laws of reason that even the doubter 
 may not scoff. Let us look, then, at a tentative 
 classification : 
 
 1. The ghost which appears to the sick mind; for example, 
 
 "The Phantom 'Rickshaw." 
 
 2. The ghost which appears to the clairvoyant ; for example, 
 
 E. Nesbit's "The Mystery of the Semi-Detached." 
 ^. The ghost which is evoked by one who desires it; for 
 
 example, Kipling's "They." 
 4. The "problematic" ghost, or the apparition which may 
 
292 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 be explained either as material or ghostly, or not at all 
 satisfactorily; for example, Fitz James O'Brien's 
 "What Was It? A Mystery." 
 
 5. The "bona fide" ghost, or the wraith which is ofiered in 
 
 good faith as a visitant; for example, "The Turn of 
 the Screw," by Henry James. 
 
 6. The "humorous" ghost; for example, Stockton's "The 
 
 Transferred Ghost." 
 
 7. The "hoax" ghost, which is none. Kipling's "My Own 
 
 True Ghost Story," is a modern example. 
 
 For the sake of economy, I offer only one example 
 under each heading; but the reader will supply read- 
 ily other instances. 
 
 Formerly, the presence of a spirit, the phenome- 
 non, sufficed to hold a reader, particularly if the 
 "atmosphere" was emphasised. But nowadays it 
 is the ghost story of plot, the story which explains 
 the presence of the spirit, which gives greatest satis- 
 faction. In general — though let it be understood 
 that the best story will show definite complication 
 and solution illustrating these motives — these are the 
 reasons for the appearances: 
 
 I. Punishment. The dogs in Mrs. Wharton's 
 "Kerfol" which had been killed one after the other 
 by their cruel master returned in a ghostly pack and 
 took his life. At the time of vengeance, they ap- 
 peared only to the wife of the villain, a woman who 
 died "harmlessly mad." But they are visible now '") 
 the stranger who visits Kerfol, and are accepted 1/y 
 the community. 
 
A SHORT-STORY TYPE 293 
 
 2. Warning. The good spirit in "The Inn of the 
 Two Witches," by Joseph Conrad; the bad ghost in 
 "The Triumph of Night." 
 
 3. Human companionship , or comfort. The evil 
 ones In "The Turn of the Screw"; the good, In 
 "They." 
 
 4. Shadows of coming events. Mrs. Gerould's 
 "On the Staircase." Such spirits, in retrospect, 
 appear to have been ghosts of doom, worse even 
 than the punishing spirits. 
 
 Then, there is the genius loci ghost, the familiar 
 spirit of a place or object. His origin is apparently 
 ancient; he is as old as Aladdin's Lamp. In some 
 modern instances, such a spirit seems unable to free 
 himself of the influence which caused his doom. 
 Algernon Blackwood's volume, "The Empty 
 House," brings together a whole congregation of 
 such ghosts. 
 
 Now, the physiological appeal of these ghostly 
 personalities must be — for effect on the reader — 
 not less strong than the psychological. Seeing is 
 believing. 
 
 But so is touching: "Except I shall see . . . 
 and put my finger Into the print of the nails ... I 
 will not believe." The most convincing of ghost- 
 story writers has prepared a case against the doubt- 
 ing Thomas : 
 
 "The little brushing kiss fell in the centre of my palm — • 
 as a gift on which the fingers were, once, expected to close : 
 as the all-faithful, half-reproachful signal of a waiting child 
 
294 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 not used to neglect even^when grown-ups were busiest — a 
 fragment of the mute code devised very long ago. 
 "Then I knew. . . ." 
 
 So it was that Kipling's child spirit made its presence 
 felt through physical contact. 
 
 O. Henry's gentle ghost of "The Furnished 
 Room" manifested itself through the fragrance of 
 mignonette. It was as though in striving to cross 
 the bounds between the living and the dead the 
 spirit found that the easiest way . . . Only as a 
 voice did Tom appear in "The Inn of the Two 
 Witches," "Mr. Byrne, look out, sir!" A strik- 
 ing appeal to the sense of sight is that of Mrs. Free- 
 man's ghost in "The Shadows on the Wall." The 
 shade of the shade, in this story, was easier of ac- 
 complishment by the spirit than the shade in per- 
 son. 
 
 Since sight, however, is the first of the senses, 
 most writers make to it a brave appeal. Of course, 
 the presentation of a picture is the technical aim, 
 and the force of this presentation is in direct propor- 
 tion to the author's skill in description. This is 
 hardly the time or the place to enter upon a tech- 
 nical study of description. But for best effect in 
 realisation of the ghost, here are some of the points 
 to keep in mind: 
 
 1. Make an accurate setting. A staircase, a roadway, a 
 
 room, a tower, a window. 
 
 2. Create a definite outline and position. Miss Jessel on 
 
A SHORT-STORY TYPE 295 
 
 the staircase, "in an attitude of woe," Quint at the 
 window, cut off by the lower frame. 
 
 3. Repeat the ghostly appearance. The second self or other 
 
 personality of John Lavington comes twice ("The Tri- 
 umph of Night") ; the Upper Berth ghost of Marion 
 Crawford comes repeatedly. 
 
 4. If the ghost appears but once, let the visitation be at- 
 
 tended by results which compel belief. The sequence 
 of events in "On the Staircase" and the aftermath of 
 the ghost-ship's visit (Richard Middleton's "The 
 Ghost-Shin" "* are examples. 
 
 Another daring Innovation represents the spirit 
 appearing and talking, in broad daylight, exactly as 
 the flesh-and-blood prototype might have done. In 
 such Instances, emphasis Is placed on the natural- 
 ness of the phenomenon. 
 
 But a tour de force of "objectlficatlon" Is that 
 made by the "Mystery" of Fitz James O'Brien. It 
 had strength to wrestle with two men; it made on 
 the bed where It was flung and bound a deep im- 
 pression ; It held in circular distention a rope around 
 Its "waist." Yet It was invisible. Moreover, In 
 spite of the invisibility, it showed "form" in the 
 cast which was made of it. Perhaps In spite of 
 these contradictions, there is no reader who will not 
 continue the story to completion. 
 
 If these theories and principles are worth any- 
 thing, they will find exemplification in any story pop- 
 ularly termed "good." Since any reader will grant 
 that a sick mind may be obsessed, let us examine 
 
296 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 for interest a story of this variety. "The Phantom 
 'Rickshaw" is admittedly one of the best examples. 
 The story, it will be recalled, runs as follows: 
 Jack Pansay in Her Majesty's employ in India, 
 while returning to that country after a furlough at 
 home, meets on the boat one Mrs. Agnes Keith- Wes- 
 sington. A love affair develops, with a not uncom- 
 mon sequel. After some months of association in 
 Simla, Pansay tires of the woman. Later, he falls 
 in love with Kitty Mannering. A week after his 
 engagement is announced, Mrs. Keith-Wessington 
 dies. Later, when riding with Kitty on the road 
 where he had last seen Agnes, he meets her 'rick- 
 shaw and coolies. To his unutterable horror he 
 sees Kitty and her horse "pass through men and 
 carriage as if they had been thin air." The visita- 
 tion appears again, and Pansay puts himself in 
 charge of Dr. Heatherlegh. "Eyes, Pansay, all 
 Eyes, Brain, and Stomach. And the greatest of 
 these three is Stomach." The remedy is com- 
 pounded of pills, cold baths, and exercise. After 
 the doctor believes Pansay is cured, the officer 
 rides out again with Kitty. Meeting the 'rickshaw, 
 as before, he breaks down. "I have an indistinct 
 idea that I dragged Kitty by the wrist along the road 
 up to where It stood, and implored her for pity's 
 sake to speak to It. ... As I talked, I suppose I 
 must have told Kitty of my old relations with Mrs. 
 Wessington, for I saw her listen intently with white 
 face and blazing eyes." Kitty throws Pansay over; 
 
A SHORT-STORY TYPE 297 
 
 he dies, the victim of a vision, and with the recog- 
 nition that he deserves the punishment meted out 
 to him. 
 
 The story holds the reader, as good stories 
 should hold, by the narrative values. There are two 
 lines of interest subtly intertwined. The primary 
 line is that of the struggle between Pansay and the 
 ghost: the former conquers. The secondary line 
 is that of his love for Kitty and hers for him. The 
 action and interaction of the characters bring about 
 the entanglement of the two lines, and the solution, 
 or, in this story, the debacle. Suspense is aroused, 
 first, as to how long Jack can prevent Kitty's know- 
 ing; second, as to what she will do; third, as to 
 whether Jack will be cured ; fourth, as to the outcome 
 of the struggle. 
 
 Though the apparition was purely subjective, as 
 is indicated by the fact that nobody else saw it (not 
 even the horses perceived anything unusual; and 
 animals are peculiarly sensitive to ghosts. In "The 
 Return of Imray," the dog Tietjens knows), though 
 this is true, still the author has taken the trouble 
 to picture the 'rickshaw and its occupant so well that 
 the memory of the picture persists for the reader as 
 of something he has himself seen many times. Kip- 
 ling creates the place, or setting: 
 
 "The scene and its surroundings were photographed on 
 my memory. The rain-swept sky, the sodden, dingy pines, 
 the muddy road, and the black, powder-riven clifEs formed 
 a gloomy background. . . ." 
 
298 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 The 'rickshaw stands out clearly against this back- 
 ground; the reader sees it vividly, and returns to it 
 mentally on the reappearance of Agnes. Again, he 
 invites attention by the uniqueness of his ghostly 
 company: a black and yellow 'rickshaw, drawn by 
 four coolies; in the seat, a woman reclining against 
 the cushions, handkerchief in left hand. These sa- 
 lient details are etched on the reader's mind. They 
 are as clear as the notches on the stick of Robinson 
 Crusoe. Finally, Kipling has employed the prin- 
 ciple of repetition. Every time the scene is the 
 road; the outline of the 'rickshaw party is the same; 
 the colors are always those of the 'rickshaw "in life" ; 
 on every occasion the ghost of Agnes utters the same 
 words. One cannot forget them if he would. 
 
 The use of the first person, the "I" narrator, is 
 supposed to carry conviction. But this trick has 
 been employed too long to be regarded as more than 
 a convention. KipHng might as well have told It 
 all in the third person. Compare, for example, with 
 this method, that of Mrs. Wharton in "The Tri- 
 umph of Night." The difference between the first 
 and the third persons is, in my opinion, in favour of 
 the American story.- It is as though the author added 
 her word to the word of George Faxon. 
 
 In the story of the supernatural some manifesta- 
 tion of dual personality frequently finds place. Poe's 
 "William Wilson," Stevenson's "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. 
 Hyde," Wells's "The Story of the Late Mr. Elve- 
 sham" all offer fascinating study to those who care 
 
A SHORT-STORY TYPE 299 
 
 to pursue this topic. But "The Triumph of Night," 
 by Edith Wharton, heads the list for contemporary 
 interest and significance. 
 
 George Faxon arrives at a deserted railroad sta- 
 tion on a blustering winter evening, expecting to 
 be met by some one from the household of Mrs. 
 Culme, who has engaged him as her private secre- 
 tary. Just as he has given up hope, two sleighs ar- 
 rive, from one of which a young man advances. He 
 has come not from Mrs. Culme, but from the home 
 of his uncle, John Lavington, the John Lavington, 
 and he is awaiting the arrival of the next train, which 
 brings two friends of Lavington. The young man, 
 Frank Rainer, suggests that Faxon spend the night 
 at Overdale. While they wait, Faxon has time to 
 observe the physical weakness of young Rainer. 
 Rainer says his uncle has been a "regular brick" to 
 him ; that when on account of threatened tuberculosis 
 Rainer had been packed off, almost, to Mexico, the 
 Uncle had got another doctor with another opinion, 
 who said New York would do well enough. His 
 speech ends in a spasm of coughing, and when he 
 removes his glove to grope for a handkerchief, 
 Faxon notices that his hand is "long, colourless, 
 wasted." The four men drive to Overdale, where 
 John Lavington appears, a "small figure, correctly 
 dressed, conventionally featured." Rainer leaves 
 Faxon to himself, after bidding him descend to the 
 dining-room. Faxon, by error, wanders into his 
 host's study. There, the party is assembled to wit- 
 
300 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 ness Ralner's "last will and testament," which has 
 been drawn up on his coming of age. As Faxon is 
 requested also to witness, he remains. Just as he is 
 wondering whether the host has ever noticed the 
 "dead" hand of his nephew, he becomes sensible of 
 another presence, a man of about Mr. Lavington's 
 age and figure, just behind his chair. At the mo- 
 ment Faxon first sees him he is gazing at young 
 Rainer with a fixed intensity of regard. The like- 
 ness between the two men strikes Faxon the more 
 because of the contrast in their expression. John 
 Lavington observes his nephew with a look of half- 
 amused affection; the man behind the chair faces 
 the boy with pale hostility. So startled is Faxon 
 he finds it difficult to move; but, recalled to the 
 situation, he signs his name. On looking up, he 
 perceives that the figure is gone. 
 
 At the dinner table, later, Faxon notices that 
 there are places for only five, and wonders about 
 the stranger. The conversation turns to rumours 
 of the stock market; from a number of slight epi- 
 sodes it is evident that Lavington is nervous because 
 of the reported situation. When the discussion cen- 
 tres about Frank's state of health, some one ad- 
 vises him to go at once to Mexico. Lavington sug- 
 gests, "Perhaps Grisben's right. It's an opportu- 
 nity " At this speech, the figure again ap- 
 pears behind Lavington's chair. Lavington gazes 
 affectionately at his nephew; his shadow fixes young 
 Rainer with eyes of deadly menace. Faxon now 
 
A SHORT-STORY TYPE 301 
 
 recognises what has been vouchsafed him; for no- 
 body else sees the figure. He dashes out of the 
 room, on some pretext, and makes his escape. 
 Shortly after, he is overtaken by Rainer, who says : 
 "My uncle thought I'd done something to offend 
 you." The night walk proves too much for Frank's 
 strength. When they arrive at the house of the 
 lodge-keeper, he faints. 
 
 Faxon "knelt down to undo the fur collar about 
 Rainer's throat, and as he did so he felt a warm 
 moisture on his hands. He held them up and they 
 were red. ..." 
 
 The rest of the story needed by way of denoue- 
 ment portrays George Faxon in the realisation that 
 he had been singled out to warn and save and had 
 closed his eyes to the powers of pity. 
 
 Obviously, there were two sides to Lavington's 
 feeling for his nephew. He had, on the one hand, 
 affection for him ; on the other, a desire for his death. 
 The evil conquered. 
 
 If the tests mentioned in connection with "The 
 Phantom 'Rickshaw" be applied here, they will yield 
 equally satisfactory results. I would call especial 
 attention to the effective position of the figure be- 
 hind the chair. From the very nearness of the fig- 
 ure (the subliminal Lavington) to the real Laving- 
 ton, the contrast in their countenances is the more 
 marked. The repetition is also compelling. 
 
 The ghost is, however, a "sick-mind" ghost. The 
 weakened condition of Faxon made his nerves more 
 
303 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 sensitive to the apparition; he, and only he, saw it. 
 
 Henry James always found the ghost story the 
 best form of fairy tale. He has his story of dual 
 personality in "The Jolly Corner," the ancestral 
 ghost in "The Third Person" (the gentleman had 
 been hanged, and refused to be "laid" until the 
 maidens to whom he appeared also committed the 
 crime of smuggling) , the "evoked" ghost in "Maud- 
 Evelyn" (wherein, paradox of paradoxes, the ghost 
 marries and subsequently dies), and best of all the 
 "bona fide" ghost in "The Turn of the Screw." 
 This story may be, for many persons, a story of 
 clairvoyance ; I believe Mr. James meant the ghosts 
 actually to exist, though without being visible to 
 every one. Since Kipling and Henry James are the 
 masters of the modern ghost story, and since one of 
 the Anglo-Indian author's tales has just been used 
 to illustrate in detail his power, I shall exemplify 
 the "bona fide" stories with one by the American- 
 English writer. If there were space, Kipling's 
 "They" ought to be analysed as an example of the 
 "evoked" ghost. 
 
 "The Turn of the Screw" is an atmosphere story 
 of pronounced merit; yet as the interest lies, rather, 
 in the explanation of the demonic spirits, it is not 
 without value as plot narrative. Let us consider it 
 from the following points: 
 
 Preparing the reader for the visitations; actually 
 presenting them, and with convicting power; the 
 result of the visitation. 
 
A SHORT-STORY TYPE 303 
 
 Mr. James, then, attacks the reader's credulity by 
 opening his story in a matter-of-fact way. At a 
 party where ghosts are being discussed, some one 
 tells of a child that was haunted; another person, 
 Douglas, knew of two children who were so perse- 
 cuted. The requests for the story lead to Doug- 
 las's promise that he will send for and read the 
 manuscript written by the governess of the haunted 
 children. By the time it arrives, the reader is ready 
 — ^with the household and assembled guests — to 
 hear what has been recorded as fact and is offered 
 here as fact by one who knew the writer. This "I- 
 got-it-from-him-who-got-it-from-her" is an old de- 
 vice for inducing belief. By the time the reader has 
 ventured easily through two or three doors, he finds 
 himself in a new world, one governed by laws of its 
 own. As a result of such induction, the immediate 
 present fades; the world of fancy takes its place. 
 
 Here, then, are the steps in the finely graduated 
 scale whereby the author prepares for something 
 out of the ordinary : 
 
 1. The gentleman, uncle of the children, in engaging the 
 
 governess, stipulated that he did not wish to be trou- 
 bled; the house and children were in Bly, Essex; the 
 uncle lived in London. 
 
 2. When the governess arrived at Bly, Mrs. Grose, the 
 
 housekeeper, was glad as if relieved. 
 
 3. On the evening of the first day, the governess heard and 
 
 felt things, — the cry of a child, faint footsteps. 
 
304 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 4. She learned that the little boy, Miles, had been dis- 
 
 missed from school, because of "injury to others." 
 
 5. She was told that the former governess had died. 
 
 6. After a peaceful time, there came a change which was 
 
 like the spring of a beast. "Remarkable things pres- 
 ently gave their first sign." 
 
 Now the ghostly appearances, given seriatim, are 
 each so vividly presented as to create a permanent 
 impression. 
 
 Vision Number i : a man on top of the tower. 
 
 The reality of this impression is achieved by the 
 governess first thinking there is some one in the 
 house about whom she has not been told. Second, 
 she conceives that a tourist has taken a liberty. 
 
 Vision Number 2: the same man outside the dining-room 
 window. The governess sees him from within. 
 
 The window serves as a frame, to strengthen the 
 picture effect. So strong is the impression this 
 time, that the governess acts on it. It is borne in 
 upon her that he has come for some one else. Mrs. 
 Grose enters the dining-room, and sees the gov- 
 erness outside; she runs out and intercepts the gov- 
 erness as the latter had tried to meet the ghost. 
 Here, the effect of reality is doubled, by substituting 
 the real woman for the ghost man. Between the 
 housekeeper and the governess a scene follows, in 
 which Mrs. Grose says that from the description of 
 
A SHORT-STORY TYPE 305 
 
 the intruder, he is Quint, the master's valet, an evil 
 man. She concludes by saying that he had been 
 found dead, as if from a stone cut caused by a fall. 
 "Yes, Mr. Quint is dead." 
 
 Vision Number 3: This visitation occurs by the "Sea of 
 Azof" (a pond in the grounds). Flora tries to prevent 
 the governess's knowing that she, Flora, sees the ghost 
 of Miss Jessel. The woman is in black, "pale and 
 dreadful, on the other side of the lake." 
 
 After this episode, the governess talks with Mrs. 
 Grose and hears from her that there was "every- 
 thing" between Quint and Jessel. The governess 
 fears the children are "lost." 
 
 Up to this point in the story, the author has been 
 doling out the necessary exposition, giving the 
 reader just enough to understand clearly the next 
 step. Now, as the governess writes, "I have at 
 last reached the heart of the mystery" : Quint and 
 Jessel are haunting the little boy and girl. 
 
 Vision Number 4: The governess meets Quint in the early 
 morning on the staircase. The meeting is significant in 
 that the governess feels terror leave her, and knows that 
 she will be capable of enduring the visitations for the 
 sake of her charges. Quint walks away down the stair- 
 case. 
 
 Vision Number 5 : Miss Jessel on the staircase. 
 
 The governess becomes convinced that the children 
 are playing a game of policy and fraud. "The cur- 
 
3o6 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 tain rose on the last act of my dreadful drama, and 
 the catastrophe was precipitated." (In this in- 
 stance, the author puts into the mouth of his nar- 
 rator his own concept of the story as a play. 
 "Dramatise!" "Dramatise!" he constantly urges. 
 
 Miles wishes to know when he is going back to 
 school. The fencing match in which the two en- 
 gage is one of the cleverest sparring passages in 
 short-story literature. 
 
 Vision Number 6: The governess, on entering the study, 
 sees Miss Jessel seated at the table. 
 
 After this visit, the governess declares to Mrs. 
 Grose that the children are possessed by Quint and 
 Jessel, who are suffering the horrors of the damned, 
 and want the children to share their torments. An- 
 other dialogue between Miles and the governess is 
 filled with double entendres. At the end of the 
 scene, as the governess exclaims, "I just want you 
 to help me to save you !" the candle Is blown out, 
 while the boy shrieks "between terror and jubila- 
 tion." 
 
 Finally, the governess writes for an interview 
 with the master. She leaves the letter lying on the 
 hall table, while with the housekeeper she goes in 
 search of Flora. They observe that she has rowed 
 across to the farther side of the lake. The gov- 
 erness overtakes her, by walking around the lake, 
 and ultimately asks, "Where, my pet, is Miss Jes- 
 sel?" Miss Jessel appears, again. In 
 
A SHORT-STORY TYPE 307 
 
 Vision Number 7: She stands, as before, by the lake; ob- 
 viously Flora sees her, as does the governess. Mrs, 
 Grose is exempt. 
 
 Flora turns shrieking from the governess, and is 
 taken into the house by Mrs. Grose. She never 
 sees the governess again; for it is decided that 
 Mrs. Grose shall take her away from Bly. 
 
 Vision Number 8: Again, the figure of Quint at the 
 window. 
 
 Miles and the governess are in the dining room. 
 She tries to elicit from him that he took the letter. 
 The ghost of Quint looks in, as before. The gov- 
 erness turns the child away, that he may not be 
 enticed. When he confesses, after an agony, that 
 he stole the letter, the ghost disappears. 
 
 Vision Number 9: A final reappearance at the window. 
 
 The governess again conquers, in the struggle for 
 the boy's soul. Miles, however, dies under the dis- 
 possession. Here, then, ends the story. 
 
 The technically perfect effects in description are 
 too obvious for comment. They indent themselves 
 upon the reader's mind with the sharpness of an 
 engraver's tool. Not easily will they be erased. 
 
 Rather note here, as at the end of other good 
 ghost stories, the aftermath of conviction. The 
 boy dies, in the supreme effort to free himself from 
 the spirit's domination. From this single instance, 
 
3o8 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 which may be expressed in general terms, as the ef- 
 fect on character of the visitation, it is but a step 
 to a series of methods whereby conviction may be 
 gained through the aftermath. Sometimes a warn- 
 ing or a prophecy is fulfilled, as in "The Inn of the 
 Two Witches" and "On the Staircase." In other 
 stories, indisputable evidence compels belief; for 
 example, the cast in the "Mystery" of O'Brien. 
 Again, paradoxically enough, the destruction of evi- 
 dence is peculiarly convincing; as in Kipling's "At 
 the End of the Passage," where the destroying of 
 the photographic plate seems to say that it bore 
 the record of The Thing Hummil saw. W. W. 
 Jacobs's "The Monkey's Paw" is particularly grati- 
 fying in this respect. After the son's spirit has 
 been evoked by the use of the paw, the father — ^who 
 has "worked" the charm — uses it to make his third 
 and last wish ; for he does not desire his wife to see 
 the apparition. The knocking ceases ; for the return 
 has been negated by the same spell which caused it. 
 Moreover, such an ending offers satisfaction to the 
 reader who persists, after all, in being a sceptic.^ 
 
 ' For further study of the ghost story, see Dr. Dorothy Scar- 
 borough's "The Supernatural in Modern English Fiction," Put- 
 nam's, 1 91 7. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 POPULARITY AND LONGEVITY 
 
 Culture of reader a factor in author's popularity; extremes 
 of reading types ; their common ground of interest ; pub- 
 lishers of iiction satisfy certain demands; striking inci- 
 dent, sentiment, exploitation of sex, humour; reality of 
 the present and romance of the remote ; Russian realism ; 
 Hamlin Garland ; trench realism versus trench romance ; 
 demand for rapid action, strong passions, substance rather 
 than form marks the popular audience; qualities of 
 originality and style with reference to popularity and 
 to longevity; Elizabeth Stuart Phelps's testimony; stu- 
 dent's answer representative; originality, emotional 
 appeal, and simplicity of style make for longevity; 
 greatness. 
 
 Let us assume that the story writer intends to 
 make his appeal to the public of to-day in the fore- 
 most centres of civilisation. It is clear that the 
 comparative culture of the reader will enter as a 
 factor into the sum of an author's popularity. What 
 Mr. William Dean Howells terms the "boudoir 
 audience" will represent one extreme; the vulgar 
 crowd, the other. Choosing Henry James and O. 
 Henry as thoroughly representative and well-known 
 
 309 
 
3IO A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 writers, we shall have no difficulty in answering the 
 questions, Which of the two will appeal to the bou- 
 doir audience? Which to the crowd? Which will 
 number more readers from one extreme of the scale 
 to the other ? Nor will the obvious answer discrim- 
 inate against either of the authors: it is fair to say 
 that Henry James is popular with thousands of 
 readers, O. Henry with hundreds of thousands. 
 The tastes of the reading extremes meet in their 
 common interest in humanity; both desire pictures 
 of life and a compelling narrative. Individual pic- 
 tures will not serve for both alike ; nor will the same 
 narrative compel, alike; nevertheless, in general, 
 these are the common grounds. 
 
 To satisfy as far as possible the range of taste in 
 a given audience a publisher of fiction usually tries 
 to meet the demands for i. Striking incident. The 
 Incident may be striking from a subtly psychological 
 consideration or as a lurid motion picture climax is 
 striking. But exciting incident the reader must 
 have. 2. Sentiment. Hereunder, sentiment may 
 range from mushiness to profoundest emotion. The 
 audience at one end of the scale will require more 
 real feeling on the author's part, more of living 
 flame in the characters, less obviousness of emotional 
 machinery than will satisfy the other extreme. 3. 
 Exploitation of sex. The sex story in America has 
 supposedly declined in recent years; but not until 
 after America definitely cast her lot with the Allies, 
 and our magazines pronounced a demand for "war 
 
POPULARITY AND LONGEVITY 311 
 
 stuff," unpleasant as well as pleasant, had we any 
 perceptible diminution of the appeal found in the 
 salacious. 4. Humour. This quality will be de- 
 manded from the extreme which is able to appre- 
 ciate only overt merriment and horse-play, to the 
 extreme which prefers it as a subtle interfusion 
 throughout serious discourse. Humour leavens the 
 lump, and the audience requires it. 
 
 The popular story reflects the present in time; it 
 is romantic in that it often uses a remote setting, ex- 
 alted characters, and an atmosphere of mystery; it 
 is characterised by rapidity of action and dramatic 
 form; it sets forth a striking incident; it exploits 
 strong and elemental passions; it abounds in vivid 
 detail; it draws by its matter rather than by its 
 manner. Realism, Russian realism, for example, is 
 not popular : it deals with the lives of the lowly, — 
 peasants, poor students, criminals; it emphasises 
 the sordidness and ugliness of life, the trivialities 
 of everyday existence, often made revolting through 
 the author's naturalistic point of view. The dis- 
 cerning reader recognises in realism, however, a 
 powerful reflection of what the average mind scorns 
 as low and disgusting; he recognises that a reflection 
 of life to be complete must be viewed from many 
 angles and through many eyes. And this totality of 
 reflection is found in the short-story only through the 
 media of many stories and many authors. Ham- 
 lin Garland has recorded the history of the middle 
 west pioneers in a series of undoubted merit: "Main 
 
312 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Travelled Roads." The portrait of Grant McLane 
 is too sordidly drawn for the average reader's en- 
 joyment; that of Haskins is too painful to look upon. 
 The muck of the barnyard, the slavish labour to pay 
 off the mortgage, the grimy, perspiring, unwashed 
 bodies flung down to the brief rest of the night, — 
 such details fail to entertain him. Their sordid- 
 ness is nowhere rendered endurable by their eleva- 
 tion to high tragedy. The daily life of the soldier, 
 for example, has always the possibility of noble ad- 
 venture; the mud and vermin of trenches but em- 
 phasise by contrast a heroic act. A reader in his 
 arm-chair at home finds them a sympathy-compelling 
 but not disagreeable realistic addition to his fiction. 
 To the soldier, on the other hand, romance Is some- 
 thing quite different from his own experiences. "It's 
 all about chiffon the boys are talking," says, In ef- 
 fect, Barrle's Kenneth.^ 
 
 Hand In hand with the desire for remoteness of 
 place, or place at a remove from daily experience, 
 and for nobility of character with the atmosphere 
 of mystery, there is a preference for the reflection of 
 the present. One has but to test the truth of this 
 statement on any numbers of whatever contemporary 
 magazines he may select. It is a preference hav- 
 ing Its roots in "up-to-dateness," and the fact that 
 the short-story Is suited to reflect conditions which 
 have In part determined it as the present day genre. 
 
 Rapidity of action was observed to be a charac- 
 
 ^"The Old Lady Shows Her Medals." 
 
POPULARITY AND LONGEVITY 313 
 
 teristic of popularity. "Henry James is too slow," 
 you hear from the reader who prefers shooting the 
 rapids of swift action. O. Henry, Kipling, and 
 Fannie Hurst please the general audience in flashing 
 individual pictures quickly or skimming fleetly over 
 the stage of interest. With striking incident or 
 thrilling situation, strong and elemental passions 
 will be preferred: strong love, strong hate, strong 
 revenge ; and altogether substance, rather than form, 
 will be demanded by a representative of the "popu- 
 lar" audience. 
 
 Certain of these requisites every story writer does 
 well to supply. But if he would live longer than a 
 day, he must add other characteristics. It has been 
 implied that the popular reader cares nothing for 
 originality; the theme may be banal, the situation 
 trite. He cares nothing for style. But the ele- 
 ments of originality and style must exist In the work 
 which survives even for an epoch. Added to the 
 best of the popular elements, they contribute favour- 
 ably to the chances for a writer's longevity. Eliza- 
 beth Stuart Phelps,^ writing on stories that stay, 
 emphasises force of impression from "Some sur- 
 prise of shock or novelty; some hell or heaven of 
 human feeling, or some grip of absolute strength." 
 As an instance of stories that have stayed, she recalls 
 one wherein occurred the startling passage : "I must 
 have died at ten minutes past one." So the reader 
 of Richard Middleton's "On the Brighton Road" 
 
 'Century, November, 1910. 
 
314 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 will be shocked by the last words, "I died at Craw- 
 ley this morning. ..." Instancing the heaven of 
 human feeling, Mrs. Phelps cites "The Brushwood 
 Boy." 
 
 Testing this theory that longevity depends partly 
 upon shock or grip of strength, or hell or heaven of 
 human feeling, the present writer asked a class of 
 adults for a list of stories which had lingered with 
 them throughout a number of years. Here is part 
 of a paper characterising the stories that had 
 remained with one man, whose answers I reproduce 
 by permission : 
 
 I. "A Child's Dream of a Star," by Charles Dickens. 
 
 First I place this story. In doing so I brush aside all 
 technical definitions of the short-story, all thoughts of strug- 
 gle, of complication, of Brunetiere's law of the drama, of 
 "the stark assertion of the hero's will." In sublimity of 
 theme, in simplicity of style, in poetic feeling, in sympathetic 
 revelation of the one transcendent longing of the soul, this 
 story has impressed me as the greatest of all short-fiction. 
 "He grew to be a young man; and the star was shining. 
 . . . He grew to be an old man ; and the star was shining." 
 It is thirty years since I read this story, but the haunting 
 refrain will abide as long as life lasts. "And the star was 
 still shining; and it shines above his grave." 
 
 Only one other story has remained in my memory from 
 early youth. It is entitled "Petherick's Peril,'' and was 
 published in The Youth's Companion. The author I do 
 not remember. Undoubtedly it impressed me on account of 
 the thrilling situation of the hero. A young man had let 
 
POPULARITY AND LONGEVITY 315 
 
 himself down over a cliff above the sea by means of a rope, 
 and was intent on hunting birds' eggs upon a narrow ledge, 
 when suddenly the ledge broke off and fell into the sea. 
 The man was left clinging terror-stricken on a few inches 
 of rock with the rope hanging a few feet beyond his reach. 
 Hundreds of feet below the waves were dashing against the 
 cliff, and his brain reeled at the thought that he would soon 
 fall headlong into that pitiless surge. It seemed that he 
 clung there for ages, his fingers slowly relaxing their grip 
 on the rock, his consciousness gradually leaving him — and 
 in his ears the wild cries of the birds, and the murmurs of 
 an approaching storm. There was only one thing to do. 
 He looked toward the rope — and then "jumped straight out 
 over the heaving Atlantic." Yes, he caught it — but it began 
 to slip from its fastening above ! Slip, slip, slip. He thrust 
 himself through the noose at the end. Fainting — at last 
 unconscious — ^he hung swaying. Yes, somebody pulled him 
 up. C. H. T. 
 
 Let this stand as representative : stories of original 
 and striking incident, strong emotional appeal, and 
 unadorned simplicity of style will endure. By 
 longevity, however, let us not understand greatness. 
 Only that is great in literature which, according to 
 Professor William P. Trent, "has produced large, 
 important, influential, permanent, original, and 
 unique results both in ourselves and in a majority 
 of readers and critics, past and present." 
 
3i6 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Questions of the Critic 
 
 Does this narrative tell one story? What is it? Do you 
 receive a single impression? If more than one, is the story 
 therefore unsatisfactory ? 
 
 Is there a chase, an obstacle to remove, or some other 
 struggle? What is it? Does the story show? a clearly de- 
 fined initial incident? dramatic climax? climax of action? 
 Is the end skilfully linked to the beginning? Howr? Are 
 the lines of interest effectively combined to form a well- 
 v(rrought plot? Is the denouement satisfactory ? 
 
 What is the method of presentation? Is the author a 
 partisan of objectivity or does he exercise omniscience over 
 the minds of his characters ? Is the method first chosen con- 
 tinued throughout? If the point of view is changed, is 
 there a corresponding gain? What are the advantages of 
 the "spot light" method? of the "X-ray" method? 
 
 How much time is consumed in the action? How much 
 change of place? Could the story be improved by a closer 
 limitation of time and place? Does its nature demand that 
 time and place be extended? If the action ranges widely 
 over time and place, is there a disintegration of the short- 
 story type or genre? Is "local colour," including dialect, 
 handled with discrimination? 
 
 How many characters are involved in the action? Are 
 they "real"? Who is the main character? Is there a pas- 
 sive character necessary to the action? A pivotal character 
 necessary to the turning of the action? What is the relation 
 between the main character in the main thread of action 
 and the main character in the minor thread? Are their 
 parts properly subordinated? Are there too many char- 
 acters for short-story effect? 
 
QUESTIONS OF THE CRITIC 317 
 
 Do the characters talk in character? Is the dialogue 
 choppy or is it closely knit? Which method of charac- 
 terisation is employed to the greatest extent: description, 
 action, conversation, effect on others, etc.? Are the char- 
 acters anywhere "out of line"? Do their actions and reac- 
 tions seem natural? 
 
 What is the atmosphere? Is it harmonious with the ac- 
 tion? What devices of the author secure atmosphere? 
 Have action and character been unified with atmosphere? 
 Is the tempo right ? Is the proportion good ? Are the clues 
 eifectively handled? 
 
 Does the story interest you? Why? What constitutes 
 the gripping element? Wherein is the lack of it? What 
 mechanism has the author used to secure emotional response? 
 Have you laughed, been moved to sympathise, or otherwise 
 emotionally stirred? What methods has the author used 
 to create and maintain suspense? Does the story convey an 
 idea larger than itself? Has it originality and style? 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHIES 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY I 
 
 Unless otherwise stated, the place of publication is New York 
 City. 
 
 I have reproduced "Short Story," "Short-story,"' or "Short- 
 Story," in accordance with the usage of the various authors. 
 
 I. WORKS USEFUL IN THE LOCATION OF SHORT-STORIES: 
 
 "Index to Short Stories," by Ina Ten Eyck Firkins, H. 
 W. Wilson Publishing Company, White Plains, N. Y. 
 
 "The Best Short Stories of 191 5 and The Yearbook of 
 the American Short Story," edited by Edward J. O'Brien, 
 Small, Maynard and Co., Boston. 
 
 "The Best Short Stories of 191 6 and The Yearbook of 
 the American Short Story," edited by Edward J. O'Brien, 
 Small, Maynard and Co., Boston. 
 
 II. FOR THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE SHORT STORY: 
 
 "The Short Story in English," by Henry S. Canby, Henry 
 Holt and Co., 1909. 
 
 "The American Short Story," by C. Alphonso Smith, 
 Ginn and Co., Boston, 1912 ("one of the lectures on Ameri- 
 can literature delivered at the University of Berlin." . . .) 
 
 "A Study of the Short Story," by Henry S. Canby, Henry 
 Holt and Co., 1913. (Introduction and Collection.) 
 
 "The Short-story, Specimens Illustrating its Develop- 
 ment," edited by Brander Matthews, American Book Com- 
 pany, 1907 (Introduction of 34 pages). 
 
 321 
 
322 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 "The Evolution of the Short Story," by W. J. and 
 Coningsby Dawson (Introduction of The Great English 
 Short Story Writers, Harper and Bros., 1910). 
 
 III. FOR technique: 
 
 "The Philosophy of the Short-story," by Brander Mat- 
 thews, Longmans, Green and Co., 1901 (expansion of ar- 
 ticle which appeared in the London Saturday Review, 
 
 1884). 
 
 "Short Story Writing," by C. R. Barrett, Doubleday 
 Page and G)., 1898. 
 
 "The Writing of the Short Story," by Lewis W. Smith, 
 D. C. Heath and Co., Boston, 1902. 
 
 "The Short-Story, Its Principles and Structure," by 
 Evelyn M. Albright, Macmillan's, 1907. 
 
 "Structure of the Short Story," by Clayton Hamilton (In 
 Materials and Methods of Fiction), The Baker and Taylor 
 Co., 1908. 
 
 "Writing the Short-Story," by J. B. Esenwein, Hinds and 
 Noble, 1909. 
 
 "The Art of the Short Story," by G. W. Gerwig, Werner 
 Co., Akron, O., 1909. 
 
 "The Art and the Business of Story Writing," by W. B. 
 Pitkirij Macmillan's, 1912. 
 
 "The Art of Story-Writing," by Esenwein and Cham- 
 bers, Home Correspondence School, Springfield, Mass., 1913. 
 
 "The Technique of the Mystery Story," by Carolyn 
 Wells, The Home Correspondence School, 1913. 
 
 "The Art of the Short Story," by Carl Grabo, Charles 
 Scribner's Sons, 1914. 
 
 "The Modern Short-Story," by Lilian Notestein and 
 Waldo H. Dunn, A. S. Barnes, 1914. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 323 
 
 "The Short Story," by E. A. Cross, McClurg, Chicago, 
 1914. 
 
 "The Short Story," by Barry Pain, George H. Doran 
 Co., 1916. 
 
 "The Contemporary Short Story," by Harry T. Baker, 
 D. C. Heath and Co., 1916. 
 
 IV. COLLECTIONS 
 
 "Specimens of the Short Story," by George H. Net- 
 tleton, Henry Holt and Co., 1901. 
 
 "American Short Stories," collected (with introduction), 
 by Charles S. Baldwin, Longmans, Green and Co., 1904. 
 
 "The Best American Tales," by W. P. Trent and J. B. 
 Henneman, N. Y., 1907. 
 
 "A Collection of Short Stories," edited by L. A. Pit- 
 tenger, Macmillan's, 1913. 
 
 "A Book of Short Stories," by Stuart P. Sherman, Henry 
 Holt and Co., 19 14. 
 
 "Modem Short Stories," collected (with introduction), 
 by Margaret Ashmun, Macmillan's, 191 4. 
 
 "Elements of the Short Story," by E. E. Hale, Jr., and 
 F. T. Dawson, Henry Holt and Co., 1915. 
 
 "Short Stories from 'Life'" (with introduction), by 
 T. L. Masson, Doubleday, Page and Co., 1916. 
 
 "Short Stories," edited by Leonard Moulton, Houghton 
 Mifflin and Co., Boston, 1915. 
 
 "Short Stories for High Schools," by Rosa M. R. Mikels, 
 Charles Scribner's Sons, 1915. 
 
 "Short Stories and Selections, for Use in the Secondary 
 Schools," compiled and annotated with questions for study, 
 by Emilie K. Baker, Macmillan's, 19 16. 
 
324 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 "Representative Short Stories," collected by Nina Hart 
 and Edna M. Perry, Macmillan's, 1917. 
 
 V. GENERAL 
 
 "Aristotle on the Art of Poetry," an amplified version 
 with supplementary illustrations for students of English, by 
 Lane Cooper, Ginn and Co., 1913. 
 
 "The Philosophy of Composition," by E. A. Pee. 
 
 "How to Tell a Story," by Mark Twain. (First pub- 
 lished in The Youth's Companion, October 3, 1895.) 
 Harper and Bros., 1897. 
 
 "Criticism of Fiction," by W. D. Howells, Harper and 
 Bros., New York, 1892. 
 
 "The Art of Fiction," by Walter Besant, Brentano's, 
 1902. (A lecture delivered at the Royal Institution, April 
 25, 1884.) 
 
 "A Study of Prose Fiction," by Bliss Perry, Houghton 
 Mifflin and Co., 1902. 
 
 "The Blight," by Melville D. Post, Saturday Evening 
 Post, December 26, 191 4. 
 
 "The Psychology of Laughter," by Boris Sidis, Appleton 
 and Co., 1913. 
 
 "How to Write Fiction," . . . London, 1895. 
 
 "The Art of Fiction," by Henry James ("Partial Por- 
 traits," Macmillan's, 1888). Written in 1884; first pub- 
 lished in Longman's. 
 
 "The Art of Writing," by Joseph Conrad (Preface to 
 "The Nigger of the Narcissus," 1914, Doubleday, Page and 
 Co.). 
 
 "The Novel," by Guy de Maupassant (the Preface to 
 "Pierre et Jean," Ollendorff, Paris, i888). 
 ♦ 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 325 
 
 "The Craftsmanship of Writing," by Frederick Taber 
 Cooper, Dodd, Mead and Co., 191 1. 
 
 "The Author's Craft," by Arnold Bennett, George H. 
 Doran Co., 1914. 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY II 
 
 A list of short-stories cited or used for illustration in this 
 volume (indicated by i), with the addition of others rec- 
 ommended for study (indicated by 2). The titles in paren- 
 theses are of books or magazines wherein the story or stories 
 may be found. Many of these stories have been reprinted 
 again and again, but limits of space forbid more than one 
 location. For obvious reasons, some of the older and better 
 known examples are listed without reference to works of 
 which they form a part. 
 
 Abbott, Eleanor Hallowell — i. "The Mean Little 
 Town" {Everybody's, April, 1913). 
 
 Aldrich, Thomas Bailey — i. "Marjorie Daw," "A 
 Struggle for Life," and 2. "Quite So" ("Marjorie 
 Daw and Others") ; i. "Goliath" ("Two Bites at a 
 Cherry and Other Tales") ; 2. "A Sea Turn" ("A Sea 
 Turn and Other Matters"). 
 
 Allen, James Lane — i. "A Cathedral Singer" {Century, 
 May, 1914) ; I- "The White Cowl" and 2. "King Solo- 
 mon of Kentucky" ("Flute and Violin"). 
 
 Andreiev, Leonid — i. "Silence," and 2. "The Little An- 
 gel" ("The Little Angel") ; 2. "On the Day of the 
 Crucifixion" ("The Crushed Flower and Other Sto- 
 ries"). 
 
 Andrews, Mary Raymond Shipman — i. "The Colors" 
 {Scribner's, July, 1916) (Published separately as "Old 
 326 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 327 
 
 Glory") ; 2. "The Courage of the Commonplace" 
 {Scribners, July, 191 1 ). 
 
 Artzibashef, Michael— I. "Nina" ("The Million- 
 aire"). 
 
 Atherton, Gertrude — i. "The Sacrificial Altar" {Har- 
 per's, August, 1916). 
 
 Aumonier, Stacy — 2. "Old Fags" ("A Grim 13" a col- 
 lection, edited by Frederick Stuart Greene. Dodd, 
 Mead and Co.). 
 
 Bacon, Josephine Dodge Daskam — i. "Ardelia in Ar- 
 cady," "The Madness of Philip" ("The Madness of 
 Philip") ; I. "A Reversion to Type" ("Middle Aged 
 Love Stories"). 
 
 Balzac, Honore de — i. "La Grande Breteche" or "The 
 Accursed House"; "A Passion in the Desert" (Balzac's 
 "Shorter Stories"). 
 
 Barbour, Ralph Henry (and George Ralph Osbourne) 
 — I. "Thicker than Water" ("Short Stories from 
 'Life'"). 
 
 Barker, Granville — 2. "Souls on Fifth" {Century, 
 April, 1915). 
 
 Barrie, James Matthew — 2. "The Inconsiderate 
 Waiter" ("Two of Them"). 
 
 Bell, J. J. — i. "Wee Macgreegor" (collection). 
 
 Bennett, Arnold — i. "The Idiot" ("The Matador of 
 the Five Towns"). 
 
 Bierce, Ambrose — i. "An Occurrence at Owl Creek 
 Bridge," and 2. "The Horseman in the Sky" (Works, 
 Vol. II). 
 
 BjoRNSON, BjORNSTERNE — I. "The Father" ("The Bridal 
 March"). 
 
 Blackwood, Algernon — i. "The Empty House," and 2. 
 
328 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 "With Intent to Steal" ("The Empty House"); 2. 
 "The Woman's Ghost-Story" ("The Listener") ; i. "By 
 
 Water" ("Day and Night Stories"). 
 
 BoTTOME, Phyllis — i. "Ironstone," and 2. "An Awkward 
 Turn" ("The Derelict"). 
 
 Brown, Alice— i. "A Day Off," "Old Immortality" ("A 
 County Road"); "The Master," "The Flight of the 
 Mouse," and 2. "The Lantern" ("Vanishing Points") ; 
 I. "Told in the Poorhouse," "Farmer Eli's Vacation," 
 "Joint Owners in Spain" ("Meadowgrass") ; i. "High 
 Noon" (collection) ; i. "The Mortuary Chest" ("Tiv- 
 erton Tales") ; "The House with the Tower" {Har- 
 pers. May, 1917) ; 2. "The Flying Teuton" {Harper's. 
 August, 1917). 
 
 Brown, John — 2. "Rab and His Friends." 
 
 Brubaker, Howard — i. "The Intemperate Zone" {Har- 
 per's, December, 1915) ; 2. "Boy Finance" {Harper's, 
 June, 1916), and "Cabbages and Queens" {Harper's, 
 August, 191 7). (Or see the collection, "Ranny.") 
 
 BuNNER, H. C.—ri. "A Sisterly Scheme," and "The Love 
 Letters of Smith" ("Short Sixes") ; "A Letter and a 
 Paragraph" ("Love in Old Cloathes"). 
 
 Butler, Ellis Parker — i. "Pigs is Pigs" {American, 
 September, 1905) ; 2. "The Story of the Late John 
 Wiggins" {Everybody's, April, 1909). 
 
 Byrne, Donn — i. "Biplane No. 2" ("Stories without 
 Women"), "The Gryphon" {Saturday Evening Post, 
 April 28, 1917). 
 
 Cable, George W. — 2. "Old Creole Days" (collection). 
 
 Cameron, Margaret — i. "The Golden Rule DoUivers" 
 (collection). 
 
 Canfield, Dorothy — i. "A Sleep and a Forgetting" ("The 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 329 
 
 Real Motive") (First published as "Gifts of Oblivion" 
 in Harper's, September, 1913) ; 2. "An Academic Ques- 
 tion" ("The Real Motive"); 2. "Flint and Fire" 
 ("HiUsboro People"). 
 
 Chekov, Anton— I. "The Black Monk," and "At Home" 
 ("The Black Monk"); "The Kiss," "Woe," "Ver- 
 otchka," "La Cigale" ("The Kiss") ; "The Death of an 
 Official," and 2. "In the Ravine," "Overseasoned" 
 ("Stories of Russian Life) ; "The Bet" ("The Bet and 
 Other Tales") ; "Polinka" ("The Darling and Other 
 Stories") ; "The House with the Mezzanine, and Other 
 Stories" (collection). 
 
 Child, Richard Washburn — i. "The Gorilla" ( Har- 
 per's, January, 1915). 
 
 Clemens, Samuel L. (Mark Twain) — i. "The Jumping 
 Frog." 
 
 Cobb, Irvin — i. "The Belled Buzzard," "An Occurrence 
 up a Side Street," "The Exit of Ansa Dugmore" ("The 
 Escape of Mr. Trim") ; "The Smart Aleck" {Saturday 
 Evening Post, July 28, 1914) ; "The Undoing of Stone- 
 wall Jackson Bugg" {McClure's, September, 1915) ; 
 "Blacker than Sin" {Saturday Evening Post, November 
 27, 1915); "Local Color" ("Local Color"); "The 
 Great Auk" ("Yearbook," 1916) ; 2. "The Lord Pro- 
 vides" {Saturday Evening Post, October 9, 1915). 
 
 Comer, Cornelia A. P. — i. "The Preliminaries," "The 
 Long Inheritance" ("The Preliminaries"). 
 
 Comfort, Will Levington — i. "Back o' the Yards" ("A 
 Grim 13"). 
 
 Connolly, James B. — i. "The Trawler" ("Head 
 Winds"), "Mother Machree" {Scribner's, August, 
 1915). 
 
330 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Conrad, Joseph — i. "The Inn of the Two Witches," 
 "Because of the Dollars" ("Within the Tides"). The 
 second story was first published as "Laughing Ann," in 
 The Metropolitan. 
 
 CoppEE, Francois— I. "The Substitute" ("Ten Tales"). 
 
 Craddock, Charles Egbert — i. "The Dancin' Party at 
 Harrison's Cove" ("In the Tennessee Mountains"). 
 
 Crane, Stephen— i. "The Angel Child" ("Whilomville 
 Stories"). 
 
 Crawford, Francis M. — i. "The Upper Berth," "The 
 Screaming Skull," "The Doll's Ghost," "The Dead 
 Smile" ("Wandering Ghosts"). 
 
 CuRLE, Richard — i. "Old Hoskyns" ("Life is a 
 Dream"). 
 
 Daudet, Alphonse — I. "The Last Class," and 2. "The 
 Siege of Berlin" ("Monday Tales") ; 2. "Legend of the 
 Man with the Golden Brain" ("Letters from My 
 Mill"). 
 
 Daviess, Maria Thompson — 2. "Under Silken Skins" 
 {Century, August, 1914). 
 
 Davis, Richard Hardincs — i. "My Disreputable Friend, 
 Mr. Raegen," "Gallegher," "A Walk up the Avenue" 
 ("Gallegher") ; "The Long Arm," "The God of Co- 
 incidence" ("The Lost Road"); "A Charmed Life," 
 and 2. "The Amateur" ("Once upon a Time"); i. 
 "The Man Who Could not Lose" (volume title); 
 "Somewhere in France" (volume title) ; "Billy and the 
 Big Stick" {Metropolitan. May, 1914) ; "The Boy 
 Scout" {Metropolitan, March, 1914) ; "The Bar Sinis- 
 ter," "The Derelict" ("Ranson's Folly") ; "A Leander 
 of the East River" ("Van Bibber and Others"). 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 331 
 
 Dawson, Coningsby — i. "The Poison Word" {Metro- 
 politan, September, 19 14). 
 
 Deland, Margaret— I. "The Thief" ("Around Old 
 Chester"); "Many Waters" ("R. J.'s Mother and 
 Others") ; "The Stuffed Animal House" ("Dr. Laven- 
 dar's People"); 2. "Good for the Soul," and "Miss 
 Maria" ("Old Chester Tales"). 
 
 Derieux, Samuel A. — 2. "The Destiny of Dan VI" 
 {American, March, 1917). 
 
 Dickens, Charles — "A Child's Dream of a Star." 
 
 Doyle, Sir A. C— i. "The Red-Headed League" (See 
 aljove, page 104) ; "Giant Maximin" ("The Last Gal- 
 ley") ; "The Dancing Men" ("The Return of Sherlock 
 Holmes"); "The Leather Funnel" ("Round the Fire 
 Stories") ; 2. "The Adventure of the Speckled Band" 
 ("The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes") ; 2. "Silver 
 Blaze" ("The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes"). 
 
 Dunbar, Olivia Howard — i. "The Shell of Sense" 
 {Harper's, December, 1908). 
 
 Duncan, Norman — i. "A Romance of Whooping Har- 
 bour" ("Quaint Courtships," collection. Harper's) ; "A 
 Nice Little Morsel o' Dog Meat" {Saturday Evening 
 Post, October 16, 1915) ; "The Last Shot in the Locker" 
 {Post, March 25, 1916) ; "A Point of Honour" {Har- 
 per's, November, 1915) ; 2. "The Last Lucifer" {Post, 
 July 8, 1916). 
 
 DwiGHT, H. G.— I. "The Pasha's Garden" ("Stamboul 
 Nights"). 
 
 Elliott, Sarah Barnwell — 2. "Without the Courts" 
 and "An Incident" ("An Incident, and Other Happen- 
 ings"). 
 
 Ferber, Edna— I. "The Eldest" {McClure's, June, 
 
332 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 1916) ; 2. "Chickens" ("Roast Beef Medium") ; 2. 
 "One of the Old Girls" ("Buttered Side Down"). 
 
 FoRMAN, Justus Miles — i. "Greater Love" {Harper's, 
 April, 1908) ; 2. "Two Grand Duchesses" {Saturday 
 Evening Post, January 31, 1914). 
 
 FooTE, John Taintor — i. "The Runt" {American, July, 
 1915); 2. "The Look of Eagles" (volume title). 
 
 Fox, John, Jr. — i. "Christmas Eve on Lonesome" (vol- 
 ume title) ; 2. "The Courtship of Allaphair" ("Happy 
 Valley"). 
 
 Freeman, Mary E. Wilkins — i. "A New England 
 Nun," "A Village Lear," "CaUa Lilies and Hannah," 
 "The Revolt of 'Mother,' " and 2. "A Gala Dress," "A 
 Church Mouse" ("A New England Nun"); i. "A 
 Humble Romance," and 2. "A Conquest of Humility" 
 ("A Humble Romance") ; i. "The Shadows on the 
 Wall" ("The Wind in tbe Rosebush") ; "The Ame- 
 thyst Comb," "Noblesse," "The UmbreUa Man," "Big 
 Sister Solly," and 2. "The Copy Cat" ("The Copy 
 Cat") ; I. "The Cat," and 2. "Bouncing Bet" ("Un- 
 derstudies") ; I. "The Pink Shawls," "Gold" ("The 
 Fair Lavinia"); "Little-Girl-Afraid-of-a-Dog," "Old 
 Woman Magoun" ("The Winning Lady"); "Silence," 
 "Evalina's Garden" ("Silence") ; "The Ring with the 
 Green Stone" {Harpers, February, 1917). 
 
 Galsworthy, John — i. "Quality" ("The Inn of Tran- 
 quillity") ; 2. "Defeat" {Scribner's, August, 1917). 
 
 Garland, Hamlin — i. "Up the Coule," "The Lion's 
 Paw," and 2. "A Branch Road" ("Main Travelled 
 Roads") ; 2. "William Bacon's Hired Man" ("Other 
 Main Travelled Roads"). 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 333 
 
 Garshin, W. M.— I. "Four Days," and 2. "The Signal" 
 ("The Signal"). 
 
 Gerould, Katherine — I. "Vain Oblations," "On the 
 Staircase" ("Vain Oblations") ; "The Dominant 
 Strain," "The Great Tradition," "The Weaker Ves- 
 sel" ("The Great Tradition") ; "Impasse" {Harpers, 
 September, 1913) ; "The Toad and the Jewel" (Har- 
 per s, April, 1914) ; "Sea Green" {Harper's, August, 
 1915); "The Penalties of Artemis" {Harper's, Decem- 
 ber, 1915) ; "The JCnight's Move" {Atlantic, February, 
 1917); "The Eighty-third" {Harper's, February, 
 1916) ; "The Hand of Jim Fane" {Harpers, August, 
 
 1917)- 
 
 Glass, Montague — i. "Object: Matrimony" (volume 
 title). 
 
 Gogol, Nikolai— i. "The Cloak" ("St. John's Eve"). 
 
 Gorky, Maxim (pseudonym of Alexis Pyeshkov) — i. 
 "Chelkash," "Malva" ("Tvirenty-Six and One"); 2. 
 "Konovalo£E," "Orloff and His Wife" ("Orlofl and His 
 Wife"). 
 
 Greene, Frederick Stuart — i. "A Cat of the Cane- 
 Brake" ("Yearbook," 1916) ; "A Ticket to North Caro- 
 lina" (Century, January, 1916) ; "The Black Pool" 
 ("A Grim 13"); "The Bunker Mouse" (Century, 
 March, 1917) ; "Molly McGuire, 14" (Century, Sep- 
 tember, 1Q17). 
 
 Hale, Edward Everett — i. "The Man without a Coun- 
 try." 
 
 Halevy, Ludovic — 2. "In the Express," "The Most 
 Beautiful Woman in Paris," "The Insurgent" ("Pa- 
 risian Points of View"). 
 
 Hall, Holworthy — i. "The Luck of the Devil" (Cen- 
 
334 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 tury, June, 1916) ; "The Man Killer" {Saturday Even- 
 ing Post, March 10, 191 7) ; 2. "The Last Train Back" 
 {McClure's, March, 1914). 
 
 Hallet, Richard Matthews — i. "Making Port" 
 ("Yearbook," 1916). 
 
 Hardy, Thomas. — i. "The Three Strangers," "An Imag- 
 inative Woman" ("Wessex Tales") ; "The Grave by 
 the Handpost," "A Mere Interlude" ("A Changed 
 Man and Other Tales") ; 2. "On the Western Cir- 
 cuit" ("Life's Little Ironies"). 
 
 Harris, Joel Chandler — 2. "The Tar Baby" ("Uncle 
 Remus, His Songs and His Sayings"). 
 
 Harte, Bret — i. "The Luck of Roaring Camp," "Ten- 
 nessee's Partner," "The Outcasts of Poker Flat," "Mig- 
 gles," "An Idyl of Red Gulch" ("The Luck of Roaring 
 Camp") ; "Colonel Starbottle for the Plaintiff" {Har- 
 per's, March, 1901); "Prosper's Old Mother" {Har- 
 per's, April, 1902); "A Mercury of the Foot-hills" 
 ("Writings," vol. 17). 
 
 Hawthorne, Nathaniel — i. "Rappaccini's Daughter," 
 "The Birthmark," "Roger Malvin's Burial," and 2. 
 "Feathertop" ("Mosses from an Old Manse"); "The 
 Ambitious Guest," "The Minister's Black Veil," "Da- 
 vid Swan," "Lady Eleanore's Mantle," "Wakefield," 
 "The Snow Image," and 2. "The Gray Champion," 
 "Dr. Heidegger's Experiment" ("Twice Told Tales") ; 
 "The Great Stone Face." 
 
 Hearn, Lafcadio — I. "The Corpse-Rider" ("Shadow- 
 ings"). 
 
 Hemenway, Hetty — i. "Four Days" {Atlantic, May, 
 1917). 
 
 Henry, O.— i. "The Gift of the Magi," "The Green 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 335 
 
 Door," "The Romance of a Busy Broker," "Tobin's 
 Palm," "A Service of Love," "An Unfinished Story," 
 "The Furnished Room," "Lost on Dress Parade," 
 "From the Cabby's Seat," "After Twenty Years" ("The 
 Four MiUion") ; "A Lickpenny Lover," "A Comedy in 
 Rubber," "Transients in Arcadia," "The Shocks of 
 Doom," "The Plutonian Fire" ("The Voice of the 
 City") ; "The Girl and the Habit," "Strictly Business," 
 "Proof of the Pudding," "A Municipal Report" 
 ("Strictly Business") ; "The Theory and the Hound," 
 "The Hypotheses of Failure," "The World and the 
 Door," "Girl," "A Little Local Colour," "A Blackjack 
 Bargainer," "Callovi^ay's Code," "The Whirligig of 
 Life" ("Whirligigs") ; "The Last of the Troubadours," 
 "The Church w^ith an Overshot Wheel," "Makes the 
 Whole World Kin," "October and June," "At Arms 
 with Morpheus," "Jimmie Hayes and Muriel" ("Sixes 
 and Sevens"); "A Double-Dyed Deceiver," "A Re- 
 trieved Reformation," "Roads of Destiny" ("Roads of 
 Destiny") ; "The Caballero's Way," "The Ransom of 
 Mack," "Hearts and Crosses," "The Pimienta Pan- 
 cakes," "Christmas by Injunction," "A Chaparral 
 Prince" ("Heart of the West") ; "The Hiding of Black 
 Bill," "No Story" ("Options"); "Two Thanksgiving 
 Day Gentlemen," "The Trimmed Lamp" ("The 
 Trimmed Lamp") ; "The Atavism of John Tom Little 
 Bear" ("Rolling Stones"). 
 Hope, Anthony (pseudonym of Anthony Hope Haw- 
 kins— i. "The Little Wretch," and 2. "The House 
 Opposite" ("The Dolly Dialogues") ; 2. "The Philoso- 
 pher in the Apple Orchard" ("Comedies of Court- 
 ship"). 
 
336 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 HowELLS, William Dean — i. "A Sleep and a Forget- 
 ting," "Editha" ("Between the Dark and the Day- 
 light") ; "The Pearl" {Harpers, August, 1916). 
 
 Hughes, Rupert — i. "The Last Rose of Summer" (vol- 
 ume title) ; 2. "Michaeleen, Michaelawn" {Metro- 
 politan, January, 1915) ; "Long Ever Ago" {Metropol- 
 itan, August, 1 916). 
 
 Hurst, Fannie — i. "The Character Woman" {Satur- 
 day Evening Post, September 12, 1914) ; "T. B." ("Year- 
 book," 1915); "White Goods" {Metropolitan, July, 
 1915) ; "In Memoriam" ("Every Soul Hath its Song") ; 
 "Thine is not Mine" {Metropolitan, May, 1916) ; 2. 
 "Sob Sister" {Metropolitan, February, 1916) ; "Super- 
 man," "A Good Provider" ("Just Around the Cor- 
 ner"). 
 
 Irving, Washington — i. "Dolph Heyliger's Ghost," 
 "The Student of Salamanca," "The Stout Gentleman" 
 ("Bracebridge Hall"; "Rip Van Winkle," "The Leg- 
 end of Sleepy Hollows," "The Spectre Bridegroom" 
 ("The Sketch Book"). 
 
 Irwin, Wallace — i. "The Echo" {Saturday Evening 
 Post, January 27, 1917); 2. "You Can't Get Away 
 from Your Grandfather" ("Pilgrims into Folly"). 
 
 Jacobs, W. W.— i. "The Money Box," "Lawyer Quince," 
 "The Third String" ("Odd Craft"); "Homeward 
 Bound," "Self Help," "Peter's Pence" ("Sailors' 
 Knots"); "The Changeling," "A Love Knot" ("Short 
 Cruises"); "Back to Back," "The Weaker Vessel," 
 "Easy Money" ("Night Watches") ; "The Lady of the 
 Barge," "In the Library," "The Monkey's Paw," "Cap- 
 tain Rogers," and 2. "A Mixed Proposal," "A Golden 
 Venture" ("The Lady of the Barge") ; i. "Paying Off" 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 337 
 
 {Metropolitan, December, 1914) ; "Made to Measure" 
 {Metropolitan, May, 1915); "Family Cares" {Metro- 
 politan, December, 1916). 
 
 James, Henry— i. "The Turn of the Screw" ("The 
 Two Magics"); "The Real Thing" ("The Real 
 Thing") ; "The Tree of Knowledge," "The Real Right 
 Thing," "Europe," "The Third Person," "Paste," 
 "Miss Gunton of Poughkeepsie," "Maud Evelyn," "The 
 Great Condition," and 2. "John Delavoy" ("The Soft 
 Side"); i. "The Author of Beltraffio," and 2. "Four 
 Meetings" ("The Author of Beltraffio") ; i. "The 
 Point of View" ("The Siege of London") ; "The Ma- 
 donna of the Future" ("A Passionate Pilgrim") ; "The 
 Beast in the Jungle," "Flickerbridge," "The Tone of 
 Time," and 2. "The Beldonald Holbein" ("The Bet- 
 ter Sort"); "The Jolly Corner" (vol. 17, collected 
 works) ; 2. "Brooksmith" ("The Lesson of the Mas- 
 ter") ; "The Altar of the Dead" ("Terminations"); 
 "Mora Montravers" ("The Finer Grain") ; "The Vis- 
 its" ("The Private Life"). 
 
 Jewett, Sarah Orne — i. "A White Heron," "Marsh 
 Rosemary," "News from Petersham," "The Dulham 
 Ladies," and 2. "Farmer Finch" ("A White Heron") ; 
 I. "Fame's Little Day" ("The Life of Nancy") ; "The 
 Queen's Twin" ("The Queen's Twin") ; i. "Miss 
 Tempy's Watchers" ("Tales of New England"); 2. 
 "Tom's Husband" ("The Mate of the Daylight") ; 2. 
 "Miss Esther's Guest" ("A Native of Winby"). 
 
 Jordan, Elizabeth — i. "The Comforter" {Harper's, 
 March, 1914) ; 2. "May Iverson Tackles Life" (col- 
 lection) ; "Love Knots" (collection) ; "Olive's First 
 Story" {Harper's, April, 1913). 
 
338 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Kelland, Clarence Budington — i. "Edwy Peddii 
 Scientific Humanitarian" {Harper's, October, 1916) ; 
 "Efficiency Edgar" stories {Saturday Evening Post, 
 1916) ; "Simeon Small" stories {Harper's, 1916). 
 
 Kelly, Myra — "A Christmas Present for a Lady" ("Lit- 
 tle Citizens"). 
 
 Kipling, Rudyard — i. "At the End of the Passage," 
 "Bertran and Bimi," "The City of Dreadful Night," 
 "The Courting of Dinah Shadd," "The Incarnation 
 of Krishna Mulvaney," "Little Tobrah," "Moti-Guj," 
 "The Mark of the Beast," "The Man Who Was," 
 "The Return of Imray," and 2. "Without Benefit of 
 Clergy," "On Greenhow Hill" ("Life's Handicap"); 
 
 1. "Beyond the Pale," "Lispeth" ("Plain Tales") ; 
 "Baa, Baa, Black Sheep," "Wee Willie Winkie," and 
 
 2. "His Majesty the King"; i. "The Brushwood 
 Boy," "The Maltese Cat" ("The Day's Work"); 
 "Wireless," "They" ("Traffics and Discoveries"); 
 "The House Surgeon," and 2. "A Habitation En- 
 forced" ("Actions and Reactions") ; i. "A Second-Rate 
 Woman," "My Own True Ghost Story," "The Man 
 Who Would be King" ("Under the Deodars") ; "The 
 Last of the Stories" ("Abaft the Funnel") ; "A Matter- 
 of-Fact" ("Many Inventions") ; "The Phantom 'Rick- 
 shaw" ("The Phantom 'Rickshaw"); "Mary Post- 
 gate," "Regulus," "Swept and Garnished," and 2. "The 
 Village that Voted the Earth was Flat," "The Dog 
 Hervey," "In the Same Boat" ("A Diversity of Crea- 
 tures") ; I. "Sea Constables" {Metropolitan, Septem- 
 ber, 1915); "The Eyes of Asia" (Series in Saturday 
 Evening Post, 1917)- 
 
 KuPRiN, Alexander — i. "A Slav Soul," and 2. "The 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 339 
 
 Idiot" ("A Slav Soul"); "The Jewess" ("The Brace- 
 let of Garnets"). 
 
 Kyne, Peter B. — 2. "The Three God-Fathers" (volume 
 title). 
 
 Lagerlof, Selma — 2. "The Romance of a Fisherman's 
 
 . Wife" ("Invisible Links"). 
 
 Leacock, Stephen — i. "A Hero in Homespun" ("Non- 
 sense Novels") ; "The Snoopopaths" ("Further Foolish- 
 ness"). 
 
 Locke, William J. — 2. "The Joyous Adventures of Aris- 
 tide Pujol" (collection). 
 
 London, Jack — i. "Love of Life," and 2. "A Day's 
 Lodging" ("Love of Life"); i. "To Build a Fire" 
 ("Lost Face"). 
 
 Lyons, Arthur Neil — i. "Sixpenny Pieces" (collec- 
 tion) ; "Love in a Mist" ("Arthur's"). 
 
 McCutcheon, George Barr — i. "The Day of the 
 Dog" (volume title). 
 
 Manning, Marie — i. "Buffy's Hegira" (^Harper's, July, 
 1914). 
 
 Matthews, James Brander — i. "In a Hansom" ("Vis- 
 tas of New York"); "The Twinkling of an Eye" 
 ("Tales of Fantasy and Fact") ; "The Story of a Story" 
 (volume title) ; "Outlines in Local Colour" (collec- 
 tion) ; "In Search of Local Colour" ("Vignettes of 
 Manhattan"). 
 
 De Maupassant, Guy— i. "The Necklace," "A Piece 
 of String," "The Coward," "Happiness," "La Mere 
 Sauvage," "Moonlight," and 2. "The Confession," 
 "Little Soldier" ("Odd Number"); "The Horla" 
 ("Modern Ghosts"); "Two Friends" ("The Second 
 Odd Number"). 
 
340 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Meredith, George — i. "General Ople and Lady Cam- 
 per," and 2. "The Tale of Chloe" ("Short Stories"). 
 
 Merimee, Prosper — i. "Mateo Falcone," and 2. "The 
 Taking of the Redoubt" ("Little French Master- 
 pieces"). 
 
 Merrick, Leonard— i. "The Tale That Wouldn't Do," 
 "The Tragedy of a Comic Song," "The Bishop's Com- 
 edy," and 2. "A Call from the Past" ("Whispers about 
 Women") ; I. "The Back of Bohemia," and 2. "The 
 Body and Soul of Miss Azulay" ("This Stage of 
 Fools"). 
 
 Merwin, Samuel — 2. "The Loves of Henry the Ninth" 
 (series in Cosmopolitan, 1917). 
 
 MiDDLETON, Richard — i. "A Tragedy in Little," "The 
 Ghost Ship," "On the Brighton Road," "The Coffin 
 Agent" ("The Ghost Ship"). 
 
 Miller, Alice Duer — i. "Things" (volume title) ; 2. 
 "The Respecters of Law" {Harper's, November, 1913). 
 
 Mordaunt, Elinor — 2. "The Gold Fish" {Metropoli- 
 tan, February, 1917). 
 
 Morris, Gouverneur — i. "The Claws of the Tiger" 
 ("It"); "Suffrage in the Wildwood" {Cosmopolitan, 
 March, 1916) ; "The Hoard" {Cosmopolitan, Septem- 
 ber, 1916) ; "All the Evidence" {Cosmopolitan, No- 
 vember, 1913) ; 2. "Tango Taught in Ten Teachings" 
 ("The Incandescent Lily"). 
 
 Morrison, Arthur — i. "On the Stairs," 2. "Lizerunt" 
 ("Tales of Mean Streets"). 
 
 Nesbit, E. — I. "Mystery of the Semi-Detached" ("Grim 
 Tales"). 
 
 NoRRis, Frank — i. "A Reversion to Type," and 2. "The 
 Third Circle" ("The Third Circle"). 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 341 
 
 NoRRis, Kathleen — i. "Rising Water," and 2. "The 
 Tide Marsh" ("Poor, Dear Margaret Kirby"). 
 
 O'Brien, Fitz James— i. "The Diamond Lens," "What 
 Was It? A Mystery." 
 
 OuiDA (Louise de la Ramee) — i. "A Dog of Flan- 
 ders." 
 
 Page, Thomas Nelson — i. "Marse Chan," "Mdi 
 Lady" ("In Ole Virginia"). 
 
 Pain, Barry — i. "The Marriage of Miranda" ("Stories 
 without Tears"). 
 
 Parker, Sir Gilbert — i. "Cumner's Son," "Derelict" 
 ("Cumner's Son"). 
 
 Pertwee, Roland — "Red and White" {Century, August, 
 1917) ; 2. "The Gautama Buddha" {Saturday Evening 
 Post, July 2, 191 6). 
 
 Phillpotts, Eden — i. "The Striking Hours" (collection). 
 
 PoE, Edgar Allan — i. "The Cask of Amontillado," "Li- 
 geia," "The Black Cat," "The Tell-tale Heart," "The 
 Purloined Letter," "Murders in the Rue Morgue," 
 "Berenice," "William Wilson," "Manuscript Found in 
 a Bottle," "The Fall of the House of Usher," "Facts in 
 the Case of M. Valdemaar," "Premature Burial," "Loss 
 of Breath," and 2. "The Gold Bug," "The Masque of 
 the Red Death." 
 
 Post, Melville D. — i. "The Doomdorf Mystery" {Sat- 
 urday Evening Post, July 18, 191 4) ; 2. "The Treasure 
 Hunter" {Saturday Evening Post, August 14, 1915) ; 
 I. "American Horses" {Saturday Evening Post, Decem- 
 ber 23, 1916). 
 
 Pulver, Mary Brecht — i. "The Man Who Was 
 Afraid" {Saturday Evening Post, February 10, 1917)- 
 
342 A HANDBOOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Pushkin, Alexander — 2. "The Queen of Spades," 
 "Kirdjall" ("Pushkin's Prose Tales"). 
 
 QuiLLER-CoucH, SiR A. T. — I. "A Conspiracy Aboard 
 the Midas," "A Corrected Contempt," "Love of Na- 
 omi," "The Regent's Wager," and 2. "The Drawn 
 Blind" ("The Delectable Duchy"); "Ye Sexes, Give 
 Ear" ("Shakespeare's Christmas"). 
 
 Reeve, Arthur — i. "Absolute Zero" {Cosmopolitan, 
 June, 1915) ; "The Bitter Water" {Cosmopolitan, 
 July, 1917)- 
 
 Rice, Richard — i. "The White Sleep of Auber Hum" 
 {Harper's, February, 1905). 
 
 RiNEHART, Mary Roberts — i. "Bab" (collection). 
 
 Robertson, Morgan — i. "The Closing of the Circuit" 
 ("Down to the Sea"); 2. "Primordial" ("Where An- 
 gels Fear to Tread") ; "The Wreck of the Titan" (vol- 
 ume title). 
 
 Robinson, Eloise — i. The "Barbara" stories {Harper's). 
 
 Sapinsky, Ruth — i. "Star Light, Star Bright" {Metro- 
 politan, July, 1916). 
 
 Schnitzler, Arthur — i. "Dead Men Tell no Tales" 
 {Metropolitan, July, 1916). 
 
 Sedgwick^Anne Douglas — i."The Suicide" ("The Nest"). 
 
 Sinclair, May — i. "The Pin-prick" {Harper's, Febru- 
 ary, 1915); "The Fault," "The Return of the Prodi- 
 gal" ("The Return of the Prodigal"). 
 
 Slosson, Annie Trumbull — x. "A Local Colourist" 
 (volume title). 
 
 Smith, Francis Hopkinson — i. "Plain Fin, Paper 
 Hanger," and 2. "The Crime of Samanthy North," 
 "Bud Tilden, Mail Thief," "Eleven Months and Ten 
 Days" ("The Under Dog"); "The Veiled Lady of 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 343 
 
 Stamboul" (volume title) ; "The Girl in the Steamer 
 Chair" ("The Wood-Fire in No. 3"). 
 
 Smith, Gordon Arthur— i. "The End of the Road" 
 {Scribners, August, 191 7) ; 2. "Jeanne, the Maid" 
 {Scribner's, December, 1915). 
 
 Steele, Wilbur Daniel — i. "Free" {Century, August, 
 1917); 2. "The Yellow Cat" ("Yearbook," 1915). 
 
 Stevenson, Robert Louis — i. "Markheim," "Dr. Je- 
 kyll and Mr. Hyde," and 2. "Olalla," "Thrawn Janet" 
 ("The Merry Men"); i. "The Sire de Maletroit's 
 Door," "A Lodging for the Night," and 2. "The Pa- 
 vilion on the Links" ("Newr Arabian Nights"). 
 
 Stewart, Charles D. — i. "The Dagger" {Century, July, 
 1914). 
 
 Stockley, Cynthia — i. "The Molmeit of the Moun- 
 tain" ("Wild Honey"). 
 
 Stockton, Frank R. — i. "The Lady or the Tiger?" 
 "A Piece of Red Calico," "The Transferred Ghost" 
 ("The Lady or the Tiger?") ; "The Christmas Wreck," 
 "A Tale of Negative Gravity," "The Remarkable 
 Wreck of the Thomas Hyke" ("The Christmas 
 Wreck") ; 2. "The Bee-Man of Orn," "The Griffin 
 and the Minor Canon" ("The Bee-Man of Orn"). 
 
 Street, Julian — i. "In Need of Change" (volume title). 
 
 Strindberg, August — i. "Half a Sheet of Foolscap" ("In 
 Midsummer Days"). 
 
 Stuart, Ruth McEnery — 2. "Sonny" (collection) ; 2. 
 "The Unlived Life of Little Mary Ellen" ("In Simp- 
 kinsville"). 
 
 Synon, Mary — 2. "The Bounty Jumper" {Scribner's, 
 February, 1915) ; "The Sandals of His Youth" {Scrib- 
 ner's, May, 1916). 
 
344 A HANDBaOK ON STORY WRITING 
 
 Taber, Elizabeth Stead — 2. "The Scar" {Seven Arts, 
 January, 1917). 
 
 Tarkington, Booth — i. "The Spring Concert" {Every- 
 body's, October, 1916) ; "Penrod" (collection) ; "Pen- 
 rod and Sam" (collection) ; "Seventeen" (collection). 
 
 TuRGENEV, Ivan — 1. "A Lear of the Steppes," "Noble-' 
 man's Nest," and 2. "A Desperate Character." 
 
 Van Dyke, Henry — i. "The Ruling Passion" (collec- 
 tion) ; "The Night Call" ("The Unknown Quantity"). 
 
 VoRSE, Mary Heaton — i. "A Child's Heart" (.Century, 
 October, 1914) ; 2. "The Eyes of the Blind" {Har- 
 per's, June, 1915)- 
 
 Wedmore, Frederick — i. "A Dream of Provence" (T. 
 B. Mosher's booklet series). 
 
 Welles, Harriet — i. "The Wall" {Scribner's, date un- 
 announced). 
 
 Wells, H. G.— i. "The Story of the Late Mr. Elve- 
 sham," "The Cone," "The Stolen Bacillus," and 2. 
 "The Red Room," and "The Strange Orchid" ("Thirty 
 Strange Stories"); "The Door in the Wall" ("The 
 Country of the Blind"). 
 
 Wharton, Edith — i. "A Journey," "Souls Belated," 
 "The Pelican" ("The Greater Inclination"); "The 
 Duchess at Prayer," and 2. "The Moving Finger" 
 ("Crucial Instances") ; i. "Expiation," "The Descent 
 of Man," and 2. "The Dilettante" ("The Descent of 
 Man") ; 1. "The Touchstone" (volume title) ; "The 
 Triumph of Night," "Xingu," "Kerfol" ("Xingu") ; 
 "Ethan Frome" (volume title); 2. "The Best Man" 
 ("The Hermit and the Wild Woman") ; "The Bolted 
 Door," "The Daunt Diana," "The Eyes," "The Debt" 
 ("Tales of Men and Ghosts"). 
 
BIBLIOGRAPHY 345 
 
 White, Will Allen — i. "By the Rod of His Wrath" 
 
 ("In Our Town"). 
 Williams, Jesse Lynch — 2. "The Stolen Story" ("The 
 
 Stolen Story"). 
 WiSTER, Owen — i. "Philosophy 4" (volume title). 
 Zola, Emile — 2. "The Attack on the Mill" (Warner's 
 
 Library). 
 
INDEX 
 
 Acceleration, 275. 
 
 Accessories of death, tragic ap- 
 peal through, 220. 
 
 Accidents, 280. 
 
 Action, conveyed by dialogue, 
 8 ; main element, 22 ; rising 
 action, 85; falling action, 88; 
 climax of, 88 ; in scenework, 
 140, 142, 144; test of charac- 
 ter, 180. See Lines of Ac- 
 tion, Unity. 
 
 Adaptation of material, 30, 69, 
 92. 
 
 Affectation, subject for comedy, 
 236. 
 
 Alphabetical order in plot, 98, 
 119. 
 
 Analysis, of anecdote, 44, 47; 
 Incident, 50, 53 ; short-stories 
 for showing complication, 
 65 ; of plot, 83 ; model for 
 analysis of plot structure, 95 ; 
 structure of detective story, 
 104; of scenes, 145, 150; of 
 character story to show 
 methods in combination, 183 ; 
 of integration in atmosphere 
 story, 252; of ghost story, 
 296, 303 ; questions for analy- 
 sis of short-story, 316. 
 
 347 
 
 Analytic method. See "X-Ray," 
 Omniscient Author. 
 
 Anecdote, formula for, 44; ex- 
 amples, 45 ; analysis, 47 ; in 
 short-story form, 4, 48; as 
 germ of story, 32. 
 
 Angle of narration, 122, 123, 
 124, 130, 131, 136; distinc- 
 tion between "spotlight" em- 
 phasis and, 132; shift in an- 
 gle, 133 ; use for surprise 
 ending, 268. See Objecti-oe 
 Method, Omniscient Author, 
 Point of View, "X-Ray." 
 
 Antecedent circumstances, ex- 
 position of, 201, 258. 
 
 Appeal to temperament, 12. 
 See Emotional Appeal, Me- 
 chanics, Sympathy, Pity, 
 Fear. 
 
 Arrangement of actual hap- 
 penings unsatisfactory, 10. 
 See Plot Order, Problems. 
 
 Art, characterisation of, 8; 
 problems of arrangement, 11; 
 emotional power, 11, 14. 
 
 Atmosphere, Local Colour and. 
 Chapter XIII, 242 ; 26 ; mean- 
 ing, 248; analysis of integra- 
 tion in atmosphere story, 252. 
 
348 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Bases of narrative, 22; of 
 struggle, see Struggle. 
 
 Beginning, 83, 89; problems of, 
 257; function, 258, 261. See 
 Initial Impulse, Starting 
 Points. 
 
 Bibliography of books on the 
 short-story, 321 ; history, 321 ; 
 technique, 321 ; short-story 
 collections, 323 ; short-stories, 
 326. 
 
 Biography, preliminary exer- 
 cise to characterisation, 160; 
 as method of characterisa- 
 tion, 176; 189. 
 
 Body of the story, problems of, 
 274. 
 
 Bona fide ghost, 292, 302. 
 
 Burlesque, 235. 
 
 Business. See Stage, Property. 
 
 Camera method. See Objectiiie 
 Method. 
 
 Catastrophe, 89. See Denoue- 
 ment. 
 
 Cause and eflfect, 71, 72; in 
 plot incident, 90; cause and 
 effect order, 98. 
 
 Character, number essential, 
 14; basis of narrative, 22; as 
 starting point, 25 ; revealed 
 in gesture, 144; in connection 
 with crisis, i66; character 
 growth, 167; talking "in 
 character,'' 194; humour of, 
 236. See Characterisation, 
 Trait. 
 
 Characterisation, Chapter IX, 
 
 157; Methods, Chapter X, 
 169; Analysis of methods in 
 combination, 183. See De- 
 scription, Dress, Gesture, 
 Biography, Analysis, Dra- 
 matic Method, Action. 
 
 Chase, basis of struggle, 15. 
 
 Chronological order, 98, 119. 
 
 Ciphers, exploited, 120. 
 
 Clairvoyant ghost, 291. 
 
 Climax, 7, 11, 15, 50, 54, 84; in 
 anecdote, 48, 49; Incident, 
 50, 54; minor or series of, in 
 struggle development, 59 ; 
 rising action, 85, 86; dra- 
 matic climax, 86 ; climax of 
 action, 88 ; Test of character, 
 166, 180. 
 
 Clues, 204, 279. 
 
 Coincidence, 280, 288. 
 
 Comedy, 232. 
 
 Commonplace, 24; made signi- 
 ficant, 92; compared with ac- 
 tion in a crisis, 180. 
 
 Complication, basis of story, 7; 
 nature of, in drama, 15, 56, 
 83; meaning, 16, 65; types of, 
 65-74; purpose, 74, 78; domi- 
 nant in plot, 77, 78 ; lack of 
 unity with main line, 76, 79; 
 steps in, 85. See Diagrams, 
 Analysis. 
 
 Composition of Plot, Chapter 
 V, 82. 
 
 Conclusion, 89. See End, De- 
 nouement. 
 
 Condensation, extreme, 19. 
 
INDEX 
 
 349 
 
 Conflict, highest phase of dra- 
 matic, 15. See Struggle. 
 
 Consequential relation of inci- 
 dents, 90. 
 
 Construction, laws of, 15 
 (note) ; stages in, 22; from 
 situation, 23 ; processes of, as 
 admitted by writers, 30, 40; 
 growth of a plot, 69, 80; 
 model for structure, 95 ; of 
 detective story, 104. See 
 Complication, Plot. 
 
 Conundrum, in place of out- 
 come, 17 (note). 
 
 Convention, used for surprise 
 ending, 268. 
 
 Conversation, as a "germ," 31. 
 
 Convincingness, 260; in motiva- 
 tion, 231; ghost story, 293. 
 
 Copy, insufficiency in represen- 
 tation, 10. 
 
 Crisis, 85; play founded on, 15; 
 character test, 166, 180. See 
 Climax. 
 
 Criticism, questions for exami- 
 nation of a story, 316. 
 
 Deceit, means of surprise, 263. 
 
 Deduction process in the de- 
 tective story, 104, no. 
 
 Definitions, 6, 7. 
 
 Denouement, 50, 84, 89; prob- 
 lems of, 261. 
 
 Description, method of charac- 
 terisation, 170; dress, 175. 
 See Biography, Names, 
 Analysis. 
 
 Details, subordination of, 59; 
 
 depressing and elevating, 275. 
 See Integration. 
 
 Detective Story, plot order and 
 construction, 104, 115. 
 
 Development, place of Irving's 
 "Tales," 3 ; Hawthorne, 4. 
 
 Devices for speeding dialogue, 
 276. See Mechanics, Sur- 
 prise, Suspense, Comedy, 
 Tragedy. 
 
 Diagram, of Incident, 54; short- 
 story, 55, 65, 66, 67, 70, 73, 74, 
 78; of "Molly McGuire," 14; 
 illustrating more than two 
 lines of interest in complica- 
 tion, 93 ; of surprise ending 
 story, 271, 272. 
 
 Dialect, 196 ; humour of, 236. 
 
 Dialogue, Chapter XI, 191 ; as 
 Component of scene, 140; for 
 conveying character descrip- 
 tion, 173 ; character revela- 
 tion by, 179; defined, 192; 
 essentials of, 193 ; breaking 
 off for verisimilitude, 196; 
 purposes, 201 ; as vehicle of 
 action, 202; for clues, 204; 
 devices for speeding, 276. 
 
 Difficulty, basis of struggle, 15. 
 
 Direction in dialogue, 208. 
 
 Dividing line, between short- 
 story and other types, 5. 
 
 Dominant force, in struggle 
 and complication, 86, 87. 
 
 Doom, ghostly forecast of, 293. 
 
 Drama, 6, 10, 15, 61, 94. 
 
 Dramatic climax, 86. 
 
350 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Dramatic element in short- 
 story, s, 7. 
 
 Dramatic forecast, 280. See 
 Clues. 
 
 Dramatic form, 8, 122. 
 
 Dramatic method of characteri- 
 sation, 179, 206. See Objec- 
 tive Method. 
 
 Dramatic moment, 44, 47, 49. 
 
 Dramatic reverse, 87. 
 
 Dramatic tenseness, 94. 
 
 Dreams as starting point, 32, 
 
 35- 
 
 Dress, means of characterisa- 
 tion, 175. 
 
 Dual personality, 58, 298. 
 
 Dynamic beginning, 259. 
 
 Economy, 13, 103 ; in dialogue, 
 191; 215. See Restraint, Sug- 
 gestion. 
 
 Effect, intensification of, 222. 
 See Single Effect, Unity. 
 
 Elementary methods, value for 
 construction, 28. 
 
 Elements of narrative, 22. 
 
 Emotion, the measure of effect, 
 11; mechanism of, 11, 216; 
 character revelation by, 180; 
 appeal to fear, 217; to pity 
 and sympathy, 224. See Sug- 
 gestion, Tragedy, Comedy, 
 Emotional Element. 
 
 Emotional Element, Chapter 
 XII, 211. 
 
 Emphasis, on plot, 5 ; on cli- 
 max and situation, 7, 11; ac- 
 tion in scene work, 139. 
 
 End, 83 ; problems of, 261. See 
 
 Conclusion, Denouement. 
 Entanglement, struggle lost in, 
 
 16. See Complication. 
 Episode, 88 ; episodic plot, 90. 
 Events, bases of narrative, 22. 
 Evoked ghost, 291, 302. 
 Exercises, 18, 40, 79, 119, 137, 
 
 155, 188, 209, 240, 254, 286; 
 
 Questions for the Critic, 
 
 316- 
 Expansion of the story in scene 
 
 vrork, 139. 
 Explanation. See Direction, 
 
 Exposition. 
 Exposition, of scene, 141 ; 
 
 through author's summary^ 
 
 through characters, 202. See 
 
 Antecedent Circumstances. 
 
 Fantasy, 55. 
 
 Fate, a factor in conflict, 62. 
 
 Fear, means of appeal to, 
 217. 
 
 Fiction, 12, 29; represents the 
 typical, 9; ideals of, Preface. 
 
 Forecast. See Dramatic Fore- 
 cast. 
 
 Form. See Type Form, Dra- 
 matic Form. 
 
 Formula, of anecdote, 44; of 
 Incident, 50; of short story, 
 7> 8. 55 ; plot formulas, 81 ; 
 for plot structure, 94; for 
 scene, 140. 
 
 Genesis of narratives, 21, 69. 
 See Starting Points. 
 
INDEX 
 
 351 
 
 Genius loci ghost, 393. 
 Germinal idea, or "germ," 24, 
 
 28, 30, 32. See Construction, 
 
 Starting Points. 
 Germination, 27, 40, 69. 
 Gesture, 140, 142, 195. 
 Ghosts, 58, 63, 289. 
 Ghost Story, Chapter XV, 289; 
 
 classification of ghosts, 291 ; 
 
 reasons for visitations, 292; 
 
 means for convincing, 293. 
 Grammatical form or person, 
 
 distinguished from angle of 
 
 narration, 124. 
 Gripping element, 313. 
 Growth of story. See Con- 
 struction, Starting Point. 
 
 Habitual action, characterisa- 
 tion by, 180, 195. 
 
 Harmonisation of setting and 
 mood, 249. 
 
 Harmony of details. See Inte- 
 gration, Single Effect. 
 
 Heredity, means of characteri- 
 sation. See Biography. 
 
 History of short-story, 3 ; bibli- 
 ography of books on, 321. 
 
 Hoax ending, 263. 
 
 Hoax ghost, 292. 
 
 Hoax plot, 102. 
 
 Human appeal, the publisher's 
 ideal, 7. 
 
 Human companionship, as a 
 ghostly motive, 293. 
 
 Humour, popular demand for, 
 311. See Comedy. 
 
 Humorous ghost, 292. 
 
 Ideal of the short-story, 5, 6; 
 the publisher's and the aca- 
 demic, 7. 
 
 Imagination in depicting set- 
 ting, 246. 
 
 Impulse, initial. See Initial 
 Impulse. 
 
 Inception of the story. Chapter 
 II, 21. See Starting Points. 
 
 Incident, the, 2; identified with 
 short-story, 5; type, 50; ex- 
 amples, SI ; analysis, 53. See 
 Organisation. 
 
 Incident, as germ, 33, 38 ; de- 
 mand for striking incident, 
 31a 
 
 Inciting impulse. See Initial 
 Impulse. 
 
 Initial impulse, in Incident, 50; 
 meaning, 84. 
 
 Initial steps in construction, 22. 
 
 Inspiration, so-called, as a 
 method, 35. 
 
 Integration in atmosphere story, 
 analysis of, 282; of details, 
 25 ; of setting and mood, 249. 
 See Single Effect. 
 
 Interest, lines of, 55, 79, 94; 
 main line, 65, 68, 70, 79 ; 
 subordinate, 55, 65, 68, 70, 75, 
 79. See Lines of Interest. 
 
 Invention of situations, 25. 
 
 Irony, 237. 
 
 Key, 90. See Tone Effect. 
 
 Laughter, 233. 
 
 Length, story approaching the 
 novelette, 3, 19. 
 
352 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Lines of interest, complicated, 
 67, 68, 70, 73, 74; value of, 
 74; lines not integral, 76, 79; 
 diagram, 93. See Interest, 
 Lines of. 
 
 Links, omission of, in plot, 9S. 
 
 Local Colour and Atmosphere, 
 Chapter XIII, 242; writers 
 of, 243. 
 
 Locale, as starting point, 25, 35, 
 
 37. 144, 243. 244- 
 Logical order, loi. 
 Longevity, 20; Longevity and 
 
 Popularity, Chapter VI, 309. 
 
 Mannerisms, 195. 
 
 Mechanism of emotion, 12, 
 2i6. See Emotional Element. 
 
 Melodrama, 163, 165, 215, 219. 
 
 Method. See Construction, 
 Plot, Angle, Characterisa- 
 tion, Point of Vievi. 
 
 Model, for analysis of short- 
 story, 316; plot structure, 95. 
 See Analysis. 
 
 Morbidity in material, 163. See 
 Melodrama, Accessories of 
 Death. 
 
 Motivation, 23, 231; of ghostly 
 appearances, 292. See Con- 
 •vincingness. Verisimilitude. 
 
 Mystery, basis of struggle, 
 IS- 
 
 Names, method of characterisa- 
 tion, 174. 
 
 Narrative, 22 ; conveyed by dia- 
 logue, 8. See Dialogue, Type. 
 
 Narrator, choice of, 122, 136; 
 first person, 124, 127; minor 
 character, 125; "reporting I," 
 126, 128. See Objective 
 Method, Omniscient Author. 
 
 Nature, 9; forces of, 57. 
 
 Natural, surprise should be, 
 273. See Verisimilitude, Con- 
 vincingness. 
 
 Newspaper, use of, for starting 
 points, 29, 39, 34. 
 
 Novel, compared with short- 
 story, 2, 65. 
 
 Object of the short-story, 6. 
 
 Objective method, or angle, 
 123 ; shift from, to omniscient, 
 129, 133. See Spotlight. 
 
 Observation, 157, 158, 168. 
 
 Obstacle, basis of struggle, 15. 
 
 Occult, the, 63. See Ghost 
 Story. 
 
 Occurrences, bases of narrative, 
 
 23. 
 
 Omniscient author, or method, 
 124, 129. See "X-Ray." 
 
 Order, plot, 83, 84; chronologi- 
 cal or alphabetical order, 98, 
 119; variations, 98, 99, 100, 
 119; logical, loi ; variants, 
 102; mixed, 102, 119; use of, 
 for surprise, 272. Story 
 Types Dependent on, Chap- 
 ter VI, 97. 
 
 Organisation of plot incidents, 
 83. 
 
 Originality, 25; in plot, 92; 
 factor in longevity, 313. 
 
INDEX 
 
 353 
 
 People, basis of narrative, 22. 
 See Character. 
 
 Perennial plot, 27, 28, 81, 92, 96. 
 
 Pity, appeal to, 224. 
 
 Place unity, 7. See Unity. 
 
 Plan. See Plot, Formula, Con- 
 struction. 
 
 Plausibility, 92. 
 
 Plot, Preliminaries, Chapter 
 III, 43 ; Struggle and Com- 
 plication, Chapter IV, 55; 
 Composition, Chapter V, 82; 
 Story Types Dependent on 
 Plot Order, Chapter VI, 97; 
 emphasis on, 5, 7, 43, 117, 
 159; plot types, 58, 60, 64, 90; 
 problem plot, 100 ; hoax, 102 ; 
 turning the tables, 59, 238 ; 
 requisites, 82, 90; organisa- 
 tion, 83; order, 84; model for 
 structure, 94. See Order, 
 Complication, Struggle, Con- 
 struction, Perennial. 
 
 Pointers. See Direction, Clues. 
 
 Point of View, Chapter VII, 
 121, 136; of main character, 
 124; of minor character, 125; 
 of "reporting I," 126 ; shift in, 
 133> 134; use of, for surprise, 
 268 ; as mental attitude of the 
 author, 136. See Angle of 
 Narration. 
 
 Popularity and Longevity, 
 Chapter XVI, 309. 
 
 Preliminaries, Plot, Chapter 
 III, 43. 
 
 Present time, appeal to read- 
 ers, 312. 
 
 Problem plot, 100 (note). 
 
 Problematic ghost, 291. 
 
 Problems of Composition: Be- 
 ginning, Body, and End, 
 Chapter XIV, 256. 
 
 Progress of events in story, 
 274. 
 
 Progressive heightening, 3, 11, 
 206. 
 
 Property business, 140, 142. 
 
 Proportion, 274. 
 
 Pun, basis of surprise ending, 
 273. 
 
 Punishment, motive for ghost, 
 292. 
 
 Questions for criticism of a 
 story, 316. 
 
 Realism, 311. 
 
 Reality, stranger than fiction, 9; 
 material for story, 6, 91, 192. 
 
 Renunciation, for emotional ap- 
 peal, 229. 
 
 Repetition, use of, in characteri- 
 sation, 172; of tricks of man- 
 ner, 195. 
 
 Reporting, instinct in choice of 
 ideas for story, 33 ; "report- 
 ing I," 126; angle of author, 
 see Objective Method. 
 
 Representative, the, in fiction 
 material, 10. 
 
 Requisites of plot, 82, 90. 
 
 Restraint, economy by sugges- 
 tion, 12; of unusual incident, 
 94; in the horrible^ 163; in 
 
354 
 
 INDEX 
 
 emotion, 215; in description, 
 
 171. 
 Retardation, 274. 
 Revelation of character. See 
 
 Dramatic Method. 
 Reversal of plot order, 102 ; in 
 
 detective story, 104. 
 Reverse, dramatic, 99. 
 Romanticism, popularity of, 
 
 311. 
 
 Sacrifice, for emotional effect, 
 226. 
 
 Scale, adjustment to, 3. 
 
 Scenario, Chapter VIII, 139, 
 149; analysis, 150. 
 
 Scene, choice of, 139; definition 
 and formula, 140; purpose, 
 i44i 155; analysis, 145, 150; 
 transition, 147, 149. See Unity. 
 
 Scheme. See Anecdote, Inci- 
 dent, Short-Story, Plot. 
 
 Self-revelation of character, 
 179. 
 
 Senses, appeal of art . through, 
 12. 
 
 Sentiment, demand for, 310. 
 
 Sequence, of details in life and 
 fiction, 10; of steps in action, 
 84, $5 ; of incidents in plot, 
 190. 
 
 Sequential, or natural, method 
 of writing, 118 (note). 
 
 Setting, 140; means of convey- 
 ing, 140; over-emphasis on, 
 243. See Local Colour, Lo- 
 cale. 
 
 Sex, exploitation of in short- 
 story, 3 10. 
 
 Shadows of coming events, 
 ghosts as, 293. 
 
 Shift in method or angle of nar- 
 ration, or in point of view, 
 
 129, 133. 134- 
 
 Shift in scenes. See Transition. 
 
 Shift in spotlight See Spot- 
 light. 
 
 Shock, element in popularity, 
 
 314- 
 
 Short-story, definition, 7, 8; 
 likeness to tale, novel, novel- 
 ette, 2, 3 ; compared with 
 anecdote, 54; with Incident^ 
 54; stages of, 22; represent- 
 ed by arrangement of lines, 
 55; analysis of finished sto- 
 ries, 65; scheme of plot, 83. 
 See Plot. 
 
 Sick mind ghost, 291, 295. 
 
 Simplicity, plot, requisite, 82. 
 
 Single effect, or impression, 5, 
 6, 7; harmonisation of de- 
 tails, 25. See Integration, 
 Harmonisation, Unity. 
 
 Situation, meaning, 22 ; basis of 
 narrative, 22 ; story germ, 22 ; 
 whether beginning or climax, 
 23 ; physical or psychologi- 
 cal, 23, 25, 33; list of, 40; in 
 anecdote, 48 ; struggle in 
 ganglionic centre, 56 ; humour 
 of situation, 236. 
 
 Sketch, 2, 3, 23. 
 
 Slang in dialogue, 193. 
 
INDEX 
 
 355 
 
 Soliloquy, characterisation by, 
 
 Spotlight method or presenta- 
 tion of a character, 132; 
 shift to "X-Ray," 129, 133, 
 137- 
 
 Stage business, 140, 142. See 
 Gesture, Property Business. , 
 
 Stage direction, 208. 
 
 Stages in construction, 22. See 
 Construction, Starting Points. 
 
 Starting points, 22, 25, 26, 27, 33, 
 40; character as, 22, 25; situ- 
 ation, 22 ; locale, 25 ; thesis, 
 26 ; newspaper germ, 30. See 
 Dream, Incident, Anecdote, 
 Occurrence. 
 
 Stories, bibliography of, used 
 for study in this book, 
 326. 
 
 Story Types Dependent on Plot 
 Order, Chapter VI, 97. 
 
 Straightaway narrative, 97, 98, 
 123. 
 
 Structure, study justified by Poe, 
 22. See Construction. 
 
 Struggle and Complication, 
 Chapter IV, 55 ; basis of 
 short-story, 7, 57; characters 
 necessary to, 14; bases of 
 struggle, 15, 20; in Incident, 
 50 ; types of, 57 ; methods of 
 development, 58 ; determines 
 quality of story, 64; together 
 with complication, 76. 
 
 Subordination, 275. See De- 
 tails. 
 
 Sub-plot, 65. 
 
 Subjective or mental attitude of 
 
 author, 136 (note). 
 Suggestion, 12, 17, 199, 206. 
 Supernatural, 58, 63 ; struggle 
 
 with, 61. 
 Superiority, feeling of, as the 
 
 cause of laughter, 233. 
 Surprise and surprise ending, 
 
 means of eflPecting, 102, 103, 
 
 262. 
 Suspense, in anecdote, 48, 72, 
 
 88, 206 ; means of securing, 
 
 99, 276- 
 Sympathy, appeal to, 225; in 
 laughter, 235. 
 
 Tables illustrating order of 
 plot presentation, 119. See 
 Turning the Tables. 
 
 Tale, 3, 4. 
 
 Technique, books on, 321. 
 
 Temper, 275. 
 
 Theory of origins, 27. 
 
 Thesis as starting point, 26. 
 
 Time unity, 7. See Unity, 
 
 Tone effect, 260. See Key. 
 
 Totality of effect, s, 6. 
 
 Tragedy, Greek, 61 ; means of 
 effecting, 211; nature of, 
 211. 
 
 Tragic effect, 231. 
 
 Trait, in place of character, 14; 
 exploitation of character 
 trait, 162; in melodrama, 
 164; dominant trait, 166, 188; 
 in anecdote, 44, 48, 50. 
 
 Transition of scenes, 147, 149. 
 
356 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Tricks, "bag of," 217; of 
 speech, 195. See Mechanism. 
 
 Triviality, warning against, 2%. 
 
 Truth, stranger than fiction, 9; 
 92, 192. 
 
 Turning the tables, 59, 238. 
 
 Types, allied to the short-story, 
 I, 4; of struggle, 57. 
 
 Types, Story Types Dependent 
 on Plot Order, Chapter VI, 
 97- 
 
 Type-form of the short-story, 7, 
 8 ; of anecdote, 44 ; of Inci- 
 dent, so. See Struggle, Com- 
 plication, Plot. 
 
 Typical, proper material for 
 fiction, 9. 
 
 Unity, 5, 60, 65, 71, 72; Greek, 
 
 8, 18; 103, 167. 
 Unification, 69, 103. 
 
 Vanity, comic effect of, 237. 
 Verisimilitude, 9, 22i. See 
 
 Convincingness. 
 Vignette. See Sketch. 
 
 Warning, as motive of ghost, 
 293. 
 
 "X-Ray," 134. See Omniscient 
 Method.