Part 14 (1/2)

If Grace had looked pretty with her gown held up about her a few weeks ago, she now looked handsome indeed as she came into the well crowded room.

Her rich silk gown fell in deep soft folds at her dainty feet.

The soft creamy lace fell about her well shaped neck in cl.u.s.ters; the color of the gown made her hair and eyes look black as jet; and the excitement still kept the roses in her cheeks. Fred did not look so handsome, but no one could help admire the manly form as he stood beside Grace answering the questions that were to acknowledge them man and wife.

As soon as the ceremony was over and congratulations had been extended to the bride and groom, they were ushered in to a nicely prepared supper. A merry Christmas evening was spent.

Grace's brothers did not lose their housekeeper, as she and Fred made their home with them.

They spent their days not like the hurrying brook, but grasped all the suns.h.i.+ne that was meant for them.

And in general it is much better--better art and better manners--for you to draw the reader politely aside as soon as the heroine has whispered the inevitable ”Yes;” for what follows should not be spied upon by any third party.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 42: See ”preparation for the climax” in Chapter IX.]

[Footnote 43: ”The Problem of Endings,” by Mary Tracy Earle. _The Book Buyer._ Aug. '98.]

XI

THE STYLE

The method of presentation of the short story is a matter of import.

Its very artificiality calls for skilled workmans.h.i.+p; it must be made pleasant and readable by all known devices; its brevity, too, permits and demands a higher finish than is necessary in the novel. And altogether the short story offers a writer who is not exactly a genius a rare chance to show his ability as an artist in words.

Hence the question of style is of serious moment.

Style is so much a matter of individuality, and the short story comprises so broad a range of subjects, that it is not easy to lay down general rules concerning the proper style. No two masters would or could treat the same plot in precisely the same way, and yet the method of each would be correct. However, certain generalizations concerning the style of the short story may be made without being arbitrary. As always in literature, the style should be appropriate to the matter. This may seem entirely gratuitous, yet the examination of the work of amateurs will justify the remark. They are apt to treat serious subjects with the most unbecoming levity, and to dress commonplaces in an absurdly ornate style; and at times they so far disregard propriety that they offend against good taste.

The style of the short story should be simple, easy and concise. Usually the matter is not of great moment; it is incidental rather than critical; and it offers little reason for exaggerated expressions, or rotund periods. Above all it should be natural, for the short story, despite its many conventionalities, is very near to nature. The extreme sensationalism affected by many amateurs is most absurd, for nature and things true to nature can never be really sensational--a fact which is unconsciously recognized by the offending writer in his resort to artificial means to make his narrative sensational. I say ”extreme sensationalism” because I believe a certain amount of what is commonly designated sensationalism is permissible in the short story to sustain the interest, and to produce that delightful ”thrill” which accompanies a clever scene. The best rule for the novice is to stick close to nature--that is, to fact. He may present what startling effects he will so that he can prove them copies of nature, and so that they do not offend against art; but it is not permitted him to harrow the feelings of his readers by unduly dwelling upon exciting topics. Any undue exaggeration of this style, or any attempt to create excitement by sheer force of italics, capitals and exclamation points, is in extremely bad taste. It at once disgusts the intelligent reader, and it will soon so weary even the ignorant that he will yawn drearily over the most startling display of ”scare” lines.

The necessity for a simple style must not be made an excuse for commonplaceness; and here the author confronts rather a serious question, for everyday life abounds in commonplaces, which literature will not tolerate. If we make our stories readable we must, in some degree, represent life; if we represent life we cannot wholly avoid commonplaces; if we do not avoid commonplaces we become unliterary.

However, the difficulty is more easily solved than at first appears, and the solution lies in the very life which we portray. Life certainly is full of the baldest facts, but they are so subordinated to the relatively few but important events by which our lives are checkered that we shortly forget the commonplaces and remember only the striking occurrences. In like manner we should so preserve the proportion of our stories that the necessary commonplaces, while they properly perform their parts, shall be carefully subjugated to the interesting happenings. This is largely a matter of the handling, for in fiction events seem great or small in accordance with the s.p.a.ce and treatment that they receive. The way, then, to dispose of commonplaces is to slight them as much as possible: to crowd them into the least possible s.p.a.ce, and to couch them in ordinary language; for thoughts that are rendered unusual by their expression become conspicuous.

By ordinary language I do not mean the stereotyped phrases which the mentally lazy employ in the expression of their thoughts, but the simple, correct and rather colorless speech which is heard among the truly cultured. Indeed, sensationalism is preferable to the deadly monotony of the writer who is wont to clothe his ideas in the ready-made garments of conventional phrases; for sensationalism has at least the merit of vividness. The writer who penned the following could hardly have been more absurdly commonplace and stereotyped in his phraseology if he had been ridiculing some ”popular” author of cheap literature, but he wrote in serious earnest; the story throughout is a perfect gold mine of such hackneyed expressions. I have italicized the most offensive, though it is hardly necessary.

_Faint rumors_ of a church scandal _permeated the very atmosphere_ in Frankton, and every one was _on the alert_ to _catch the faintest whisper_ in regard to the matter; as the minister was a _social favorite_, and it was known by _an inside few_ that he was the one most seriously involved.

For a long time the matter was suppressed, and then first one hint after another leaked out that Mrs. Daniels, the minister's wife, was _a most unhappy woman_, and that there was _another woman in the case_.

At first the members of the congregation hooted at the idea; but when item after item of scandal came to their notice they begun to take a little notice, and it was noticeable that a good many enquiries were _going the rounds, ”just to satisfy themselves_ as to the ridiculous part of it”, so the _curiosity seekers_ explained.

Other writers attempt to make their commonplaces literary by couching them in stilted language, and then we have what is technically termed ”fine writing.” It is to this tendency that we owe such phrases as, ”After the customary salutations he sought the arms of Morpheus,” and ”Upon rising in the morning he partook of an abundant repast,” when the author meant merely to say, ”After saying good night he went to bed,”

and ”He breakfasted.” This error is due to the mistaken idea that things which are common are necessarily vulgar, and to an absurd squeamish objection to ”call a spade, a spade.” It is the worst possible way to handle commonplaces, for it attracts particular attention to the very things which it is supposed to hide.

But the writer may purposely subordinate commonplace facts, and yet suffer from a commonplace style, if he fails to give his narrative character. It is then that the young writer resorts to the use of poetry, quoted and original, with which he interlards his stories and the speeches of his characters. The poetry may be good, even if it is original, and it may be very apt, but few people in real life quote poetry in their ordinary speech. You may be well read in poetry and the kindred arts, but it is hardly the part of modesty or discretion for you to force your quotations upon a reader who very likely cares neither for your erudition nor the poets themselves. It is bad technically, too; and usually, as in the case of the following specimen, shows that the author has a wider acquaintance with the poets than with the rhetoricians.

Algernon Long was not a person of unbalanced mind, nor was he superst.i.tious in his interpretations of signs, visions and dreams to which so many attach supernatural importance; he was simply a successful man of the world, full of life and buoyancy, devoted to his occupation, that of a stock-broker, and to his domestic and social relations. And yet he believed with Lord Byron, that

”Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams that in their development have breath, And tears and tortures and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils.