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MR. BRANDER MATTHEWS CHATS OF THE ART OF TELLING THEM, Compression, Intensity, Originality and Fantasy All Needed in a Tale Worth Reading. ® New York Commercial Advertiser, In a certain unpretentious looking house In Eighteenth street, New York, lives Prof. Brander Matthews, of Colum bia College. Inside, the flat floor sug gests the house of a literary workman— the library and the table seem to say to the rest of the furnishings, “We are of the first importance.” Professor Matthews himself is one of the busiest of men, yet by the assist ance of method he accomplishes a vast deal. He always has time for any new interest which may arise, as also to re spond to any unexpected demands made upon him in connection with his regular work, whether professional or literary. In his den the writer of “Vignettes of Manhattan sat one morning talking with a Boston Herald reporter about the art and philosophy of short-story writ ing in general, and about his stories in particular. He is particular to use the expression “short story” to distinguish an example of one of the highest forms of literature from the worthless story which is short. The first point brought up was the distinction between the short story and the novelette on the one hand, and be tween the short story and the sketch on the other. The real distinction, Prof. Matthews holds, is, in the first case, that the story is read at a single sitting, and must, therefore, be short. The difference is chiefly in length rather than in charac ter. The short story read at a single sitting creates one impression, to “total ity.” If you make it too long it creates a complicated impression and lacks unity of vision. Again, a novel needs some powerful motive to hold it to gether. Few motives except love are powerful enough to hold the reader's at tention to the end of a story of 100,000 words, consequently the novels in the world which are not held together by that force can almost be numbered on the fingers. The short story does not need that motive. It can be founded on any Incident of sufficient dramatic in terest to hold the attention of the reader to the end; yet, of course, love is fre quently brought into requisition. “In the other case,” said Professor Matthews, “the distinctions are not so fine. A short story, properly so-called, often ends with a climax which leaves the reader with a pleasant surprise. It is the crack of the whip at the end, and it gives dramatic finish to the narration. The sketch is a more vague, indefinite creation. Sometimes it is little more than a bit of description—a piece of mosaic work or a bit of local color. Perhaps we may say that while the sketch may be still life, the short story embodies action; yet the two forms merge into each other, and can hardly be distinguished. Nor is it useful to attempt to distinguish them. You might have a short story devoid of dramatic ending; to try to differentiate it from a sketch would be apt to lead to Profitless discussion. “In brief, the sketch merges into the novel, through the short story and the novelette, by almost imperceptible gra dations. Yet the difference between the novel and the short story is essentially a difference in kind. And the latter is not a chapter out of a novel nor is it a condensed novel; it deals with a single character, a single event, a single emo tion or a series of emotions called forth by a single situation. . . “A short story, then, must relate a dramatic incident, but it des not neces sarily have a dramatic ending. THE REAL SHORT STORY. “But it is of the very first importance to distinguish between the short story and the story which is short. The real short story is no more a synopsis of a novel than it is a chapter from a novel. The novelist may give his readers a cross section from everyday life; the writer of short stories must bring to his work compression, ingenuity, originality, and, perhaps, fantasy. Usually the last fol lows from the other three. He must take some incident of real dramatic in terest, some incident which is not a suit able basis for a novel, for a short story in which nothing happens f is merely a story which is short. “Having chosen a subject of which it is possible to form a short story, the writer must work into it those qualities of which I spoke; but if his work is to take high rank he must also have an ex quisite sense of form. Conception and execution must be equal in excellence. As the result of the absence of the lat ter quality we find many works which are novelettes in length, but short stories in essence, while many stories which are short are merely little novels. But the sense of form and the gift of style are secondary to the idea, the subject, which must always be an incident suitable for expression in a short story and unsuit able for expression in any other shape.” “Whence come your subjects for short stories?” inquired this visitor after the topic had been pretty thoroughly searched. ” Professor Matthews thought a minute and then replied, with eons frank ness, “I haven't the faintest idea.” “Let us take particular instances then. What suggested the plot of ‘At a Private View?' “One evening I was present at the opening of an exhibition of the Ameri can artists. It was a very large gather ing I remember, and the rain came down in bucketfuls while we were looking at the pictures. The atmosphere of the whole scene—the peculiar quality of the conversation which one hears on such occasions, the character and the attitude of the people present—appealed to me as being ‘copy.’ It seemed, too, that It was a fairly new background. Then the in cident came to me as something I had heard in another connection, and, by putting the two together, ‘At a Private View’ was the result. Yet here you note the fact that it is not a whole story. The real story is left to the reader's imagina tion. Yes, I suppose it is really told, to all intents and purposes, but only by re sults; it is not exactly a narrative. You reproduce the causes from the effects. ‘the last sentence, of course, leaves the reader with something to think about and gives the key to the story. Without it the piece might, I suppose, be called a sketch.” “Would you call.In Search of Local r’ a short story?Y es, that’s a short story. Of course, it records a number of experiences which I had while visiting the slums for color for a story of which the scene was to be laid in that part of the city. I intro duced a novelist (Rupert De whom I had used before, fur to the point of Was amplified from one I had made my Self at a Good Government Club inter Seeate Dane to theeery New York city. On that occasion I made a speech (a thing I very seldom do.) I am not a successful speaker, but on this occasion my remarks seemed to be received with favor. I jotted Down what I could remember of the speech, and afterward worked it over.” ‘ ‘the seems = me that we = getting at source some at asl wo ‘our stories?” ae “My stories generally relate to New York life. I take three or four incidents Which have come to my knowledge at some time and unite them by some thread, or against some background which suggests itself. I keep a com monplace book; that is to say, I jot down material of all sorts—incidents or types of suggestions—from time to time on bits of paper. These I put into a drawer. About once a year I clear out the drawer and classify the material, putting into one envelope those incidents which seem to fall under one heading. You see that such material can be classified indefi nitely. When I want to write a story I take one of these groups and think over the whole subject, projecting it against some background. I dot out a good deal, and when I see anything which seems to deserve treatment in a story it generally occurs to me that such and such another incident fits into it— belongs there, as it were.” “Do you rewrite and polish your work very much?” “No, for the simple reason that I do the polishing in my head before I begin to write. I think out the whole story to the last detail before putting pen to pa per. Polishing is dangerous unless it is done with just the right touch. For illustration, I am just reading a new novel by a young writer. It is a credit able piece of work, but she has polished it by hard labor. You feel that every word has been put there by main Strength. If she had omitted the polish ing the story would perhaps have made up for its lack of solidity or its spon taneity. If, on the other hand, she had put more hard work into it and had re moved the traces of elbow grease it would have been an admirable book. But as it stands it misses both ways. “I go over my manuscript with great care, for a word that can be dispensed with is an undeniable blemish. You see in this page of writing which I have just revised that the corrections consist for the most part in omissions.” “Does it seem to you that any rules, no matter how vague, can be laid down for the form in which a short story should be told? “No more than you can lay down rules for the subjects which shall be treated in such stories. It would be absurd to attempt to state what part dialogue, or description, or time, or place, or period should play. Some stories are entirely dialogue. Others are merely related. Some might happen anywhere or at any time. In other cases the background, while still remaining the background, is of the highest importance. Without it the lights and the shadows laek dis tinctness.. The only point is that the author is bound to use the method which best tells that particular story. THE LEADING MOTIVE. “In regard to the substance of a story you can say that the element of love is less necessary than in a novel; yet you will notice that the majority of short stories have that for this leading mo tive. And there are compensations for the enforced brevity; you can use the element of fantasy. Introducing into a novel it would be tedious, if not fatal; it can be employed to excellent advan tage in a short story. Again, your audi ence must be considered. If you are writing a story for men the element of love can be disregarded. But women are the chief novel readers; I suppose they constitute four-fifths of the readers of novels in the country. It is almost neces sary to make love your chief interest if you wish to appeal 19 women, and if you appeal only to men your sales will be comparatively insignificant. “Take ‘His Father’s Son’ for example. That is at once a tovel of business and a story in which love is not the leading element. Therefore, it is impossible that it should achieve any considerable suc cess. Women don't like business, and they do like love; therefore it won't go with them, and men don't read novels to any great extent. Moreover, it original ly appeared in the chief periodical for men in the country —Harper’s Weekly. “There is another point in regard to this mercenary phase. A story, song or short, must end happily—marriage bells in the distance and that sort of thing. Books (novels or short stories) attain their circulation in this way. People tell their friends that such and such a book is ‘a good story.’ But if the story leaves a sad impression they are loath to recommend it, perhaps because their friends will not thank them for suggest ing such a story. “Again, there is the point as to whether a run in a magazine helps or hinders the sale of fiction in book form. That, it seems to me, depends upon the author's audience. It is better for his pocket, of course, to sell his work to a magazine first, and that is what a deplorably large number of writers have to think about. They have families to support.” “How did you happen to write ‘In the Twinkling of an Eye?” “I happened to see an item in an En glish paper many years ago telling how a camera had been used for detective purposes. I saved the item with the idea of using it. I worked It into one of my early plays, which was never acted. When the prize was offered I said to my self that it would be caught by someone with an original idea. Then I intro duced the hint as to the guilty party to throw the readers off the track, and the story was complete in outline. Mr. Aldrich wrote to me: ‘I've read the first chapter of your story, and I know the major didn't do it because you suggest to me that he did.'” “Just what did you mean when you wrote ‘A Cameo and a Pastel?'” “A good many people have found more in that story than I ever meant to put into it. To begin with, there was the contrast in color. In the first half all is white, or exceedingly light, with the single exception of that splotch of blood, which I wanted. In the second white is, almost excluded and all the deep colors come in. The first, of course, was a purely imaginative description of a din ner at a villa in the environs of Rome, at which dancers were introduced; the second was a scene in a New York studio at which Carmencita danced. I saw her twice. The first time I somehow couldn’t see how the scene could be utilized in literature, but later it was put into the story that you know. I told Mr. Warner about it, and he used it in the ‘Golden House.’ Mr. Hamilton Ride has also put it in his international story.
Newspaper Details
Indianapolis Journal
Indianapolis, Indiana, US
Sun, May 03, 1896
Page 7
Full Page
Clipped by
Dan B.
