THE REALISTIC STORY
THE REALISTIC STORY
By WILLIAM ROSE BENÉT
(1886). Formerly withCentury Magazine,and at present associate editor ofThe Literary Review.Contributor, particularly of poems and humorous verse, to many magazines. He is the author ofMerchants from Cathay; The Falconer of God; The Great White Wall; The Burglar of the Zodiac; Perpetual Light (memorial).
(1886). Formerly withCentury Magazine,and at present associate editor ofThe Literary Review.Contributor, particularly of poems and humorous verse, to many magazines. He is the author ofMerchants from Cathay; The Falconer of God; The Great White Wall; The Burglar of the Zodiac; Perpetual Light (memorial).
Humor depends upon incongruity, exaggeration, misunderstanding, ignorance, the unexpected, and the use of the absurd in a thousand different ways. Humor that is spontaneous is always most effective.A good humorous story is realistic, its humor apparently created from within, by the characters, rather than from without, by the author.The Chinaman's Headis an example of the simple, humorous story. It gives sufficient character indication to support the incongruity, the misunderstanding, and the unexpected on which the humor of the story depends. The brevity of the story contributes to its effect.
Humor depends upon incongruity, exaggeration, misunderstanding, ignorance, the unexpected, and the use of the absurd in a thousand different ways. Humor that is spontaneous is always most effective.
A good humorous story is realistic, its humor apparently created from within, by the characters, rather than from without, by the author.
The Chinaman's Headis an example of the simple, humorous story. It gives sufficient character indication to support the incongruity, the misunderstanding, and the unexpected on which the humor of the story depends. The brevity of the story contributes to its effect.
There must be oodles of money in it, I thought, and what a delightful existence, just one complication after another. I can imagine a beginning: “As he looked more nearly at the round object in the middle of the sidewalk, he discovered that it was the completely severed head of a Chinese laundryman.” There you have it at once—mystery! Gripping! Big! Large! In fact, immense! Then your story covers twenty-five chapters, in which you unravel why it was a Chinese laundryman and whose Chinese laundryman it was. Excellent! I shall write mystery stories.
I lit another cigarette and sat thinking of mystery. Did you ever realize this about mystery? It gets more and more mysterious the more you think of it. It was getting too mysterious for me already. Just then my wife called me to lunch.
“Did you ever think, my dear,” I said affably as I unfolded my napkin and the roll in it bounced to the floor.They always do with me. It seems a rather cheap form of amusement, putting rolls in napkins. “Did you ever think,” I said, recovering the roll.
“Oh, often,” said my wife.
This somewhat disconcerted me.
“I mean,” I said, accidentally ladling the cold consomme into my tea-cup—“I mean, what would you do if you found a Chinaman's head on the sidewalk?”
“Step on it,” said my wife, promptly.
It was quite unexpected.
“I meanseriously,” I said, handing her my tea-cup, which she refused.
“I am quite serious,” said my wife; “but I wish you would watch what you are doing.”
I spent the next few minutes doing it.
“I am thinking,” I said gravely over my cutlet, “of writing mystery-stories.”
“That will be quite harmless,” returned the woman I once loved with passion.
I ignored her tone.
“The mystery-story,” I said, “is a money-maker. Look at 'Sherlock Holmes,' and look at—well, look at 'Old and Young King Brady'!”
“All those dime novels are written by the same man,” said my wife, unemotionally.
“Were, my dear. I believe that man is dead now.”
“Then it's his brother,” said my wife.
“But I am not going to descend to the dime novel,” I went on. “I am going to write the higher type of mystery-story. My first story will concern the Oriental of whom I have spoken. It will be called 'The Chinaman's Head.' Don't you think it a good idea?”
“But that isn't all of it?” the rainbow fancy of my lost youth questioned, at the same time making a long arm for the olives.
“Of course not. There are innumerable complications. They—er—they complicate—”
“Such as?”
“Of course,” I said, “I conceived this idea just before lunch. I have had no time as yet to work out the mere detail.”
“Oh,” said my lifelong penance, chewing an end of celery.
But after lunch I sat down at my desk and began to concentrate upon my complications. I wrote down some names of characters that occurred to me, and put them into a hat. Then I took them out of the hat and wrote after them the type of person that belonged to the name. Then I put them into the hat again, shook the hat, and drew them out. This is entirely my own invention in writing a mystery-story. The first name that came out was that of “Rudolph Habakkuk, soap manufacturer.”
It was an excellent beginning. I was immediately interested in the story. I began it at once.
“'Ha!' exclaimed Rudolph Habakkuk, soap manufacturer, starting violently at what he saw before him upon the broad pavements of Fifth Avenue. The round, yellow object glistened in the oblique rays of the afternoon sun. It was a Chinaman's head!”
I thought it excellent, pithy, precise. Scene, the whole character of one of the principal figures in the story, the crux of the mystery—all at a glance, as it were. And what more revealing than that simple, yet complete, designation, soap manufacturer! I couldn't resist going into the next room and reading it to my wife. I said:
“Doesn't it arouse your curiosity?”
“Yes,” said my wife, biting off a thread. “But how did it get there?”
“What? The Chinaman's head? Oh, that is the mystery.”
“I should say it was,” said my wife to herself.
I left the begrudging woman and returned to my study. I sat down to think about how it got there. I thought almost an hour about how it got there. Do you know, it quite eluded me? I took my hat and overcoat and went down the street to talk to Theodore Rowe, who is an author of sorts.
“Let's hear your plot,” said Theodore, giving me a cigarette and a cocktail.
“Well,” I started off immediately, with decision, “you see, this Rudolph Habakkuk is a wealthy soap manufacturer. On Christmas day, when he is walking down Fifth Avenue, he is arrested—”
“Ah,” said Theodore. “Arson, or just for being a soap manufacturer?”
“I did not thinkyouwould interrupt,” I said solemnly. “He is arrested by a Chinaman's head.”
“Really,” said Theodore, “don't you think that's drawing the long bow a bit? Is it 'Alice in Wonderland' or a ghost-story?”
“He sees it on the pavement,” I pursued as well as I could. “It is entirely cut off. I mean it is decapitated, you know. The head is decapitated.”
“Yes,” answered Theodore, slowly, “I see. It would be, Heads get that way.”
“Well,” I said, “what do you think of it?”
“I haven't heard the story yet,” remarked Theodore.
“Oh,” I replied a trifle impatiently, I am afraid. “But that is the idea. The details are to be worked out later. Don't you think it's a striking idea?”
“I should say so,” said Theodore, rising; “almost too striking. Have another cocktail. They're good for what ails you.”
“Thanks,” I said. “But, you see, the fact is Ihavegot a bit—er—perplexed about how to explain the appearance of the head. Possibly you could suggest?”
“We-ll,” said Theodore, pursing his lips in deep thought, “let me see. Have you thought of the Chinaman being in a manhole? Only his head showing, you know.” He turned his back on me and drew out his handkerchief. He seemed to have a very bad cold.
“No,” I said emphatically, “this is a severed head.”
“It might have been dropped from a ballooo—achoo!” gargled Theodore, his back still turned.
“Really, Theodore,” I said, rising, “thank you for the drinks, but I must say your mind doesn't seem to fire to atrue mystery-story. I must have something better than that. I shall have to find it.”
As I was going down the front steps, Theodore opened the door.
“Oh, Tuffin,” he called after me, “how did he know it was a Chinaman?”
“By the queue wound round the neck,” I called back. It was rather good for an impromptu, I think. “The man had been murdered.”
I then found myself colliding with a policeman. He looked after me suspiciously.
My wife reminded me that we were to dine at the Royles's that night. As I dressed I was still turning over in my mind the unlimited possibilities of my first mystery-story. I could see the colored jackets of the book, the publisher's announcements, other volumes in the same series, “The Musical Fingerbowls,” “The Pink Emerald,” “The Green Samovar,” “The Purple Umbrella.” Imagination flamed. My wife said she had called me three times, but I know it was only once.
I had expected it to be rather a dull dinner party, but really Mrs. Revis quite brightened it for me. She was immediately interested in my becoming an author, and she began to talk about Dostoyevsky.
“Well, you know—just at first,” I rejoined in modest deprecation of my own talents.
“And tell me your first story. What is it to be?” She leaned toward me with large and shining eyes. I had a moment of wishing the title were not quite so sensational.
“It is to be called 'The Chinaman's Head,'” I said, hastening to add, “You see, it is a very deep mystery-story.”
“A-ah, mystery!” said Mrs. Revis, clasping her beautiful hands and gazing upward. “Iadoremystery!”
“The plot is,” I said—“well, you see, there is a soap manufacturer—”
“A-ah, soup!” softly moaned Mrs. Revis, gazing at hers.
“No; soap,” I said. “The soap manufacturer is walking along Fifth Avenue—”
“They really shouldn't allow them,” exclaimed my confidante.
“Yes, but he is—and—and he sees a Chinaman's head.”
“Where?”
“A-ah,” I said, “that is the touch—a severed head at his feet!”
Her dismay was pleasing. I had aroused her. She choked over her soup.
“Tell me more!” she gasped.
“Certainly,” I said. “The—the way it got there—”
What an infernal thing a mystery-story is! How should I know how it got there! Isn't the effect enough? Some day I shall write a story entirely composed of effects.
As I drew our Ford up at our door, my wife suddenly turned to me.
“It isn't late, George, and Sam Lee is just down at the corner. He should have brought the laundry this afternoon. I entirely forgot about it, and to-morrow's Sunday.”
“But surely they close up.”
“Oh, no; he'll be open. Maida went for it two Saturdays ago at about this time. They work all night, you know. Please, George!”
“Oh, all right,” I said resignedly. I jogged and pulled things and ambled down the block. Sure enough, the laundry was still lighted and doing business. It always smells of lychee-nuts and bird's nest soup inside. The black-haired yellow boy grinned at me. “How do!”
I explained my errand and secured the large parcel. Suddenly a thought occurred to me. The very thing! These Orientals were full of subtlety. I would put it to him.
“John,” I said impressively, “listen!” His name was Sam, but I always call them John.
He listened attentively, watching me with beady black eyes.
“John,” I said, “what would you do if your head—no; I mean—what would you do if a soap manufacturer—no; perhaps we had better get at it this way. If a Chinaman's head was cut off—see what I mean?” I leaned forward andindicated by an appropriate and time-honored gesture the process of decapitation. John—I mean Sam—took two steps hastily backward, and his eyes became pin-points. He jabbered something at his friend in the rear room.
“Now, John—I mean Sam,” I said mollifyingly, “don't be foolish. Just come back nearer—”
“That'll be all of that shenanigan,” said a very Irish voice behind me. I turned, and saw the policeman with whom I had so nearly collided that afternoon.
“That'll be all, I say,” remarked Roundsman Reardon, as I afterward found his name to be. “Sur-r, ain't yees ashamed of yerself, scarin' the likes o' these Chinks into the fright o' their shadow?” He leveled a large, pudgy finger at me. “An' I hear-rd ye this afternoon. I seen ye an' I hear-rd ye. An' ye may be thankful I know ye by repitation to be har-rmless. But ye'll come with me quiet, an' I'll escar-rt ye back to yer own house, an' leave the wife to put ye to bed. Ain't ye ashamed to be drinkin' this way an' makin' a sneak with the la'ndry without payin', by hopes of frightenin'—”
“That is not true,” I answered hotly, for my blood was up. “I intend to pay. I had forgotten.”
“Ye had forgotten,” said Reardon, a whit contemptuously. “An' ye was askin' the China boy how he w'u'd like to be murthered!”
“I will explain to you, Officer,” I said in the street. “I am writing a story. I was merely seeking a native impression.”
“That'll be as it may be,” said Reardon. “Ye give me the impression—”
“Suppose you hadyourhead cut off—” I began affably enough. But I got no further.
“It is as I thought,” said Reardon, gloomily. He got in beside me, and he helped me out at my own house, though I needed absolutely no assistance. He seemed to want to give me a bit of advice.