This was not what I expected.
O. Henry, if you’re not familiar, is the pen name of William Sydney Porter, a bank robber turned author who wrote prolifically in the early 1900s, whose claim to fame is something that was evidently new at the time he was writing -- the surprise or “twist” ending. As this collection’s editors say in their introduction:
To this day writers are striving to surpass him in this type of story, only to prove anew the truth of that old adage of the prize ring: you can’t beat a champion at his own game.
I picked up this volume on the strength of that reputation alone. To the best of my recollection, I had previously only ever read one O. Henry story -- that staple of high school English classes “The Gift of the Magi.” Remembering the reputation far more than the details of even that story, I was prepared to be dazzled by the intricacies and elegance of Henry’s fiction.
I was not. Surprisingly, the editors may convey my reaction best in their introduction.
The bulk of O. Henry’s written work, truth to tell, does not measure up too well against the exacting standards of the present day [the present day in this case being 1945]. Many of his stories were glib and superficial rather than profound, obviously hurried and cut closely to a pattern that had proven serviceable. His characters, like his plots, tended to repeat themselves, and sustained him only because he was a master at contriving every possible variation of a familiar theme.
Despite this judgment, and quite incongruently, the editors go on to heap praise on the bank robber from North Carolina.
This volume of selected stories is conclusive evidence, in the editors’ opinion, that O. Henry at his best, however, deserves rank with America’s greatest masters of the short story. Such tales as “A Municipal Report,” “An Unfinished Story,” “A Blackjack Bargainer,” “A Lickpenny Lover,” “The Gift of the Magi,” “Mammon and the Archer,” and “Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen” (by actual count the O. Henry stories most often reprinted in anthologies) are gems of their kind; mellow, humorous, ironic, ingenious, and shot through with that eminently salable quality known as “human interest.”
Okay. Here’s the thing. The stories mentioned above, the ones most frequently anthologized, and not the best stories in this collection. In some cases, far from it. They, more than many, epitomize the “glib and superficial rather than profound” charge leveled at Henry by the editors.
So, in my learned opinion, what are the best stories in this collection?
“Roads of Destiny”
This is the one in which it seems Henry is manipulating his own form the most. In “Roads of Destiny,” there is no twist ending. There are, in fact, three.
A young shepherd and aspiring poet, David Mignot, decides to leave his home village, and the woman he loves, and seek his fortune in the City of Light.
Three leagues across the dim, moonlit champaign ran the road, straight as a plowman’s furrow. It was believed in the village that the road ran to Paris, at least; and this name the poet whispered often to himself as he walked. Never so far from Vernoy had David travelled before.
He comes to an unexpected junction. Three roads lay before him. A left branch, a right branch, and the main road. And here, Henry similarly splits the story into three parts; three stories, told in succession, of what happens to a David who journeys forth on each road.
On the left branch he is plucked from the road by the carriage of the Marquis de Beaupertuys, taken to a pub in the nearest town, and forced to make a difficult decision.
“Then listen, master shepherd and poet, to the fortune you have blundered upon to-night. This lady is my niece, Mademoiselle Lucie de Varennes. She is of noble descent and is possessed of ten thousand francs a year in her own right. As to her charms, you have but to observe for yourself. If the inventory pleases your shepherd’s heart, she becomes your wife at a word. Do not interrupt me. To-night I conveyed her to the chateau of the Comte de Villemaur, to whom her hand had been promised. Guests were present; the priest was waiting; her marriage to one eligible in rank and fortune was ready to be accomplished. At the altar this demoiselle, so meek and dutiful, turned upon me like a leopardess, charged me with cruelty and crimes, and broke, before the gaping priest, the troth I had plighted for her. I swore there and then, by ten thousand devils, that she should marry the first man we met after leaving the chateau, be he prince, charcoal-burner, or thief. You, Shepherd, are the first. Mademoiselle must be wed this night. If not you, then another. You have ten minutes in which to make your decision. Do not vex me with words or questions. Ten minutes, shepherd; and they are speeding.”
After speaking with the Mademoiselle, David agrees to marry her, it is quickly made legal by a traveling priest, and then, based on the accusations of cruelty and crimes that the Marquis had perpetrated against his wife, David challenges his new in-law to a duel. It does not end well for David Mignot.
With a little cry of terror and despair, the widowed maid ran and stooped above him. She found the wound, and then looked up with her old look of pale melancholy. “Through his heart,” she whispered. “Oh, his heart!”
“Come,” boomed the great voice of the marquis, “out with you to the carriage! Daybreak shall not find you on my hands. Wed you shall be again, and to a living husband, this night. The next we come upon, my lady, highwayman or peasant. If the road yields no other, then the churl that opens my gates. Out with you to the carriage!”
The marquis, implacable and huge, the lady wrapped again in the mystery of her cloak, the postilion bearing the weapons -- all moved out to the waiting carriage. The sound of its ponderous wheels rolling away echoed through the slumbering village. In the hall of the Silver Flagon the distracted landlord wrung his hands above the slain poet’s body, while the flames of the four and twenty candles danced and flickered on the table.
On the right branch David makes it to Paris, takes up lodging in a house, and begins to write his poems. There, he meets a woman of incredible beauty who, unbeknownst to David, is part of a group of conspirators seeking to kill the king. She tricks him into taking a secret message to their co-conspirators inside the royal palace, but poor David is caught by the king’s guard. Before the king himself, the plot is exposed.
“First,” said the duke, “I will read you the letter he brought:
“To-night is the anniversary of the dauphin’s death. If he goes, as his custom, to midnight mass to pray for the soul of his son, the falcon will strike, at the corner of the Rue Esplanade. If this be his intention, set a red light in the upper room at the southwest corner of the palace, that the falcon may take heed.
“Peasant,” said the duke, sternly, “you have heard these words. Who gave you this message to bring?”
“My lord duke,” said David sincerely, “I will tell you. A lady gave it to me. She said her mother was ill, and that this writing would fetch her uncle to her bedside. I do not know the meaning of the letter, but I will swear that she is beautiful and good.”
“Describe the woman,” commanded the duke, “and how you came to be her dupe.”
“Describe her!” said David with a tender smile. “You would command words to perform miracles. Well, she is made of sunshine and deep shade. She is slender, like the alders, and moves with their grace. Her eyes change while you gaze into them; now round, and then half shut as the sun peeps between two clouds. When she comes, heaven is all about her; when she leaves, there is chaos and a scent of hawthorn blossoms. She came to me in the Rue Conti, number twenty-nine.”
“It is the house,” said the duke, turning to the king, “that we have been watching. Thanks to the poet’s tongue, we have a picture of the infamous Countess Quebedaux.”
“Sire and my lord duke,” said David, earnestly, “I hope my poor words have done no injustice. I have looked into that lady’s eyes. I will stake my life that she is an angel, letter or no letter.”
The duke looked at him steadily. “I will put you to the proof,” he said, slowly. “Dressed as the king, you shall, yourself, attend mass in his carriage at midnight. Do you accept the test?”
David smiled. “I have looked into her eyes,” he said. “I had my proof there. Take yours how you will.”
And that is exactly what they do. The red light is placed in the appropriate room of the palace, and when David ventures out in the guise of the king, the falcon strikes.
When the royal carriage had reached the Rue Christopher, one square nearer than the Rue Esplanade, forth from it burst Captain Desrolles [one of the conspirators introduced earlier to the reader], with his band of would-be regicides, and assailed the equipage. The guards upon the carriage, though surprised at the premature attack, descended and fought valiantly. The noise of conflict attracted the force of Captain Tetreau [of the King’s guard], and they came pelting down the street to the rescue. But, in the meantime, the desperate Desrolles had torn open the door of the king’s carriage, thrust his weapon against the body of the dark figure inside, and fired.
Now, with loyal reinforcements at hand, the street rang with cries and the rasp of steel, but the frightened horses had dashed away. Upon the cushions lay the dead body of the poor mock king and poet, slain by a ball from the pistol of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys.
Yes, using his trademark twist ending, Henry reveals that the character previously introduced as Captain Desrolles was, in fact, Beaupertuys, the same villain who had killed David in the duel that ended his journey down the left branch. Two roads, in other words, each leading to the same fate. What, the reader would be justified in asking, will happen to David as his journeys down neither the left not right branch, but down the main road?
Well, it turns out David does not journey down the main road at all. When faced with that choice in the story’s third segment, he remembers the devoted love of his home village, a young woman named Yvonne, whose troth he is forsaking by journeying secretly to Paris. Coming to his senses, he returns to his village, marries Yvonne, and enjoys many years as a humble shepherd, writing his pastoral poems in the fields for his own and Yvonne’s amusement.
Eventually, however, he is consumed by nostalgia for the life that might have been, neglecting his sheep and his wife in equal measure, tortured by the desire and uncertainty of his muse. The town notary, Monsieur Papineau, encourages him to seek a professional opinion.
“Friend Mignot, I affixed the seal upon the marriage certificate of your father. It would distress me to be obliged to attest a paper signifying the bankruptcy of his son. But that is what you are coming to. I speak as an old friend. Now, listen to what I have to say. You have your heart set, I perceive, upon poetry. At Dreux, I have a friend, one Monsieur Bril -- Georges Bril. He lives in a little cleared space in a houseful of books. He is a learned man; he visits Paris each year; he himself has written books. He will tell you when the catacombs were made, how they found out the names of the stars, and why the plover has a long bill. The meaning and the form of poetry is to him as intelligent as the baa of a sheep is to you. I will give you a letter to him and you shall take him your poems and let him read them. Then you will know if you shall write more, or give attention to your wife and business.”
David does exactly this. The judgment of Monsieur Bril is not what he would have hoped.
“I have read all your verses,” continued Monsieur Bril, his eyes wandering about his sea of books as if he conned the horizon for a sail. “Look yonder, through that window, Monsieur Mignot; tell me what you see in that tree.”
“I see a crow,” said David, looking.
“There is a bird,” said Monsieur Bril, “that shall assist me where I am disposed to shirk a duty. You know that bird, Monsieur Mignot; he is the philosopher of the air. He is happy through submission to his lot. None so merry or full-crawed as he with his whimsical eye and rollicking step. The fields yield him what he desires. He never grieves that his plumage is not gay, like the oriole’s. And you have heard, Monsieur MIgnot, the notes that nature has given him? Is the nightingale any happier, do you think?”
David rose to his feet. The crow cawed harshly from his tree.
“I thank you, Monsieur Bril,” he said, slowly. “There was not, then, one nightingale note among all those croaks?”
“I could not have missed it,” said Monsieur Bril, with a sigh. “I read every word. Live your poetry, man; do not try to write it any more.”
On his way back from Dreux, David stops at a merchant and buys a pistol, which the merchant says he recently acquired after purchasing at sale the possessions of lord who had been banished for conspiracy against the king. David says he needs the pistol to protect his sheep from the predation of wolves, but in fact, he uses it immediately upon returning home to end his own life.
David laid his pistol under his coat and walked to his cottage. Yvonne was not there. Of late she had taken to gadding much among the neighbors. But a fire was glowing in the kitchen stove. David opened the door of it and thrust his poems in upon the coals. As they blazed up they made a singing, harsh sound in the flue.
“The song of the crow!” said the poet.
He went up to his attic room and closed the door. So quiet was the village that a score of people heard the roar of the great pistol. They flocked thither, and up the stairs where the smoke, issuing, drew their notice.
The men laid the body of the poet upon his bed, awkwardly arranging it to conceal the torn plumage of the poor black crow. The women chattered in a luxury of zealous pity. Some of them ran to tell Yvonne.
M. Papineau, whose nose had brought him there among the first, picked up the weapon and ran his eye over its silver mountings with a mingled air of connoisseurship and grief.
“The arms,” he explained, aside, to the cure, “and crest of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys.”
It’s not a perfect story, but it is an interesting structure, well told, and the most meaningfully complex story in the collection. Roads of destiny, indeed.
“The Duplicity of Hargraves”
In this story it is the character sketches that seem more accomplished than most.
Major Pendleton Talbot is a old Southern gentleman, relocated to Washington after the American Civil War, ostensibly to finish writing and to publish his book of antebellum remembrances. And Henry Hopkins Hargraves is a young actor living in the same boarding house, who attaches himself to the Major, seemingly attentive to the old Southerner’s anecdotes.
In fact, Hargraves is using the Major as a character study of his own. One night, as Talbot attends the theater, he is shocked to see himself in the character of one Colonel Calhoun -- himself in appearance, dress, mannerisms, and loquacious anecdotes -- on stage.
Major Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard his best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced and expanded, and the dream of the “Anecdotes and Reminiscences” served, exaggerated and garbled. His favorite narrative -- that of his duel with Rathbone Culbertson -- was not omitted, and it was delivered with more fire, egotism, and gusto than the major himself had put into it.
The monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little lecture on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act. Here Major Talbot’s delicate but showy science was reproduced to a hair’s breadth -- from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed -- “the one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, and you extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this heaven-bestowed plant” -- to his solicitous selection of oaten straws.
It is Hargraves, of course, who has created a theatrical phenomenon by making a farce out of everything the Major is. The next day, Talbot confronts Hargraves, and the scene is, I think, one of the finest Henry has written.
“Mr. Hargraves,” said the major, who had remained standing, “you have put upon me an unpardonable insult. You have burlesqued my person, grossly betrayed my confidence, and misused my hospitality. If I thought you possessed the faintest conception of what is the sign manual of a gentleman, or what is due one, I would call you out, sir, old as I am. I will ask you to leave the room, sir.”
The actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly to take in the full meaning of the old gentleman’s words.
“I am truly sorry you took offence,” he said, regretfully. “Up here we don’t look at things just as you people do. I know men who would buy out half the house to have their personality put on stage so the public would recognize it.”
“They are not from Alabama, sir,” said the major, haughtily.
“Perhaps not. I have a pretty good memory, major; let me quote a few lines from your book. In response to a toast at a banquet given in -- Milledgeville, I believe -- you uttered, and intend to have printed these words:
“The Northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except in so far as the feelings may be turned to his own commercial profit. He will suffer without resentment any imputation cast upon the honor of himself or his loved ones that does not bear with it the consequence of pecuniary loss. In his charity, he gives with a liberal hand; but it must be heralded with the trumpet and chronicled in brass.
“Do you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of Colonel Calhoun last night?”
“The description,” said the major, frowning, “is -- not without grounds. Some exag-- latitude must be allowed in public speaking.”
“And in public acting,” replied Hargraves.
Touche. The tension is palpable, as it the dichotomy between the Northern and Southern points of view. It’s social commentary dressed up in entertaining fiction, and it works.
“The Cop and the Anthem”
In which Soapy, a tramp in New York City, repeatedly tries and repeatedly fails to get himself arrested so he can spend the coming cold winter months in the Rikers Island jail.
On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.
“Now get busy and call a cop,” said Soapy. “And don’t keep a gentleman waiting.”
“No cop for youse,” said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. “Hey, Con!”
Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose joint by joint, as a carpenter’s rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.
The ending is predictable (after a while they all are; just predict the opposite of what seems to be happening and that is certainly where Henry’s is going to take it), but it is told with more grace than most. In others, the twist ending comes like that dog that won’t stop barking is suddenly dropped in your living room. Here, it is gentle, and almost welcome. Exhausted, Soapy returns dejected to his park bench and grows transfixed by the beauty of some organ music floating out a nearby church window.
The conjunction of Soapy’s receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.
And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet: he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would--
Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman.
“What are you doin’ here?” asked the officer.
“Nothin’,” said Soapy.
“Then come along,” said the policeman.
“Three months on the Island,” said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.
But the real genius is the voice. As advertised, it is “mellow, humorous, ironic, ingenious.” There are only a few other voices like it in the fiction I’m familiar with, and it was a delightful moment when I discovered an unmistakable connection with one of them.
Lugubrious
There are hints in many of the stories.
From “The Cop and the Anthem”:
He arose joint by joint, as a carpenter’s rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes.
And from “The Ransom of Red Chief”:
That boy put up a fight like a welter-weight cinnamon bear.
But it wasn’t until I got to this line in “Shoes” that the connection clicked home for me:
In some houses the thrumming of lugubrious guitars added to the depression of the triste night.
lu·gu·bri·ous
ləˈɡ(y)o͞obrÄ“É™s/
adjective
looking or sounding sad and dismal.
synonyms: mournful, gloomy, sad, unhappy, doleful, glum, melancholy, woeful, miserable, woebegone, forlorn, somber, solemn, serious, sorrowful, morose, dour, cheerless, joyless, dismal; funereal, sepulchral; informal down in/at the mouth; literary dolorous "lugubrious hymns"
It was not the first time I had stumbled across this word in the collection. But this was the time that the telling thought popped unsolicited into my mind.
Lugubrious. The only author I know that uses lugubrious as much as O. Henry is T. C. Boyle. And once that connection was made, another came effortlessly.
He arose joint by joint, as a carpenter’s rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes.
O. Henry. T. C. Boyle. Authors of different generations but of the same wicked stripe.
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This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.
