“My story, ‘The Bird of Serbia,’ is not without this fault. The man who sits in the smoking-room of a Pullman car and relates the inner tale, would not, in actual life, have spoken altogether as I made him speak. To that extent, then, the story is imperfect; but this imperfection is not likely to be noticed by the average reader, because it is not sufficiently glaring to remind him that the man in the smoking-room is supposed to be talking all the while.”
Characterization. What traits in the chief actors are most conspicuous? Are they “played up” convincingly and economically? What value have the background characters—the mother of Gavrilo, for example? What points of the Austrian character are noted, because of which sympathy is diverted from the Archduke?
Is the narrator of Gavrilo’s story, the man in the smoking-car, a minor character or a disinterested chronicler of the events he followed so minutely and accurately?
Setting. Notice that Mr. Street restrains his narrator from stating the name of the place, Sarajevo, until near the conclusion. Does its reserve increase the final effect? What details indicate the author’s familiarity with local conditions, customs, dress, and language? To what end do these local color data contribute?
Details. What clue do you find in the narrator’s statement about the “microscopic unclean forces of which historians will never know”?
Do you regard the ending as one of “surprise”? If so, is it calculated as such, or rather a chance offshoot of what was intended, rather, as a strong closing sentence?
On the subject of story writing in general, Mr. Street makes a valuable observation:
“It seems to me that there is a tendency, in discussing the art of short story writing, to confuse manner and matter, and to conclude that the story with a big, sombre theme must necessarily be superior, as a work of art, to the story which is lighter in subject and treatment. When I say ‘light’ I do not mean frivolous or false. De Maupassant, Leonard Merrick, and O. Henry have taught us better than that. A story can have the quality of truth, and can be rich in character and observation, yet be done with splendid deftness of touch—and oftentimes this very deftness, which we so seldom see in a story, is regarded too lightly by critics. It is much as though we were to insist that the wood-chopper has greater skill than the tight-rope walker, valuing the heavy strokes of the one more highly than the poise and adeptness of the other. A light touch in a story often suggests that it has been produced with ease; and a light step on the tight-rope suggests the same thing; but when we see a man swinging a heavy axe at a huge tree trunk, breathing hard and sweating, we readily perceive that he is doing real work. Hard work. I do not dispute that there may be certain lumber-jacks who handle the two-edged axe with a practiced skill rivaling or, perhaps, even surpassing the skill of a fair tight-rope walker; but neither do I hold with those who see art only where there is sweat and smell and swearing.”
THE BOUNTY JUMPER
Opening Situation. James Thorold, of Chicago, has just been appointed ambassador to Forsland. Isador Framberg has fallen at Vera Cruz. Thorold is making his way to the station to meet his son, Peter, who comes on the same train that brings the body of Framberg.