“‘I’m dyin’, Aigypt––dyin’,’ he says; ay, those were his words, for I remimber the name he called her. He was turnin’ the death-color, but his eyes niver rowled. They were set––set on her. Widout word or warnin’ she opened her arms full stretch, an’ ‘Here!’ she sez. (Oh, fwhat a golden mericle av a voice ut was.) ‘Die here,’ she sez; an’ Love-o’-Women dhropped forward, an’ she hild him up, for she was a fine big woman.”
8. Emphasis by Climax.––Another rhetorical expedient from which emphasis may be derived is, of course, the use of climax. The materials of a short-story, or of a 151 chapter of narrative, should in nearly every case be assembled in an ascending order of importance,––each incident carrying the interest to a higher level than that of the preceding. The same is true of the structure of a novel from the outset to the moment of the culmination; but of course it is rarely possible in the dénouement to carry the interest any higher than the level it attained at the point of greatest complication. Climacteric progressiveness of structure is effectively exhibited in Henry James’ tale of mystery and terror, “The Turn of the Screw.” The author on horror’s head horrors accumulates, in a steadily ascending scale. But, on the other hand, many stories have been marred by the introduction of a very striking scene too early in the structure, after which there has succeeded of necessity an appreciable diminution in the interest. The reason why sequels to great novels have rarely been successful is that it has been impossible for the author in the second volume to sustain a climacteric rise of interest from the level where he left off in the first.
9. Emphasis by Surprise.––A means of emphasis less technical and more psychological than those which have been hitherto discussed is that which owes its origin to surprise. Whatever hits the reader unexpectedly will hit him hard. He will be most impressed by that for which he has been least prepared. Chapter XXXII of “Vanity Fair” passes in Brussels during the battle of Waterloo. The reader is kept in the city with the women of the story while the men are fighting on the field a dozen miles away. All day a distant cannonading rumbles on the ear. At nightfall the noise stops suddenly. Then, at the end of the chapter, the reader is told:––
“No more firing was heard at Brussels––the pursuit rolled miles away. Darkness came down on the field 152 and city: and Amelia was praying for George, who was lying on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart.”
This statement of George Osborne’s death is emphasized in several ways at once. It is made emphatic by position, since it is placed at the very end of a long chapter; by inverse proportion, since it is set forth in a single phrase after many pages that have been devoted to less important matters; but most of all by the startle of surprise with which it strikes the reader. Likewise, the last sentence of de Maupassant’s “The Necklace,” quoted earlier in this chapter, is emphatic by surprise as well as by position; and the same is true of the clever and unexpected close of H. C. Bunner’s “A Sisterly Scheme,” in many ways a little masterpiece of art.
In tales of mystery, the interest is maintained chiefly by the deft manipulation of surprise; but even in novels wherein the aim to mystify is very far from being the primary purpose of the author, it is often wise to keep a secret from the reader for the sake of the emphasis by surprise which may be derived at the moment of revelation. In “Our Mutual Friend” the reader is led for a long time to suppose that the character of Mr. Boffin is changing for the worse; and his interest is stimulated keenly when he discovers ultimately that the apparent degeneration has been only a pretense.
In the drama this expedient must be used with great delicacy, because a sudden and startling shock of surprise is likely to scatter the attention of the spectators and flurry them out of a true conception of the scene. The reader of a novel, when he discovers with surprise that he has been skilfully deceived through several pages, may pause to reconstruct his conception of the narrative, and may even re-read the entire passage through which the secret has been withheld from him. But in the 153 theatre, the spectators cannot stop the play while they reconstruct in retrospect their judgment of a situation; and therefore, in the drama, a moment of surprise should be carefully led up to by anticipatory suggestion. Before Lady Macbeth is disclosed walking in her sleep, her doctor and her waiting-gentlewoman are sent on to tell the audience of her “slumbery agitation.” This is excellent art in the theatre; but it would be bad art in the pages of a novel. In a story written to be read, surprise is most effective when it is complete.
10. Emphasis by Suspense.––An even more interesting form of emphasis in narrative is emphasis by suspense. Wilkie Collins is accredited with having said that the secret of holding the attention of one’s readers lay in the ability to do three things: “Make ’em laugh; make ’em weep; make ’em wait.” Still abide these three; and the greatest is the last. The ability to make the reader wait, through many pages and at times through many chapters, is a very valuable asset of the writer of fiction; but this ability is applied to best advantage when it is exercised within certain limitations. In the first place, there is no use in making the reader wait unless he is first given an inkling of what he is to wait for. The reader should be tantalized; he should be made to long for the fruit that is just beyond his grasp; and he should not be left in ignorance as to the nature of the fruit, lest he should long for it half-heartedly. A vague sense of “something evermore about to be” is not so interesting to the reader as a vivid sense of the imminence of some particular occurrence that he wishes ardently to witness. The expedient of suspense is most effective when either of two things and only two, both of which the reader has imagined in advance, is just about to happen, and the reader, desirous of the one and apprehensive of the other, is kept waiting while the balance 154 trembles. In the second place, there is seldom any use in making the reader wait unless he is given in the end the thing he has been waiting for. A short-story may occasionally set forth a suspense which is never to be satisfied. Frank R. Stockton’s famous tale, “The Lady or the Tiger?”, ends with a question which neither the reader nor the author is able to answer; and Bayard Taylor’s fascinating short-story, “Who Was She?”, never reveals the alluring secret of the heroine’s identity. But in an extended story an unsatisfied suspense is often less emphatic than no suspense at all, because the reader in the end feels cheated by the author who has made him wait for nothing. There are, of course, exceptions to this statement. In “The Marble Faun,” Hawthorne is undoubtedly right in never revealing the shape of Donatello’s ears, even though the reader continually expects the revelation; but, in the same novel, it is difficult to see what, if anything, is gained by making the reader wait in vain for the truth about the shadowy past of Miriam.
11. Emphasis by Imitative Movement.––Emphasis in narrative may also be attained by imitative movement. Whatever is imagined to have happened quickly should be narrated quickly, in few words and in rapid rhythm; and whatever is imagined to have happened slowly should be narrated in a more leisurely manner,––sometimes in a greater number of words than are absolutely necessitated by the sense alone,––the words being arranged, furthermore, in a rhythm of appreciable sluggishness. In “Markheim,” the dealer is murdered in a single sudden sentence: “The long, skewerlike dagger flashed and fell.” But, later on in the story, it takes the hero a whole paragraph, containing no less than three hundred words, to mount the four-and-twenty steps to the first floor of the house. In the following passage 155 from “The Masque of the Red Death,” notice how much of the effect is due to imitative movement in the narrative:––
“But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the Prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centres of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple––through the purple to the green––through the green to the orange––through this again to the white––and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all.” The spectre and the Prince pass successively through the same series of rooms; but it takes the former fifty-one words to cover the distance, whereas it takes the latter only six.