by Frank Norris
Although that delightful tale of the sea, “Moran of the Lady Letty,” known in England as “Shanghied,” introduced Frank Norris as a novelist in September, 1898, “McTeague,” which appeared the following year, was written in I895, and was the first complete novel from the young author’s pen. Written almost simultaneously with “McTeague” was “Vandover and the Brute,” although the manuscript of the latter was actually finished a few months later. Both “McTeague” and “Vandover and the Brute” are obviously from the same mold, being strong, virile pictures of San Francisco’s underworld. “McTeague” is the story of the sinister degeneration of a Polk Street couple brought about by the sudden possession of money, — and “Vandover” the gradual development of a sensitive, rather artistic boy, whose character is both Jekyll and Hyde, and over whom, as he grows to manhood, the brute by self-indulgence gains supremacy until Vandover’s better personality is totally obliterated.
Although “Vandover and the Brute” was written at the time Norris was studying at Harvard, it was destined to have a somewhat strange history before publication. “McTeague” went to press six months after “Moran of the Lady Letty.-” At this time Norris was at work on other novels, and “Vandover” was shelved until the author could find time to completely revise the manuscript, — a task that he indefinitely postponed as “The Epic of Wheat” took form. We are told that at the time of Frank Norris’s death a crate containing the manuscript of “Vandover and the Brute,” —— no copy of which had been made, — was stored away with other crates in a large warehouse in San Francisco. As there seemed to be no way of finding out which crate contained the manuscript, and while the question of opening them all was being discussed, the earthquake took place, and the warehouse was burned to the ground. Presumably the manuscript was lost to the world.
A little more than a year ago the owners of the warehouse discovered that a number of boxes and crates had been moved from the building when it had first caught fire, but as they were improperly labeled no steps could be taken to notify the owners. In the readjustment “Vandover and the Brute” was found, but the author’s name had been cut away for the sake of the autograph. At length some one reading the manuscript at once recognized the author’s style, and complete identification followed. Twenty years ago, when it was first written, “Vandover and the Brute” would have created a sensation, perhaps it would even have been suppressed; but to-day few readers would question the morality of Norris’s early work, for in those twenty years we have come to judge such things in a somewhat different light.
In 1899, “Blix,” a charming love-story, — said to be in part autobiographical, — made its appearance as a serial, and in the same year it was published in book form. With “Blix” the author dropped for a time the sinister vein of his earlier books (for even “Moran of the Lady Letty” is not without its tragedy), still retaining, however, the strength that stamped them; and this strength, with the added note of sweetness, gained for Norris many readers who until then had been frightened by the unadulterated truth, although they had admired Norris’s style.
Somewhat in the same delicate vein, though in purport entirely different, is Norris’s “The Joyous Miracle,” a small posthumous reprint of a magazine story that was written during this period. It is an episode in the boyhood life of the Savior, — a very pure, concise little tale, and the nearest approach, I believe, Norris ever made to introducing theology into his writing.
“A Man’s Woman,” — published in 19oo, — a novel bearing on an attempted discovery of the North Pole, did not rise to the author’s standard; but “The Octopus,” which appeared shortly afterward, met with the instant approval of readers both in this country and in England. Indeed “The Octopus” stands out preeminently to-day not only as Norris’s greatest novel and the book most closely associated with his name, but as one of the greatest of American novels. It is a strong narrative, centering upon the contemptible proceedings of a railway trust against the wheat farmers of southern California. The following selection, taken at random from “The Octopus,” is a fair example of the clearness and force characteristic of Norris’s style:’
“But now, however, it was dark. Presley hurried forward. He came to the fence at the Quien Sabe ranch. Everything was very still. The stars were all out. There was not a sound other than the De Profundis, still sounding very far away. At long intervals the earth sighed dreamily in its sleep. All about the feeling of absolute peace and quiet and security and untroubled happiness and content seemed descending from the stars like a benediction.
“But suddenly there was an interruption. Presley had climbed the fence at the limit of the Quien Sabe ranch. Beyond was Los Muertos, but between the two ran the railroad. He had only time to jump back from the embankment when, with a quivering of all the earth, a locomotive, single, unattached, shot by him with a roar, filling the air with the reek of hot oil, vomiting smoke and sparks; its enormous eye, cyclopean red, throwing a glare far in advance, shooting by in a sudden crash of confused thunder, filling the night with the terrific clamor of its iron hoofs.”…
Following “The Octopus,” came “The Pit,” – a graphic story of Chicago social life and the cornering of the wheat market. This is the only book by Norris that was ever dramatized. Channing Pollock’s stage adaptation of “The Pit” in 1904 served Wilton Lackaye as a vehicle for two seasons.
“The Octopus” and “The Pit” form two-thirds of “The Epic of the Wheat,” of which “The Wolf” was to be the third part. The intention of the author was to present in the first volume the growth of wheat, in the second its distribution, and in the third volume its consumption. In referring to “The Wolf,” William Dean Howells, in his tribute to Norris, written in 1902, quoted:
“The unfinished window in Aladdin’s palace Unfinished must remain.”
Following Frank Norris’s death two posthumous volumes containing his writings made their appearance within a few months of each other. They were “A Deal in Wheat” (which contained among other short stories the aforementioned “The Riding of Felipe”), and “The Responsibilities of the Novelist,” – a collection of literary essays, one of which contained his oft-quoted words of advice in regard to aspiring writers: “Don’t write a Colonial novel. Don’t write a ‘Way Down East novel. Don’t write a Prisoner of Zenda novel. Don’t write a novel. Try to keep your friends from writing novels.”
A characteristic incident in Frank Norris’s life was told the writer by the late Lawrence Vassault, long associated with San Francisco periodicals and at the time of the story one of the editors of The Argonaut.
Mr. Vassault was seated at his desk one morning when a manuscript was shoved beneath the door of his office and hasty footsteps were heard retreating down the hallway. There was no address upon the manuscript; it had not even been placed in an envelope, and, while Norris’s signature was attached, at that time it meant absolutely nothing. The well-written story, however, was immediately accepted (it was one of his earliest, called, I believe, “The Lion’s Cage,” and afterward reprinted in “The Third Circle”), but much to the editor’s surprise, —— for such things do not often happen in newspaper offices, — the author, — who turned out to be a quiet, prematurely gray young man, did not return for a decision until months had elapsed.
It is worthy of remark, — indeed, a very touching thing, — that this comparatively young novelist, who had done so much and planned so much more, should for the last time have put his pen to paper in defense of a friend, should have written his last word not for fame nor money, but for friendship’s sake. This last writing was his article in defense of Dr. W. Lawler, which will ever stand as an evidence of an unselfish and brilliant life cut short in its prime.
From: The Literary News, V. XXIII, No. 5, May 1902 p.155
Frank Norris is hard at work on the second volume of his wheat trilogy. “The Octopus” just missed being a great book; but the author has, at least, a courage lacking in his confreres and dares to grapple wi
th giant problems.
“The Pit” is to deal with wheat distribution as “The Octopus” dealt with wheat production. Later “The Wolf” will tackle the problem of wheat consumption.
Mr. Norris has spent several months in Chicago haunting the wheat pit and studying the market and its phenomena. Later he followed the same course here in New York, and now he has employed an experienced and canny broker’s clerk, who spends his evenings with the author and acts as court of appeal in all puzzling technical problems.
From: City and State, V. XIV, No. 3, January 15, 1903, p.56
THE PIT. By Frank Norris. Doubleday, Page & Co., New York.
It will be impossible for any one who takes a pride in American letters not to be thrilled with pleasure and emotion on reading Mr. Norris’ last novel, “The Pit.” The second in the intended trilogy of the “Epic of the Wheat” (of which the first was “The Octopus”), it deals with the distribution of wheat as its main theme. Although the “deal” which makes the central interest is fictitious, Mr. Norris’ observation is so keen, and his manner of presenting what he has observed is so clear and strong, that the reader is made to feel the possibility and actuality of the situation in a way that is remarkable.
At a time when a conventional style of novel-writing prevails, it is a relief to find an author who has dared to be true to life; who, by a discriminating choice of commonplace material, transforms them into broad, distinctive types, and whose work is not the usual theme elaborated with attempts at unusual epigrams. And yet, Mr. Norris’ work does not lack wit, nor humor. The description of the Grand Opera in the opening chapter, and the rehearsal for private theatricals, show what he could do when he was willing to have the reader forget the sinister murmuring of the wheat market for a space; but the finest humor is in the little touches which occur on almost every page, when he good-naturedly shows some foible of his characters, especially those of the younger sister, or in such touches as when he describes Jadwin playing an organ, “with one of those attachment things,” and “Gretry looking on with the solemn interest that all American business men have in mechanical inventions.”
In spite of Mr. Norris’ assertion that the novel of the future will be the one in which the love motive is entirely subordinate, almost as strong in interest as the conflict between the man and “the pit” is the story of the woman, from whom “the pit” takes her husband and all that she lives for. If the author had started out to prove that
“Man’s love is of his life a thing apart;
’Tis woman’s whole existence,”
he could hardly have been more positive or more conclusive than when he writes the love-story of Laura Jadwin, which is human and rational, but nevertheless profoundly moving.
That Mr. Norris’ untimely death should have deprived us of the third in the trilogy of the “Epic of the Wheat” is one of the most regrettable facts. America could ill afford to lose the possessor of such a virile talent, but it is to be hoped that the novels he left us, more particularly “The Octopus” and “The Pit,” will be an influence to the thoughtful reader and an inspiration to the conscientious workers in the newer school of American fiction.
From: The Bookman, November 1903, p.311-312
Excerpted from: “The Sustained Effort and Some Recent Novels” by Frederic Taber Cooper
If Mr. Conrad is an example of an author who always knows his own distance, and gauges his stride accordingly, the late Frank Norris is a good example of an author who lacked that knowledge. Mr. Norris took himself and his work with great seriousness; his ideal in fiction was a lofty one, and he was steadily, persistently, indomitably, working towards it indeed, in the opinion of many of those who best know his work, he had already crossed the threshold of achievement. Yet, whatever place is ultimately assigned him in the history of American letters, this at least is sure — that he was first and last an artist who depended upon bold lines and sweeping brush strokes, and that he could not be true to himself if hampered by a narrow canvas. To look to Frank Norris for short stories is as incongruous as to set a Rodin to carving cherry pits, or a Verestchagin to tinting lantern slides. Yet it does not follow that the recently published collection entitled A Deal in Wheat were not worth preservation. On the contrary, they are full of the keenest interest to all students of contemporary letters. No one but Norris could have written them; every page breathes forth the uncrushable vitality of the man. But to call them short stories is to misname them. They impress one as fragments, rather splendid fragments too, trials of the author’s strength, before he launched forth upon a really serious work. Take, for instance, the opening story, which gives the title to the volume. It was palpably written for practice, a sort of five-finger exercise in preparation for Mr. Norris’s last volume, The Pit — and from this point of view it is brimful of interest. But taken as a story, it is at once too long and too short. Mr. Norris attempted in it to cover altogether too much ground; he might with advantage have stopped some pages sooner than he did — and yet, at the end there remains a sense of incompleteness. In the whole collection, there is just one story that stands out, unique and forceful— “A Memorandum of Sudden Death” — and in this the effect is achieved at the expense of probability. It is a good illustration of the length to which his occasional accesses of riotous romanticism would carry the author of Moran of the Lady Letty. This “memorandum” is a fragment of a journal supposed to be written by a wounded soldier, one of a small band of troopers who have been surrounded and followed, day after day, by a band of hostile Indians, through desolate miles of sand and sage, until the final attack is made. Granting that a United States trooper, with one or two
bullets in him, and his comrades lying dead and dying around him, could go on recording passing events with the accuracy, the minuteness, the astonishing atmosphere, of this story, one must admit that this is Mr. Norris’s nearest approach to the artistic unity of an ideal short story.
From: The Canadian Journal of Medicine and Surgery, V. XIII, No.4, April 1903, p.300-301
The Pit. By Frank Norris, Toronto. George K Morang & Co., Limited.
“The Epic of the Wheat” is a strongly constructed story, true to life, in that great whirlpool called Chicago; the men are alive, filled with purpose, but, of course, abominably rich; the women charming. The story seems so real, so thrilling at times, that the breath comes faster as one reads, and hearts kindle in admiration for the king of the wheat-pit as he fights his great battle and “corners” for one brief spell the wheat of the world, and then Mother Nature unloads her plentiful harvest and teaches him his lesson that she alone controls and sweeps him before her abundance like a leaf on a stream and he loses his all — yet love abides. As we close this masterpiece (of its kind) of fiction, a great sorrow fills the heart of the reader as he remembers that the book of life has “closed over” for the young author with his great intellect and keen insight into the lives and motives of men. What marvellous story-weaving he might have done in the long twilight of life had he been spared. Yet, what a long day’s work Frank Norris did when he gave us “The Octopus” and “The Pit.”
From: The Academy and Literature, No. 1644, November 7, 1903, p.491
“The Responsibilities of the Novelist, and Other Literary Essays, by Frank Norris”
By: Francis Thompson
Here is a volume of essays on his own art by an American novelist who died “just as he really promised something great,” and had in two novels (of which “The Octopus” was the first) partially achieved it. An author on his art may be right or wrong, but is always supremely interesting. For he writes of the one thing which he has most deeply and lovingly studied; and even if he go astray about its general principles, he reveals incidentally how he himself envisaged his art. This and a vital earnestness are the main interests of Mr. Norris’s essays. We have encountered little in the book which has not been said, at one time or another, and well said, by English critics. But it is uttered with fiery zeal, with a gallant directness and
downrightness in place of the cultivated and tempered critical suavity, and with the burning conviction of a man enunciating a new gospel. Such it may be in America; and even here it acquires a certain force of novelty by the forthright homespokenness of the author.
At the same time there is little of critical balance and comprehensiveness. He starts, for instance, by inveighing against those who would have the novelist on no account “write down to his audience” — would have him independent of his readers. On the contrary, says Mr. Norris, more than all others he should defer’ to his audience, should “feel his public” and watch his every word — — “in a word, possess a sense of his responsibilities.” Yet in the very next essay he vehemently asserts: “The eye never once should wander to the gallery, but be always with single purpose turned inward upon the work, testing and retesting it that it rings true.” He seems those who “find out what the public want, and give it to the public cheap.” He applauds the novelist who “never truckled,” who is “independent of fashion and the gallery-gods.” Yet he has previously said that “the People pronounce the final judgment,” the People “are the real seekers after truth.” He answers himself, and supplies the antidote to his own rash statements. For clearly be confused a just reverence for one’s auditory and the responsibilities imposed by one’s auditory with the popularity-mongering departure from the irreversible principles of art. It is against the latter alone that any true critic protests. And he shows that he is just as disdainful of outside opinion where the laws of art are concerned as the most fastidious critic could exact. As to the assertion about the People, it has been answered in these columns time and again.