And finally, Steinbeck experimented with and acquired control over narrative point of view in these stories. In earlier works Steinbeck simply failed, quite often, to trust the story and the reader. He tended to comment overtly on the story's telling as it unfolded, sending directions like little announcements to the reader. In these short stories, for all practical purposes, that authorial intrusion disappears. Although "Saint Katy the Virgin," as a carryover from a much earlier work and as a work of satire, clearly has the storyteller present in the story and commenting upon it, that story stands as good evidence of his subsequent growth as a writer. Most of the stories in The Long Valley are rendered in third-person, objective, or dramatic point of view. Character and story do the telling. A variation occurs in the third-person, omniscient point of view in "The Snake," as the reader undergoes with Dr. Phillips a deep revulsion at what he witnesses. Here Steinbeck does seem to comment on the event, but it is through his character, not through his own voice. Other experiments with point of view in the collection occur in "Breakfast" and "Johnny Bear," where the first-person narrator captures the feelings of the community and records them with great immediacy.
With such developments in artistic technique, it is indeed accurate to call the stories of The Long Valley "breakthrough" works for Steinbeck. He tested his artistic skills to the limit, exploring and perfecting new ways of telling the story and techniques to use in the telling. These works form the artistic soil out of which the novels of the 1930s grew. They are, therefore, so important to Steinbeck's canon that it is surprising that for so long the critical understanding of them was so mixed.
THE CRITICAL RECEPTION
The critical response to The Long Valley offers a curious miscellany of praise and condemnation. The initial response among reviews of the book during the year following its publication quickly reveals the mixed opinion.
Several leading periodicals gave considerable attention to the work. Writing in The New Yorker (September 24, 1938), Clifton Fadiman speculates on the then-popular label for John Steinbeck as a "hardboiled" writer, a characterization derived largely from the popular opinion of Of Mice and Men and In Dubious Battle as works "resistant to emotion." Fadiman argues on the contrary that in his concern for characters that are "socially submerged," Steinbeck is "exceptionally sensitive," and he uses The Long Valley as evidence. In fact, while Fadiman admires several stories as "beautifully written," he wonders if Steinbeck isn't "trying just a mite too hard to be sensitive and Open to Beauty." In particular, he singles out "The Red Pony" as "a heart-breakingly true picture of boyhood." In what would become a fashionable critical assessment of Steinbeck in later years, Fadiman declares that this is "a writer who so far has neither repeated himself nor allowed himself a single careless sentence."
Perhaps the most laudatory of the early reviews is Elmer Davis's piece in Saturday Review of Literature (September 24, 1938). Davis is sensitive to Steinbeck's artistic motives: "He writes what he wants to write, instead of letting the expectations of his public push him into a groove." Davis praises "some of the best writing of the past decade" from a writer without "an ounce of fat in his style." Moreover, Davis praises the detailed realism of the settings and characters, observing that Steinbeck "sees clear down through these people, and reproduces them in as many dimensions as they have." The volume, Davis remarks, leaves Steinbeck as "the best prospect in American letters."
Other reviews were less enthusiastic. Writing in the Nation (October 1, 1938), Eda Lou Walton opines that "these stories are clever, but they move toward nothing." Walton lumps the stories with Steinbeck's novels, which, she observes, similarly fail to "move toward any consistent vision of life or toward any set of values," and she uses the occasion largely to castigate Steinbeck's novels to that date. While Walton does single out "The Red Pony" as "the best short story in this new collection," this story is also defective in that it provides "a totally forced situation" to fit a scheme of symbolism. Since in Walton's estimation the stories fail to move toward an ideology, they provide "no authentic experience."
Writing in The New York Times Book Review (September 25, 1938), Stanley Young just plain did not like the book. Nor did he care much for Steinbeck as a writer. Of the stories, Young announces: "As a group they are neither profound nor passionate stories of great stature--that is they do not illuminate an age or a people either emotionally or intellectually, and they are occasionally flagrantly sentimental, as was Of Mice and Men." Sentimentality is the primary deficiency of the stories in Young's estimation, and it colors his appreciation for individual short stories. The vitriolic satire of "Saint Katy the Virgin" thereby merits high praise, while the character of "Johnny Bear" is "as pathetic as the groping half-wit of Of Mice and Men." Despite his personal prejudices, Young grants some tentative praise to the writer, admiring his "emotional range" and "abiding sympathy for human beings on all levels of experience," which prompts him to prophesy that "with time and experience and discerning criticism he may become a genuinely great American writer."
Upon reflection, one does not find either the range of reviewer opinion or the adamancy of that opinion particularly surprising. Steinbeck's restless imagination constantly carried him in different artistic directions. He often took both readers and reviewers by surprise, remaining faithful only to his primary artistic aim of telling a good story. Techniques and subjects differed in nearly every story told. Particularly at this early stage of his career, many reviewers were simply uncertain what to make of it all.
It is not surprising either that some of this mixed opinion prevailed in the later critical appraisal of individual stories as lengthier analyses began to appear in the scholarly journals. The most popular subjects during the early years of this academic analysis, and such critical studies began to appear in earnest during the 1960s, were the Red Pony stories. During the late 1970s and 1980s, newer critical approaches began to mine other stories for ore. By the mid-1970s the critical attention had accelerated to the point where Tetsumaro Hayashi, then editor of the Steinbeck Quarterly, collected a selection of essays in the first book-length volume exclusively on the stories: A Study Guide to Steinbeck's The Long Valley. Critical interest in the stories was not the exclusive province of the Steinbeck Quarterly, however. Increasingly, studies began to appear in such journals as Modern Fiction Studies, Explicator, Western American Literature, College English, and others. During recent years, several book-length studies devoted exclusively to Steinbeck's short stories have appeared.
The short stories of The Long Valley continue to attract scholarly attention. Were that not the case, however, the stories would endure in importance for the simple fact of reader interest. Steinbeck's primary aim as a writer was always to tell a good story. The Long Valley testifies to this aim. The general public as well as those in the academic setting return to these stories over and over. It is primarily there, in the hearts and minds of individual readers, that the significance of these stories persists.
SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING
Extensive bibliographies on The Long Valley may be found in Tetsumaro Hayashi, ed., A Study Guide to Steinbeck's The Long Valley (Ann Arbor, MI: Pierian Press, 1976); Robert Hughes, Beyond The Red Pony, (Metuchen, NJ: Scarecrow Press, 1987); and John H. Timmerman, The Dramatic Landscape of Steinbeck's Short Stories (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, 1990). The Steinbeck Quarterly has published articles on The Long Valley stories virtually from its beginning. The following bibliography lists only those works mentioned in the introduction or notes, or those of further bibliographical significance.
Byrd, Charlotte. "The First-Person Narrator in 'Johnny Bear': A Writer's Mind and Conscience." Steinbeck Quarterly 21 (Winter-Spring 1988): 6-13.
Davis, Robert Murray. "Steinbeck's 'The Murder.' " Studies in Short Fiction 14 (1977): 63-68.
DeMott, Robert. "Voltaire Didn't Like Anything: A 1939 Interview with John Steinbeck." Steinbeck Quarterly (Winter-Spring 1986): 5-11. Reprinted in Conversations with John
Steinbeck, edited by Thomas Fensch (Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1988): 21-27.
Ditsky, John M. "Steinbeck's 'Slav Girl' and the Role of the Narrator in 'The Murder.' " Steinbeck Quarterly 22 (Summer-Fall 1989): 68-76.
Girard, Maureen. "Steinbeck's 'Frightful' Story: The Conception and Evolution of 'The Snake.' " San Jose Studies 8 (Spring 1982): 33-40.
Hayashi, Tetsumaro, and Thomas J. Moore, eds. Steinbeck's The Red Pony: Essays in Criticism. Steinbeck Monograph Series no. 13. Muncie, IN: Ball State University Press, 1988.
Osborne, William R. "The Texts of Steinbeck's 'The Chrysanthemums.' " Modem Fiction Studies 12 (Winter 1966-67): 479-84.
Simmonds, Roy S. "The First Publication of Steinbeck's 'The Leader of the People.' " Steinbeck Quarterly 7 (Winter 1975): 13-18.
--------. "The Original Manuscripts of 'The Chrysanthemums.' " Steinbeck Quarterly 7 (Summer-Fall 1974): 102-11.
--------. "Steinbeck's 'The Murder': A Critical and Bibliographical Study." Steinbeck Quarterly 9 (Spring 1976): 45-53.
Steinbeck, John. "My Short Novels." Wings 26 (October 1953): 4, 6-8.
--------. Steinbeck: A Life in Letters, edited by Elaine Steinbeck and Robert Wallsten. New York: Viking Press, 1975. Quotations from this volume are here cited parenthetically as SLL.
--------. Working Days: The Journals of The Grapes of Wrath, edited by Robert DeMott. New York: Viking Penguin, 1989.
van Gelder, Robert. "Interview with a Best-Selling Author: John Steinbeck." Cosmopolitan (April 1947: 18, 123-25). Reprinted in Conversations with John Steinbeck: 43-48.
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
The Penguin Twentieth-Century Classics edition of The Long Valley uses the original text of the volume, published in 1938 by the Viking Press.
The textual history of the volume, however, has not been without controversy. When Steinbeck's friend and editor Pascal Covici first tried to publish the stories in a single volume, he held in hand a collection of badly worn typescripts apparently used as the originals for magazines that first published the stories. Because of editorial work at these magazines prior to publication, the typescripts that Covici held did not always accord with the published versions. It is evident, furthermore, that since he was deep into the writing of The Grapes of Wrath during the summer of 1938, Steinbeck himself did not take time to check the manuscripts carefully. Given the conditions of publication, it is remarkable that we have as good a text as we do.
Many of the variants in the textual history have already been examined in studies listed in the Suggestions for Further Reading. Quite often they are relatively minor, a matter of standardizing punctuation, for example, to conform to current style. Some obvious errors were caught. For example, in "The Chrysanthemums," page 2, the Viking Penguin text uses the term "strangers," a correction of an obvious error in both the holograph manuscript and the Harper's Magazine publication, which use "stranger men."
Even with access to holograph manuscripts, typescripts, and first publications, it is sometimes imprudent to tamper with a manuscript that has been standard for many years if such matters that appear are relatively minor stylistic issues rather than substantive. The few notable variants and matters of interest in Steinbeck's composition process are indicated in the Explanatory Notes following the short stories.
The Chrysanthemums
The high grey-flannel fog of winter closed off the Salinas Valley from the sky and from all the rest of the world. On every side it sat like a lid on the mountains and made of the great valley a closed pot. On the broad, level land floor the gang plows bit deep and left the black earth shining like metal where the shares had cut. On the foothill ranches across the Salinas River, the yellow stubble fields seemed to be bathed in pale cold sunshine, but there was no sunshine in the valley now in December. The thick willow scrub along the river flamed with sharp and positive yellow leaves.
It was a time of quiet and of waiting. The air was cold and tender. A light wind blew up from the southwest so that the farmers were mildly hopeful of a good rain before long; but fog and rain do not go together.
Across the river, on Henry Allen's foothill ranch there was little work to be done, for the hay was cut and stored and the orchards were plowed up to receive the rain deeply when it should come. The cattle on the higher slopes were becoming shaggy and rough-coated.
Elisa Allen, working in her flower garden, looked down across the yard and saw Henry, her husband, talking to two men in business suits. The three of them stood by the tractor shed, each man with one foot on the side of the little Fordson. They smoked cigarettes and studied the machine as they talked.
Elisa watched them for a moment and then went back to her work. She was thirty-five. Her face was lean and strong and her eyes were as clear as water. Her figure looked blocked and heavy in her gardening costume, a man's black hat pulled low down over her eyes, clodhopper shoes, a figured print dress almost completely covered by a big corduroy apron with four big pockets to hold the snips, the trowel and scratcher, the seeds and the knife she worked with. She wore heavy leather gloves to protect her hands while she worked.
She was cutting down the old year's chrysanthemum stalks with a pair of short and powerful scissors. She looked down toward the men by the tractor shed now and then. Her face was eager and mature and handsome; even her work with the scissors was over-eager, over-powerful. The chrysanthemum stems seemed too small and easy for her energy.
She brushed a cloud of hair out of her eyes with the back of her glove, and left a smudge of earth on her cheek in doing it. Behind her stood the neat white farm house with red geraniums close-banked around it as high as the windows. It was a hard-swept looking little house with hard-polished windows, and a clean mud-mat on the front steps.
Elisa cast another glance toward the tractor shed. The strangers were getting into their Ford coupe. She took off a glove and put her strong fingers down into the forest of new green chrysanthemum sprouts that were growing around the old roots. She spread the leaves and looked down among the close-growing stems. No aphids were there, no sowbugs or snails or cutworms. Her terrier fingers destroyed such pests before they could get started.
Elisa started at the sound of her husband's voice. He had come near quietly, and he leaned over the wire fence that protected her flower garden from cattle and dogs and chickens.
"At it again," he said. "You've got a strong new crop coming."
Elisa straightened her back and pulled on the gardening glove again. "Yes. They'll be strong this coming year." In her tone and on her face there was a little smugness.
"You've got a gift with things," Henry observed. "Some of those yellow chrysanthemums you had this year were ten inches across. I wish you'd work out in the orchard and raise some apples that big."
Her eyes sharpened. "Maybe I could do it, too. I've a gift with things, all right. My mother had it. She could stick anything in the ground and make it grow. She said it was having planters' hands that knew how to do it."
"Well, it sure works with flowers," he said.
"Henry, who were those men you were talking to?"
"Why, sure, that's what I came to tell you. They were from the Western Meat Company. I sold those thirty head of three-year-old steers. Got nearly my own price, too."
"Good," she said. "Good for you."
"And I thought," he continued, "I thought how it's Saturday afternoon, and we might go into Salinas for dinner at a restaurant, and then to a picture show--to celebrate, you see."
"Good," she repeated. "Oh, yes. That will be good."
Henry put on his joking tone. "There's fights tonight. How'd you like to go to the fights?"
"Oh, no," she said breathlessly. "No, I wouldn't like fights."
"Just fooling, Elisa. We'll go to a movie. Let's see. It's two now. I'm going to take Scotty and bring down those steers from the hill. It'll take us maybe two hours. We'll go in town about five and have dinner at the Cominos Hotel. Like that?"
"Of course I'll like it. It's
good to eat away from home."
"All right, then. I'll go get up a couple of horses."
She said, "I'll have plenty of time to transplant some of these sets, I guess."
She heard her husband calling Scotty down by the barn. And a little later she saw the two men ride up the pale yellow hillside in search of the steers.
There was a little square sandy bed kept for rooting the chrysanthemums. With her trowel she turned the soil over and over, and smoothed it and patted it firm. Then she dug ten parallel trenches to receive the sets. Back at the chrysanthemum bed she pulled out the little crisp shoots, trimmed off the leaves of each one with her scissors and laid it on a small orderly pile.
A squeak of wheels and plod of hoofs came from the road. Elisa looked up. The country road ran along the dense bank of willows and cottonwoods that bordered the river, and up this road came a curious vehicle, curiously drawn. It was an old spring-wagon, with a round canvas top on it like the cover of a prairie schooner. It was drawn by an old bay horse and a little grey-and-white burro. A big stubble-bearded man sat between the cover flaps and drove the crawling team. Underneath the wagon, between the hind wheels, a lean and rangy mongrel dog walked sedately. Words were painted on the canvas, in clumsy, crooked letters. "Pots, pans, knives, sisors, lawn mores, Fixed." Two rows of articles, and the triumphantly definitive "Fixed" below. The black paint had run down in little sharp points beneath each letter.
Elisa, squatting on the ground, watched to see the crazy, loose-jointed wagon pass by. But it didn't pass. It turned into the farm road in front of her house, crooked old wheels skirling and squeaking. The rangy dog darted from between the wheels and ran ahead. Instantly the two ranch shepherds flew out at him. Then all three stopped, and with stiff and quivering tails, with taut straight legs, with ambassadorial dignity, they slowly circled, sniffing daintily. The caravan pulled up to Elisa's wire fence and stopped. Now the newcomer dog, feeling out-numbered, lowered his tail and retired under the wagon with raised hackles and bared teeth.
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