by O. Henry
Babes in the Jungle.
If none of these hit you right, let me know and I’ll get busy again. But I think “Man About Town” is about the right thing. It gives the city idea without using the old hackneyed words.
I am going to write you a letter in a day or so “touchin’ on and appertainin’ to” other matters and topics. I am still improving and feeling pretty good. Colonel Bingham has put in a new ash-sifter and expects you to come down and see that it works all right.
All send regards to you. You seem to have made quite a hit down here for a Yankee.
Salutations and good wishes.
Yours,
S. P.
This letter was found unfinished, among his papers after his death. His publishers had discussed many times his writing of a novel, but the following letter constitutes the only record of his own opinions in the matter. The date is surely 1909 or 1910.
My dear Mr. Steger: My idea is to write the story of a man — an individual, not a type — but a man who, at the same time, I want to represent a “human nature type,” if such a person could exist. The story will teach no lesson, inculcate no moral, advance no theory.
I want it to be something that it won’t or can’t be — but as near as I can make it — the true record of a man’s thoughts, his description of his mischances and adventures, his true opinions of life as he has seen it and his absolutely honest deductions, comments, and views upon the different phases of life that he passes through.
I do not remember ever to have read an autobiography, a biography, or a piece of fiction that told the truth. Of course, I have read stuff such as Rousseau and Zola and George Moore and various memoirs that were supposed to be window panes in their respective breasts; but, mostly, all of them were either liars, actors, or posers. (Of course, I’m not trying to belittle the greatness of their literary expression.)
All of us have to be prevaricators, hypocrites and liars every day of our lives; otherwise the social structure would fall into pieces the first day. We must act in one another’s presence just as we must wear clothes. It is for the best.
The trouble about writing the truth has been that the writers have kept in their minds one or another or all of three thoughts that made a handicap — they were trying either to do a piece of immortal literature, or to shock the public or to please editors. Some of them succeeded in all three, but they did not write the truth. Most autobiographies are insincere from beginning to end. About the only chance for the truth to be told is in fiction.
It is well understood that “all the truth” cannot be told in print — but how about “nothing but the truth”? That’s what I want to do.
I want the man who is telling the story to tell it — not as he would to a reading public or to a confessor — but something in this way: Suppose he were marooned on an island in mid-ocean with no hope of ever being rescued; and, in order to pass away some of the time he should tell a story to himself embodying his adventure and experiences and opinions. Having a certain respect for himself (let us hope) he would leave out the “realism” that he would have no chance of selling in the market; he would omit the lies and self-conscious poses, and would turn out to his one auditor something real and true.
So, as truth is not to be found in history, autobiography, press reports (nor at the bottom of an H. G. Wells), let us hope that fiction may be the means of bringing out a few grains of it.
The “hero” of the story will be a man born and “raised” in a somnolent little southern town. His education is about a common school one, but he learns afterward from reading and life. I’m going to try to give him a “style” in narrative and speech — the best I’ve got in the shop. I’m going to take him through all the main phases of life — wild adventure, city, society, something of the “under world,” and among many characteristic planes of the phases. I want him to acquire all the sophistication that experience can give him, and always preserve his individual honest human view, and have him tell the truth about everything.
It is time to say now, that by the “truth” I don’t mean the objectionable stuff that so often masquerades under the name. I mean true opinions a true estimate of all things as they seem to the “hero.” If you find a word or a suggestive line or sentence in any of my copy, you cut it out and deduct it from the royalties.
I want this man to be a man of natural intelligence, of individual character, absolutely open and broad minded; and show how the Creator of the earth has got him in a rat trap — put him here “willy nilly” (you know the Omar verse); and then I want to show what he does about it. There is always the eternal question from the Primal Source— “What are you going to do about it?”
Please don’t think for the half of a moment that the story is going to be anything of an autobiography. I have a distinct character in my mind for the part, and he does not at all
Here the letter ends. He never finished it.
THE STORY OF “HOLDING UP A TRAIN”
In “Sixes and Sevens” there appears an article entitled “Holding Up a Train.” Now the facts were given to O. Henry by an old and dear friend who, in his wild avenging youth, had actually held up trains. To-day he is Mr. Al. Jennings, of Oklahoma City, Okla., a prominent attorney. He has permitted the publication of two letters O. Henry wrote him, the first outlining the story as he thought his friend Jennings ought to write it, and the second announcing that, with O. Henry’s revision, the manuscript had been accepted.
From W. S. Porter to Al. Jennings, September 21st (year not given but probably 1902).
Dear Pard:
In regard to that article — I will give you my idea of what is wanted. Say we take for a title “The Art and Humor of the Hold-up” — or something like that. I would suggest that in writing you assume a character. We have got to respect the conventions and delusions of the public to a certain extent. An article written as you would naturally write it would be regarded as a fake and an imposition. Remember that the traditions must be preserved wherever they will not interfere with the truth. Write in as simple, plain and unembellished a style as you know how. Make your sentences short. Put in as much realism and as many facts as possible. Where you want to express an opinion or comment on the matter do it as practically and plainly as you can. Give it life and the vitality of facts.
Now, I will give you a sort of general synopsis of my idea — of course, everything is subject to your own revision and change. The article, we will say, is written by a typical train hoister — one without your education and powers of expression (bouquet) but intelligent enough to convey his ideas from his standpoint — not from John Wanamaker’s. Yet, in order to please John, we will have to assume a virtue that we do not possess. Comment on the moral side of the proposition as little as possible. Do not claim that holding up trains is the only business a gentleman would engage in, and, on the contrary, do not depreciate a profession that is really only financiering with spurs on. Describe the facts and details — all that part of the proceedings that the passenger sitting with his hands up in a Pullman looking into the end of a tunnel in the hands of one of the performers does not see. Here is a rough draft of my idea: Begin abruptly, without any philosophizing, with your idea of the best times, places and conditions for the hold-up — compare your opinions of this with those of others — mention some poorly conceived attempts and failures of others, giving your opinion why — as far as possible refer to actual occurrences, and incidents — describe the manner of a hold-up, how many men is best, where they are stationed, how do they generally go into it, nervous? or joking? or solemnly. The details of stopping the train, the duties of each man of the gang — the behavior of the train crew and passengers (here give as many brief odd and humorous incidents as you can think of). Your opinions on going through the passengers, when is it done and when not done. How is the boodle gotten at? How does the express clerk generally take it? Anything done with the mail car? Under what circumstances will a train robber shoot a passenger or a train man
— suppose a man refuses to throw up his hands? Queer articles found on passengers (a chance here for some imaginative work) — queer and laughable incidents of any kind. Refer whenever apropos to actual hold-ups and facts concerning them of interest. What could two or three brave and determined passengers do if they were to try? Why don’t they try? How long does it take to do the business. Does the train man ever stand in with the hold-up? Best means of getting away — how and when is the money divided. How is it mostly spent. Best way to manœuvre afterward. How to get caught and how not to. Comment on the methods of officials who try to capture. (Here’s your chance to get even.)
These ideas are some that occur to me casually. You will, of course, have many far better. I suggest that you make the article anywhere from 4,000 to 6,000 words. Get as much meat in it as you can, and, by the way — stuff it full of western genuine slang — (not the eastern story paper kind). Get all the quaint cowboy expressions and terms of speech you can think of.
Information is what we want, clothed in the peculiar western style of the character we want to present. The main idea is to be natural, direct, and concise.
I hope you will understand what I say. I don’t. But try her a whack and send it along as soon as you can, and let’s see what we can do. By the way, Mr. “Everybody” pays good prices. I thought I would, when I get your story, put it into the shape my judgment decides upon, and then send both your MS. and mine to the magazine. If he uses mine, we’ll whack up shares on the proceeds. If he uses yours, you get the check direct. If he uses neither, we are out only a few stamps.
Sincerely your friend,
W. S. P.
To Pard
And here is the letter telling his “pard” that the article had been bought by Everybody’s Magazine. This is dated Pittsburgh, October 24th, obviously the same year.
Dear Pard:
You’re It. I always told you you were a genius. All you need is to succeed in order to make a success.
I enclose pubrs letter which explains itself. When you see your baby in print don’t blame me if you find strange ear marks and brands on it. I slashed it and cut it and added lots of stuff that never happened, but I followed your facts and ideas, and that is what made it valuable. I’ll think up some other idea for an article and we’ll collaborate again some time — eh?
I have all the work I can do, and am selling it right along. Have averaged about $150 per month since August 1st. And yet I don’t overwork — don’t think I ever will. I commence about 9 a. m. and generally knock off about 4 or 5 p. m.
As soon as check mentioned in letter comes I’ll send you your “sheer” of the boodle.
By the way, please keep my nom de plume strictly to yourself. I don’t want any one to know, just yet.
Give my big regards to Billy. Reason with him and try to convince him that we believe him to be pure merino and of more than average width. With the kindest remembrances to yourself I remain,
Your friend,
W. S. P.
At this time O. Henry was unknown and thought himself lucky to sell a story at any price.
LETTERS TO LITHOPOLIS FROM O. HENRY TO MABEL WAGNALLS
Lithopolis, a small town in Ohio, was the home of Mabel Wagnalls, a concert pianist and writer, who later donated a gothic style library to the town. O. Henry was incarcerated in the nearby Ohio prison. Published in 1922, this book purports to be his actual correspondence with Wagnalls.
Mabel Wagnalls
CONTENTS
LETTERS TO LITHOPOLIS FROM O. HENRY TO MABEL WAGNALLS
PREFACE
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
LETTERS TO LITHOPOLIS FROM O. HENRY TO MABEL WAGNALLS
PREFACE
“The human Will, that force unseen,
The offspring of a deathless Soul,
Can hew a way to any goal,
Though walls of granite intervene.”
IT is always a privilege to meet a great man. The revelation of him when off-guard and not busied with fashioning either forms or fancies for the public eye is sure to radiate some flash of personality that is inspiring. There are just two methods of encountering genius away from the limelight — by a handshake or a letter. The handshake and exchange of words may be eternally impressive — to one person; but to meet, in the pages of a letter, with one of these soaring spirits — one whose altitude is measured by the depth of his insight — this is an exhilaration that may be shared with others. My first meeting with O. Henry was of this sort, and the thrill of astonishment I received I am enabled to pass on to every reader of this little book. The experience, surprising as it was delightful, had a prelude I must explain.
Some months before, I had read a story that greatly impressed me; it was “Roads of Destiny.” Not only was I impressed by the originality of the idea and style, but also by the originality of the author’s name. Just “Henry” with an exclamation before it. I wondered how a writer could hope to be remembered with such a casual tag-mark. What superb indifference to fame! Then, on second thought, I considered it a clever bid for fame — a name so coy as to be conspicuous. Then, on third thought, that Henry name began to stir up activities in other crevices of my brain. I had a great grandmother named Henry. Our family tree I had long since discovered to be sadly lacking in decorations. No stars or coronets hung on its boughs, nor even a horse-thief to vary the respectable monotony. Perhaps here was an offshoot I had missed — a Henry branch that might prove illustrious. I searched in “Who’s Who” and asked literary friends, but “O. Henry” was on no list of celebrities I could find. So I scribbled a few lines to his publisher, told who I was — or rather who my father was — and, as one publisher to another, so to speak, I begged to know whether O. Henry was man, woman, or wraith.
I mailed the missive — and forgot it.
Time — but why be prosaic? “The ix days,” to quote from my favourite author, “with Sundays at their head, formed into hebdomadal squads, and the weeks, captained by the full moon, closed ranks into menstrual companies carrying Tempus Fugit on their banners.”
By the time Thirty-fourth Street was displaying sport suits and parasols and the trunk stores were announcing instant removals, my mother and I made our annual visit to my grandmother’s home in Lith- opolis. You have possibly never heard of this town. Don’t look for it on the map: it isn’t there. And don’t look for it from any railroad train window: it isn’t there, either. Lithopolis stands alone — faithfully guarding an ancient stone quarry so long disused that no one knows when it last was drilled or blasted. Again let me say that Lithopolis stands alone, maintaining an aloofness, an exclusiveness, that is unmatched, I believe, by any other cluster of frame houses radiating around a one-block trading area of single-story shops. Not even the famous walled-in town of Rothenburg is so difficult to enter and so difficult to get out of after you’re in. The daily mail-wagon was, at the time of our visits there, the sole public means of transit thither and thence; and likewise the one excitement of the day.
There are three hundred and fifty inhabitants in Lithopolis — never more, never less. The two hundred and eight houses it contains are kept in repair, and even rebuilt, but a new house is never added. Rather than do this people leave the town — or die. It is cheaper. People never move to Lithopolis, but they can’t help being born there. This is what xi happened to both my father and mother. Lithopolis is elite as the St. Nicholas Club of Manhattan: to belong to it you must be born to it. And, by way of further resemblance, its people are eternally clannish; they have a way of clinging to the home-town with a fondness that is irrefutable. Though the place is small and primitive, the surrounding hills are delightful, and the near-by ravine,with its winding stream, would thrill the heart of a Corot. The inhabitants are neighbourly and on good terms with one another in spite of the paling fences that divide off their front yards. Flowers grow near every doorw
ay, and at the end of Main Street, up on the hill, is a picturesque graveyard shaded by stately elms and spruce that give it an impressive dignity.
There is a tinge of old-world aris tocracy in the town’s disdain for all phases of modern industry. Reposeful as a medieval princess in a rock- bound castle, Lithopolis takes no heed of the whirring wheels and high- pressure mechanism of the outer world. The little community is almost self-sustaining. In its straggling business block you will find, besides the general store, a drug store — that indulges in literature on the side, a barber’s shop — very active on Saturday evenings, and a butcher’s shop that never saw a filet or a tenderloin. There is a millinery shop that cuddles close to the post office, and just beyond the second lane sounds a blacksmith’s shop. The hardware store plies a good trade in plows — and also deals in coffins. There are four churches to say prayers over the coffins when they are filled, and on the other street (there are only two)
is the shop of a tombstone-maker (her name is Alta Jungkurth — more of her later). And opposite to this shop stands the house and surrounding trees, the little garden and chicken corral of my eighty-year-old grandmother whose mother had been born a Henry.
Though the outlook from my grandmother’s window was a bit doleful, the Lutheran church right adjoining imparted an atmosphere of peace and strength that enabled us to contemplate the tombstones across the way with equanimity. One grew quite accustomed to them, in fact. As new monuments were frequently erected in the graveyard to replace less pretentious ones, the discarded old stones became an accumulation. Whenever a good flat-surfaced slab was needed for any sort of purpose the neighbours knew where to ask for it. Mrs. Needles decapitated her chickens on a stout piece of slate that bore a worn inscription to Ezekiel Smith, born 1803 — died 1810. Another neighbour’s front doorstep, had you peered underneath, told of one Hermann Baumgarten, who left this world in 1842.