Delphi Complete Works of O. Henry

by O. Henry

  I ought to apologize for writing so much, but it is such a comfort to send out MS & know that it will not be returned.

  If you have time & sufficient charity I would like to hear something more about Lithopolis. How are the Domineck chickens getting along, and has your grandmother had the fence painted this spring?

  Sincerely yours O. Henry.

  III

  INTRODUCTORY NOTE

  The Dramatis Personae of the next letter requires some explaining and introducing. A play manager, glancing over the manuscript, would say there are too many characters. The list of names is indeed formidable and varied. They are here presented in the order of their appearance, as the up-to-date programs say: Mr. E. J. Wheeler. Don Hypolito Lopez Pomposo Antonio Riccardo Doloroso Otto Oliver Obadiah Orlando Oscar Orville Osric Bart Kramer The Tombstone Lady Barefoot Boy Bouncer To begin at the beginning — consider the Top Liner, Mr. E. J. Wheeler. Why is he here? First of all he is not Mr. Wheeler — he is Dr. Wheeler (the Alma Mater kind). And he is not squat, square-faced, and distracted-looking; he is tall, dignified, and the epitome of poise. You can see his name, if you look for it, on the news-stands every month. (He is editor of a well-known magazine.) And you can hear his voice, if you go there, once a month, at the meetings of the Poetry Society, of which he is the Pioneer and Pilot. He is one of the literary friends I first turned to when seeking information about the creator of “Roads of Destiny.” He it was, in fact, who suggested that I send a letter to the publisher. Dr. Wheeler was at one time associated with my father’s firm. I know him well; so well, indeed, that I know his faults, though no very close acquaintanceship is needed to discover his principal failing. Dr. Wheeler is absentminded. It is not merely the absentminded- ness of poetic frenzy. He did not become thus distinctive, he was always so, he was born so. The tales Mrs. Wheeler could tell — ! Indeed, she was to be envied as a conversationalist, for she was steadily supplied with home-made, enlivening anecdotes; the Doctor always enjoyed these (after they happened) as much as she did. But knowing this propensity of his, I was in the habit of forestalling it, taking all due precaution against his forgetfulness when I approached him on any important matter. It now occurred to me to let Dr. Wheeler know that I had unearthed the elusive author I was trailing, and to have them meet each other. For this purpose I sent my new friend a letter of introduction to the old one, and expressed a hope that he would present the letter before Dr. Wheeler forgot he was coming. (I was mailing at the same time a note to the Doctor explaining his prospective caller.) These precautions on my part are what stirred up O. Henry’s artistic instinct to the point of picturing my absent-minded editor friend.

  The second name on the list, Don Hypolito Lopez Pomposo Antonio Riccardo Doloroso, I am in no way responsible for. But the following three, Otto, Oliver, and Obadiah, are my own — my very own — I invented them. I have mentioned before my keen interest in the initial standing sentry to that Henry name; that modest-violet sort of nom deplume that was, whether intended or no, a regular trumpet-call for attention so enticed and tantalized me that I did well to wait until my third letter before broaching the subject. I wasted no time in subtleties — just asked point-blank what the “O.” stood for, and told him the only names I could think of were Oliver, Otto, and Obadiah. His reply was delightfully disconcerting. I could not charge him with ignoring my question; he must have given a full hour’s work to the answer. But none the less, I was left in the air — with a subconscious feeling that someone had told me his front name was his own and would I kindly stay put in my grandmother’s yard and not try to play in Madison Square. In a later letter I learned why O. Henry stubbed his pen and could not answer when I asked him what the “0.”stood for. The plain fact is it stands for just nothing — exactly as it does in our arithmetics at school. O. Henry had never bothered to devise a name for that “O.” It stands there alone, and will stand so for ever, an unwitting emblem of his fame — that enduring circle, the symbol of eternity.

  And now for Bart Kramer — ubiquitous Bart — who owned the barn that was burnt to the ground. This much he knows and must well remember, but that that fire was described to a lazy genius in New York who lit upon it as a subject for some clever pen strokes that eventually find themselves perpetuated in a book — all this will be news to Bart. It was a fine fire, lacking nothing in the way of spectacular effects — midnight — church bells ringing — all Lithopolis aroused, leaving its front doors open as it rushed to the blaze half- dressed. The roof was aflame when I arrived: we all brought utensils and formed a bucket brigade. Phil Oyler and Bart’s brother Jake took turns at the pump, filling buckets, which were passed on from hand to hand to the blazing barn, where Bart himself was frantically emptying and handingthem to another line of neighbours who passed them rapidly back to the panting pump. The frightened chickens and barking dogs added gloriously to the excitement. It did not last long and no one was hurt, and it certainly was, taken all in all, a perfectly lovely fire.

  In the course of my lively but brief correspondence with O. Henry, I learned to rely on the Tombstone Lady. Whenever Lithopolis seemed drained of incident and I found my pen lagging, I could always fall back upon Alta Jungkurth (she was muscular from her trade and could stand it). If your mind grasps at all the fact of a woman chiselling tombstones, you probably are picturing her as a middle-aged, frowsy-haired, masculine-appearing person, loud- voiced and assertive. Wipe out the picture — you will have to do it all over. Our Tombstone Lady was good-looking — yes, noticeably so — and soft-voiced, and at that time, I should say, full fifty years younger than the age at which according to Ecclesiastes she would have personal use for one of her own stones. She was tall, strong, and well-built, for her father had been a monumental man — so to speak. The music of the chisel (for the shop adjoined the home) had been her first lullaby, and stones — everlasting stones — tall, short, round, square, cuneiform, and oblong; white, gray, and granite-red — stones were her only toys. She had occasional pets, a cat for one, but he died. His name was Tom, and Alta gave vent to her grief by erecting a stone to his memory — it stands to this day in the yard:

  Here Lies TOM

  Alta Jungkurth’s Cat

  This is the simple inscription that serves to immortalize Tom, and also to prove that Alta started early at her trade. In course of time she became her father’s sole assistant. When other girls were learning to embroider and trace monograms on fancy work they sent to the county fair, Alta was tracing letters upon enduring stone, destined for display upon the hilltop. She became expert in marking off and chiselling all kinds of decorations — both the deep- cut and bas-relief. So what more natural than that she should take her father’s place in the shop when he, at last, took his place in the graveyard. There were orders unfilled, stones already contracted for, to say nothing of the one now needed to carry the name of Jungkurth. Alta bared her strong right arm and went to work in earnest. She even understood the “setting ‘em up” — which is not nearly so jocose a matter as it sounds in O. Henry’s letter. There is a whole lot to learn and master in this unusual tombstone trade — certain law requirements about foundations, the underground depth of stone and cement. You hired day- labourers or the grave-digger for this work. But sometimes Alta pitched in and did most of it herself. Often have I seen her with swinging step returning from the graveyard balancing upon her shoulder a huge clay- encrusted spade. Sometimes she was red in the face and furious because her helpers did not do as she told them. I saw her once, in a temper, fling her spade across the yard and declare that no man in the world seemed to know enough to dig a straight line or set a foundation. She had, on this particular day, been obliged to undo what the men had done and rebuild it all herself. No one could deny that Alta knew the tombstone business from the ground up and from the surface down; so expert was she that for miles around she was often sent for to chisel all day in some quiet graveyard at a stone already erected. Indeed, I so ad mired her energy and unconscious hewing of new path
s for woman’s work that I wanted to write an article illustrated with pictures showing her at her unusual trade. This last suggestion shattered the project; to be pictured in her work clothes did not appeal to x-lta. When she posed before the camera it must be in her Sunday best. With this dictum still clear in my memory, I look with relief upon the drawing O. Henry has made of her. I am sure it will not ruffle her feelings sartorially if she chances to see this book.M. W.

  O. HENRY TO MISS WAGNALLS

  New York, July 23rd, 1903.

  My dear Miss Wagnalls:

  Just for a change from the side view of the Lutheran Church and the “tombstone lady’s” outfit across the street, will you let me have the floor for a few lines? Thank you very much for your card of introduction to Mr. Wheeler, although I haven’t allowed myself the pleasure of calling upon him. You neglected to inform me whether his office is in the second story or the sixth, and I’m shy about bearding absent-minded editors who live too high above the sidewalk. From long practice I am able to land safely out of a second-story window, but when I scrape an acquaintance I don’t want it to be a skyscraper. I have a gifted imagination in some things — here’s my idea of Mr. Wheeler from your description. It represents him in the act of trying not to forget to ring the bell when people call on him who do not write articles on “Social Inconsistencies of Compound Hypermatrophic Astigmatism.” You will notice that my reluctance to beard editors has led me to give Mr. Wheeler a perfectly smooth face. Art is not Art when it is not consistent.

  When you said “a book about the operas” did you mean a book you wrote? Of course I would like to read it. First time the wagon goes to town let the book come along, will you? Down in Texas at one time I belonged to a first rate musical association (Amateur). We toured the State with Pinafore & the Bohemian Girl & the Black Mantles & the Mikado & the “Chimes” &c. Me? Oh, in the chorus, of course. Except once. Sang the part of Don Hypo- lito Lopez Pomposo Antonio Riccardo Doloroso in the Black Mantles. I put in the next 2 years living it down, & finally succeeded.

  Wait a minute ‘till I look at that little 2x4 letter of yours. O!

  That’s not an exclamation. You guess Otto & Oliver & Obadiah. Let’s see how they look [see page 27 for sketches that accompanied this letter]. Not guilty. Why there’s “Orlando” and “Oscar” and “Or- ville” and “Osric” and heaps more.

  Now, let’s see again. The book! that book of mine will be out — it’s hard to say just when. I haven’t begun to write it yet. I’ve only gotten as far as deciding about the cover and edges.

  I think Fate has been unjustly kind to you in the bestowal of favours. You are revelling in rural felicity and eggs and country air and scenery. That should be enough to satisfy any one. And yet with all those blessings heaped at your feet you are accorded the additional privilege of having witnessed the thrilling destruction of Bart Kramer’s barn by the fire demon. It is not fair. Isn’t a holiday enough for you without your demanding holocausts too? Though denied the spectacle myself, I can imagine the exciting scene — the lurid flames lighting up the lurid heavens with their lurid glare, and Bart rarin’ and chargin’ around trying to rescue the buggy harness and the settin’ hen. In such supreme moments do you never give a thought to the unfortunates cooped up in the city with nothing to entertain them except roof gardens & murders and the new guimpe styles in pique & Russian blouses?

  I’m awfully obliged for the nice things you said about my little old stories. I don’t think very much of ‘em myself, but it sounds kind of friendly, anyway. The only line in which I am convinced that I am truly great is in Art. This you can see for yourself. I once illustrated a book for a Texas writer. When he saw the pictures he tore up his MS and threw it into the Colorado river. That’s a fact.

  I suppose this nonsense of mine is getting to be a nuisance by this time. But I really am not able to take things solemnly. The whole business — life, literature, operas, philosophy & shirt waists — is a kind of a joke, isn’t it? I reckon that riding around on a pony on the Texas prairies thinking about the beans and barbecued beef we’re going to have for supper is about as good as anything. When the illusions go the best thing to do is to take it good-humouredly. So, there’s some philosophy for you. It isn’t solid enough to keep you awake after the frogs begin to croak in Lithopolis.

  I’m thinking of running down toTennessee for a little vacation next month. The mountains for me! Don’t you think mountains are real cute? Won’t you write me again before then & say au revoir? And tell me — is the tombstone lady doing nicely? And did Bart have any insurance? And are there any katydids? And crickets? But don’t telegraph. Letter by first mail will relieve anxiety.

  Yours very sincerely O. Henry.

  IV

  INTRODUCTORY NOTE

  O. Henry was continually sending me magazine stories — either recently, formerly, or about to be, published. They all attested to his rapid advance on the road to fame, and, being only human, I could not resist the impulse to send something myself to show that I, in my own poor way, was snailing along that same deep-rutted, long long road. I mailed him a copy of my book “Miserere,” and deftly, sort of careless-like, slipped in among the pages a circular of press notices about my concert work. All of which accounts for the slam-bang jollying I get in the following letter.

  The Storekeeper incident is a more intricate matter to explain. It involves, I am sorry to say, a little sidestepping on my part from the rigid line of veracity which the four churches of Lithopolis were aiming to inculcate. It happened in this way: One day at the drug store, where the books on one side balanced the bottles on the other, I was looking over the magazines and found one of them featuring on the cover a story by O. Henry. So conspicuous was the name that Mr. Bennett, the compounder of drugs and dispenser of books,had noticed and read the story. He was one who, in spite of his pill-boxes, thought more of mind than of matter. In reply to a pride- prompted statement from me that I knew O. Henry — had had several letters from him — he regarded me with sudden interest and exclaimed:

  “You don’t say! How did you come to know him?”

  This was a question I was unprepared for: in fact, I never have found myself fully accoutred — armed cap- a-pie — to parry this shaft when flung at me suddenly. When divorced from its adjacent incidents, the simple statement of fact, “I wrote a letter and asked who he was,” is a statement that might go unchallenged in Greenwich Village, but would hardly pass in Lithopolis.

  When flustered one clutches at half truths.

  “He is a distant cousin of my great grandmother,” I announced with an air of finality that quieted the storekeeper’s curiosity and also my own conscience, for I still did not know that the Henry name was fictitious, and as I had not specified the distance of the cousinship my statement could stand firm under considerable bombardment. My great grandmother’s name was Hannah Henry — upon this foundation rock of fact I stood un- budging as one of Alta Jungkurth’s stones.

  So much for the “hazardous” incident with the Storekeeper.

  M. W.

  O. HENRY TO MISS WAGNALLS

  New York, Sept. 7th, 1903.

  My dear Miss Wagnalls:

  I returned to N. Y. this week from a visit toTennessee? No, Pittsburg!!!! (Thank you for the sympathy expressed upon your countenance.) Smoke, soot, gloom, rain, hordes of Philistines and moneychangers in all the temples — well, you know what it was like. There is a new, popular version of the poem commemorative of the diminutive incipient sheep whose outer covering was as devoid of colour as congealed atmospheric vapour of whom Mary was the proprietress that seems not to do the subject injustice. Have you heard it? It runs this way:

  “Mary had a little lamb;

  Its fleece was white as snow;

  She took it to Pittsburg one day —

  And you just ought to see the go!

  darned thing now!”

  I read with much interest the little collection of press notices that you enclosed. Besides a lo
t of other things it tells me the old story of woman’s duplicity. I thought of you as a simple Manhattan maiden in Lithopolis killing caterpillars in a white Leghorn hat (not killing ‘em in the hat) while you plucked daffodils and related to an admiring peasantry the glories of the Eden Musee & Macy’s Store. And then, without a moment’s warning, you hurl at me the information that fame is yours — the real stuff with laurel trimmings and bay insertion — that your grosses entwicklungsfahiges talent made ‘em sit up & take notice in Berlin, and the Schulerleis- tung knocked ‘em cold in Plattsburg, N.Y.

  But, really, I do realize what a success you have made, and I congratulates you most heartily, although you’ve made me feel quite small and unimportant. Oh, what an exquisite, rippling allegro, staccato little “jolly” you have been giving me! Telling me nice things about my poor little stories, when all the time you were getting bouquets in Berlin and”bravas” in Binghampton and curtain calls in Conewago and — well, I’m real mad — so, there!

  I will try to forgive you for trapping me so neatly by asking me so demurely and offhandishly if I was interested in music. I was sure that you were going to say next time that you and your school chum had arranged “Hiawatha” for a duet, and that you could play the “Battle of Prague” with your wrists crossed — and then comes this D minor con certo opus 47 news and strikes me right between the eyes. I have taken the full count. I do not know a concerto or a legato from a per- fecto or a tomato, but I can recognize success, and if you will please listen carefully you will hear some hand- clapping ‘way up in the peanut gallery — and that’ll be me.