and doubles again. There are two parts or two movements in each story that are based
on the ambiguity between a real experience and a dreamed one, between asserted
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reality and hypothetical reality ” ( “ Technique as Myth ” 265). Howard ’ s ambiguous
death - in - life state is also suggested by the fact that as he nears his apartment “ his
breath was gone. ” He “ stop[s] still ” on the sidewalk when he comes across the stopped
clock he had thrown out the window because it had “ ticked dreadfully ” after he
stabbed Marjorie in the heart. When he re - enters their room, only the dead roses seem
to have life, as they exude their scent. In this second of three fl ower scenes, Howard
strokes not Marjorie ’ s body but the roses; and then he “ knew … that everything had
stopped. ” Her lifelike form continues to lean against the window; but where she had
earlier had “ perfect balance, ” now her balance, like his breath, is gone; and the con-
verse is also true: his balance and her breath are gone. An additional irony is the fact
that, in one of Welty ’ s most recognized symbols of openness to life, the open hand,
Marjorie ’ s hand lies open, even in death. The images of death – all of which describe
Howard, not Marjorie – continue to accumulate, as he reports her death to a police-
man on the street below and then “ burie[s] his eyes, nose, and mouth in the roses. ”
What Joyce called “ the curve of an emotion, ” which paints the “ portrait of the
artist ” (258), defi nes the character of Howard as it arcs between the poles of life and
death in his mind, dictating the aesthetic shape of the story. Welty employs the
ancient Homeric narrative pattern of wandering and return; but she doubles the
pattern, with a second action that is an ironic reversal of the fi rst. Howard moves,
mentally and physically, away from life in the apartment where his wife reminds him
of home, out into an inhospitable world that has killed his spirit. On his fi rst return,
he who is “ dead ” kills one who is literally full of life. He then makes a second voyage
out and a second return, to face the actual and spiritual death he has perpetrated. 6 In
the third fl ower scene, when he starts to go back into the house with the policeman,
the roses he has won at Radio City fall to the ground and children take them up and
wear them. If this fi nal action seems anticlimactic, it is the kind of purposeful anti-
climax that O ’ Connor called, in Turgenev ’ s “ Byezhin Prairie, ” one of “ supreme art-
istry. ” It is not the expected ending – of justice done to a murderer, perhaps – but
one like that which O ’ Connor says elicits a “ shudder … before the mystery of human
life ” (O ’ Connor 51 – 2). “ Flowers for Marjorie ” is one of Welty ’ s stories in which, as
Ruth M. Vande Kieft says, “ the separateness triumphs over the love ” (303).
Aesthetic Structure in “ The Winds ”
As Welty matured as an artist, she continued to experiment with the lyric technique,
often to convey a character ’ s sense of inner landscape, revising fi ction ’ s classic curve
of plot action, which becomes, in the lyric story, more nearly an aesthetic structure
that reveals a character ’ s rising and falling emotions. In her second collection, The
Wide Net , Warren noticed that “ on the fi rst page, with the fi rst sentence, we enter a
special world … in which we are going to live until we reach the last sentence of the
last story. ” Quoting the opening of “ First Love ” ( Collected Stories 153 – 68), another
story set on the Natchez Trace – “ Whatever happened, it happened in extraordinary
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Ruth D. Weston
times, in a season of dreams ” – Warren called the stories in The Wide Net “ a tissue of
symbols which emerge from, and disappear into, a world of scene and action which,
once we discount the author ’ s special perspective, is recognizable in realistic terms ”
(Warren 43, 50). This generalization is also exemplifi ed in “ The Winds ” ( Collected
Stories 209 – 21), which depicts the realism of seasonal changes in terms of an equinoc-
tial storm and, in terms of the author ’ s perspective, the inner storm caused by a young
girl ’ s move from childhood to adolescence and sexual awareness. The story is composed
of a series of lyric moments, experienced by both the protagonist and the reader, that
shape its aesthetic structure.
Although not part of a short story cycle, like The Golden Apples , with its recurring
characters and setting, The Wide Net includes several stories set on the Natchez Trace.
Moreover, the volume coheres in subtle ways around a wide net of language and
imagery that reveals Welty ’ s sense of the essential mystery and allure of the world,
including human life. In some ways, life in a Welty story is always set in “ a season
of dreams. ” “ The Winds ” opens with a passage that connects it with “ First Love ” in
terms of their mysterious settings in extraordinary times, both of which involve
weather. When Josie is awakened in the night by the wind, she mistakenly personifi es
it as the cheerful sounds of teenagers on a hayride on the old Natchez Trace, also
known as Lover ’ s Lane. Both stories depict inner and outer environments, and their
language invites a closer comparison of the two. Whereas Josie is lifted from her bed
in “ The Winds, ” it is the Mississippi River that “ shuddered and lifted from its bed ”
in “ First Love ” ; and instead of a little brother who talks in his sleep in “ The Winds, ”
it is the river itself that is the “ somnambulist ” in “ First Love. ” Josie and her town are
undergoing a cyclic change in “ The Winds, ” while in “ First Love, ” the whole world
seems to be “ in a transfi guration. ” Even the historical Natchez Indians in “ First Love ”
are represented in “ The Winds ” by Will, who screams in his dreams “ like a wild
Indian. ”
Welty ’ s stories are often judged “ diffi cult ” and in need of an ideal reader who is
willing to bring to the story an imaginative capacity equal to that of the writer: to
brave the diffi culties inherent in the short story form, to fi nd its meaning and its
beauty. She acknowledges such diffi culties as she describes Katherine Mansfi eld
’
s
“ Miss Brill, ” linking aspects of the lyric style (such as Chekhov ’ s “ impressionism ” or
O ’ Connor ’ s “ unearthly glow ” ) with the story ’ s aesthetic structure (shape). Welty says
that Mansfi eld ’ s story is imbued with a lyric style that often proves an obstruction to
readers. Yet she explains that such obstructions may constitute the narrative reticence
that is part of its artistic beauty ( Eye of the Story 88, 105). Some narrative obstructions
are what Austin M. Wright calls “ inner recalcitrance ” and “ fi nal recalcitrance ” in the
short story. The fi rst kind is “ a general recalcitrance common to all short works …
[whereby] attention to the parts … implies … the arresting of notice at every signifi -
cant point. ” Final recalcitrance, such as is found in the Joycean epiphany, “ is an
obstacle to artistic comprehension caused by
the seemingly premature placing of the
end, an effect of incompleteness, requiring the reader to look back, recalculate, and
reconsider, so as to satisfy the expectation of wholeness that he has brought to the
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story ” (Wright 120 – 1). One aspect of Welty ’ s style is her use of such recalcitrance to
alter a reader ’ s expectations. Harriet Pollack argues that “ Welty ’ s strategy … for
shaping and educating the reader … is to temporarily hinder his progress through
the work. … Her style demands that he gain perspective on his own fi rst impressions,
and coerces him to become more familiar with the limited range of possibility that
is in the text ” (Pollack 499). For example, in pointing out the long unnoticed or
denied political content of Welty ’ s fi ction, Pollack and Suzanne Marrs assert, “ Her
play with and obstruction of all kinds of old stories and story expectations resisted
and altered their meanings ” (Pollack and Marrs 4). 7
When “ The Winds ” was fi rst presented to Welty ’ s agent, he was “ in a kind of
bewilderment ” about it; but editor Mary Lou Aswell of Harper ’ s Bazaar proved to be
an ideal reader ( Kreyling , Author and Agent 68 – 9). The story is a poetic version of a
psychological study of memory and memory ’ s function in the longings for both the
past and the future. Gail Mortimer argues that in “ The Winds ” Welty characterizes
memory as “ above all, preserving experience and something of its original wonder,
… [but that this idea] was gradually supplanted by Welty ’ s emerging understanding
that memory, like language itself, does not simply record but actually structures experi-
ence ” (Mortimer 144). “ The Winds ” does, in fact, reveal the memory doing its struc-
tural work. The story illustrates Welty ’ s concern with aesthetic structure in terms of
a character ’ s inner (psychological) and outer worlds, which Welty says she tries to
connect as closely as possible ( Eye of the Story 99, 94). “ The Winds ” follows the move-
ment of the young protagonist ’ s mind, as the fi fteen unnumbered sections of the story
alternate between the present reality (outside) and Josie
’
s world of imagination
(inside).
The fi rst and longest passage of the story establishes the scene during a late summer
storm, during which Josie ’ s father has awakened the family to go downstairs and wait
out the storm together. The description of the equinoctial storm is permeated by
dream images that often seem surreal. Michael Kreyling asserts that Welty
’
s
“ Dali - esque … [image of] ‘ curtains … like poured cream ’ … direct[s] the story ’ s
shifting register from reality to dream … [and that the surrealist imagery] signals
that … [Josie ’ s] path into the life of the artist has already been taken ” ( “ History and
Imagination ” 595). To Josie, “ the stairway gave like a chain, the pendulum shivered
in the clock. ” For her, it is a miniature descent into a dangerous underworld, when
ordinary time is suspended, a world that excites her imagination. In the midst of the
storm, Josie looks for an older girl who lives across the street. Josie ’ s fast - beating heart
is matched by the “ pulse of the lightning, ” and her mental and physical awakening
to the onset of adolescence is suggested by the throbbing light.
As the fi rst section ends, the fi tfully dozing girl dreams of the passing summer.
She fantasizes about her slightly older neighbor, who has already reached the magic
season of sexual maturity; yet she also holds on to the childhood represented by the
dying summer. The language of this section is that of fairy tale and myth. Josie
whispers, “ I am thine eternally, my Queen, ” to the golden - haired Cornella, the entic-
ing neighbor who has been “ transformed by age ” and who, to Josie, is as glamorous
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Ruth D. Weston
as a fairy - tale princess. Section two opens with Josie ’ s dual longing for the summer
gone by and for the future represented by Cornella. Her confl ict is expressed in unset-
tling images of fl ying creatures that obscure her present vision, images that anticipate
those in the pivotal mirror scene of
“
The Burning,
”
from Welty
’
s
The Bride of
the Innisfallen and Other Stories . Josie ’ s bittersweet memory includes all the winged
creatures she has chased during the summer: “ June - bugs, … lightning - bugs, …
butterfl ies, … bees in a jar. ” But whatever Josie ’ s sense of the present or coming
“ tempest, ” of things “ bitter ” or “ fi erce, ” she welcomes the unknown future with open
hands. The similar, but more violent, images in “ The Burning ” symbolize the radical
change being wrought by the Civil War, for the South and for the slave Delilah. Thus,
a reader who knows the signifi cance of such images in the later story will understand
their importance in “ The Winds ” for establishing the theme of violence that, in
Welty ’ s fi ction, usually threatens any life change, especially the move into sexual
maturity. Throughout her canon, Welty designs the outer structure of a narrative,
along with its supporting images, to refl ect inner states of mind.
In section two, the rhythm of change increases, until Josie ’ s mind moves several
times a page between past and present, dream and reality. Section three consists of
only three lines, illustrating the three separate worlds inhabited at the same moment
by Josie, her father, and her sleeping brother:
“ There! I thought you were asleep, ” said her father.
She turned in her chair. The house had stirred.
“ Show me their tracks, ” muttered Will. “ Just show me their tracks. ”
Josie remembers walking alone, one summer afternoon, through the park where
there was a Chinese dragon. She is brave enough to touch the stone dragon; but
then, against the dragon ’ s curse, she calls on Cornella, who has become for her what
Ernst Cassirer calls a “ momentary deity. ” “ Every impression that man receives, every
wish that stirs in him, every hope that lures him can affect him thus religiously, ”
Cassirer asserts. “ Just let spontaneous feeling invest the object before him … with an
air of holiness, and the momentary god has been experienced and created … and for
only one subject whom it overwhelms and holds in thrall ” (Cassirer 17 – 18). “ Thou
art like the ripe corn, beautiful Cornella, ” Josie chants to her chosen deity. Later, as
she drags her shoe - box boat down the sidewalk, Josie invests Cornella with specifi c
mythic stature, imagining that Cornella might become a tree, as did the mythic
Daphne, to save herself from Apollo. The reader will better appreciate the signifi cance
of this passage, in which stasis is chosen over the active pursuit of a possibly danger-
ous sexual adventure, in the light of the fi nal vision of stasis versus action at the end
of the story.
Section eight, the structural center of the story, brings a complete stop to the
clamor of the storm and the images of the pa
st. It is a still moment, as if her home
were in the eye of a hurricane. Will is still talking in his sleep; but their mother
shushes him and their father raises his hand and cautions the children to listen. Until
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now, Josie ’ s thoughts have alternated between present and past; but here the narrative
dynamic changes, as she lies still and dreams of her future. It is not a new paragraph
but only an ellipsis following the word “ future ” that signals the shift to section nine,
when Josie imagines
… the sharp day when she would come running out of the fi eld holding the ragged
stems of the quick - picked goldenrod. … When would the day come when the wind
would fall and they would sit in silence on the fountain rim, their play done, and the
boys would crack the nuts under their heels? If they would bring the time around once
more, she would lose nothing that was given, she would hoard the nuts like a squirrel.
( Collected Stories 219)
What one might notice fi rst about this passage is its fast cadence, which then slows.
From the previous still center of the story, the storyteller now moves to a new emo-
tional dimension through what Northrop Frye calls “ associative rhythms, ” such as
“ sound - links, ” “ ambiguous sense - links, ” and “ memory - links very like that of the
dream. ” Characteristic of the lyric story, as in poetry, Frye asserts, such poetic rhythms
are mostly “ below the threshold of consciousness ” (Frye 271 – 2). In the fi rst few lines
of the passage, the alliterative crackling of consonants and bits of rhyme in “ sharp, ”
“ stems, ” “ quick - picked, ” and “ thrust ” create sound - links that join with the present
participles “ running ” and “ bringing ” to enhance the vision of enthusiastic movement.
This positive sense, however, is soon undercut by the negative connotations, as well
as the downbeat rhythms, of “ fall, ” “ silence, ” “ done, ” “ under, ” “ lose, ” and “ nothing. ”
Modifying the whole are the rhythmic repetitions of soft and plaintive “ w ” and sibi-
lant “ s ” sounds, especially in the clause “ When would the day come when the wind
would fall and they would sit in silence, ” in which the sonorous vowels of “ would ”
A Companion to the American Short Story Page 62