A Companion to the American Short Story

by Alfred Bendixen

  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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  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 ”