So what makes Kafka’s story a story while the events
of Joe’s evening not a story? There is
that proverbial journalist’s euphemism that dog bites man is not a story, but
man bites dog is. I think there are
three elements that constitute a story.
(1) an interesting character or set of characters, who are (2) in an
interesting situation with (3) interesting set of events that reaches some sort
of a conclusion. The incisive word in
all three elements is “interesting,” which is vague, I agree. What constitutes interesting requires a lot
more space than this post, and probably more thought on my part. One common method of “interesting,” at least
as it relates to situation and set of events is the use of irony, and more
specifically, “situational irony.” You
can read about the different types of irony here.
Now let’s get to O. Henry’s “The Ransom of RedChief.” What really makes this story
work is that the situation and conclusion are incongruous with what is
expected. Two second rate crooks decide
to kidnap a child for ransom to make a quick buck but find the urchin they
snatch to be an imp of a child, and instead of getting money for him wind up
paying the parents to take him back.
The story is told in the first person of Sam, one of
the kidnappers, a southerner, and the brains of the operation.
IT LOOKED like a good
thing: but wait till I tell you. We were down South, in Alabama -- Bill
Driscoll and myself -- when this kidnapping idea struck us. It was, as Bill afterward
expressed it, "during a moment of temporary mental apparition"; but
we didn't find that out till later.
Excerpts taken from Literature Network. The story is quite readable off a computer
and could be read in less than an hour.
When you hear, “but we didn’t find that out until
later” your antenna should perk up and recognize that irony will be an
important part of the story. And it is,
in many facets.
There was a town down
there, as flat as a flannel-cake, and called Summit, of course. It contained
inhabitants of as undeleterious and self-satisfied a class of peasantry as ever
clustered around a Maypole.
Bill and me had a joint
capital of about six hundred dollars, and we needed just two thousand dollars
more to pull off a fraudulent town-lot scheme in Western Illinois with. We
talked it over on the front steps of the hotel. Philoprogenitiveness, says we,
is strong in semi-rural communities; therefore and for other reasons, a
kidnapping project ought to do better there than in the radius of newspapers
that send reporters out in plain clothes to stir up talk about such things. We
knew that Summit couldn't get after us with anything stronger than constables
and maybe some lackadaisical bloodhounds and a diatribe or two in the Weekly
Farmers' Budget. So, it looked good.
Notice
the verbal irony throughout: a flat town whose name is Summit, a town of
“undeleterious” folk, which is to say mild, and having “philoprogenitiveness.”
which is to say love of their children.
Sam tends to use pretentious words.
Just as the town is incongruously named after a mountain height, there
turns out to be nothing mild about the little boy they kidnap and his family doesn’t
exactly love him either. The rogue’s
logic is undermined by reality.
The
two find a cave two miles from the town to hide out with the victim. Finally they make their move.
One evening after
sundown, we drove in a buggy past old Dorset's house. The kid was in the
street, throwing rocks at a kitten on the opposite fence.
"Hey, little
boy!" says Bill, "would you like to have a bag of candy and a nice
ride?"
The boy catches Bill
neatly in the eye with a piece of brick.
"That will cost
the old man an extra five hundred dollars," says Bill, climbing over the
wheel.
That boy put up a fight
like a welter-weight cinnamon bear; but, at last, we got him down in the bottom
of the buggy and drove away. We took him up to the cave and I hitched the horse
in the cedar brake. After dark I drove the buggy to the little village, three
miles away, where we had hired it, and walked back to the mountain.
Bill was pasting
court-plaster over the scratches and bruises on his features. There was a
burning behind the big rock at the entrance of the cave, and the boy was
watching a pot of boiling coffee, with two buzzard tailfeathers stuck in his
red hair. He points a stick at me when I come up, and says:
"Ha! cursed
paleface, do you dare to enter the camp of Red Chief, the terror of the plains?
"He's all right
now," says Bill, rolling up his trousers and examining some bruises on his
shins. "We're playing Indian. We're making Buffalo Bill's show look like
magic-lantern views of Palestine in the town hall. I'm Old Hank, the Trapper,
Red Chief's captive, and I'm to be scalped at daybreak. By Geronimo! that kid
can kick hard."
Yes, sir, that boy
seemed to be having the time of his life. The fun of camping out in a cave had
made him forget that he was a captive, himself. He immediately christened me
Snake-eye, the Spy, and announced that, when his braves returned from the
warpath, I was to be broiled at the stake at the rising of the sun.
It’s
really a funny story. Poor Bill is the
real victim of the encounter. The boy is
way more than they bargained for. The
boy actually enjoys himself, and takes possession of the situation. He’s the Red Chief, red for his hair color,
and in command. What was supposed to be
a kidnapper’s hideout is the boy’s Indian camp, and instead of the boy being
the hostage the kidnappers are going to be scalped and burnt at the stake. Of course Bill and Sam take that as play
talk, but it turns out to be more verbal irony when Sam is startled out of
sleep that first night.
Just at daybreak, I was
awakened by a series of awful screams from Bill. They weren't yells, or howls,
or shouts, or whoops, or yalps, such as you'd expect from a manly set of vocal
organs -- they were simply indecent, terrifying, humiliating screams, such as
women emit when they see ghosts or caterpillars. It's an awful thing to hear a
strong, desperate, fat man scream incontinently in a cave at daybreak.
I jumped up to see what
the matter was. Red Chief was sitting on Bill's chest, with one hand twined in
Bill's hair. In the other he had the sharp case-knife we used for slicing,
bacon; and he was industriously and realistically trying to take Bill's scalp,
according to the sentence that had been pronounced upon him the evening before.
I got the knife away
from the kid and made him lie down again. But, from that moment, Bill's spirit
was broken. He laid down on his side of the bed, but he never closed an eye
again in sleep as long as that boy was with us. I dozed off for a while, but
along toward sun-up I remembered that Red Chief had said I was to be burned at
the stake at the rising of the sun. I wasn't nervous or afraid; but I sat up
and lit my pipe and leaned against a rock.
"What you getting
up so soon for, Sam?" asked Bill.
"Me?" says I.
"Oh, I got a kind of a pain in my shoulder. I thought sitting up would
rest it."
"You're a
liar!" says Bill. "You're afraid. You was to be burned at sunrise,
and you was afraid he'd do it. And he would, too, if he could find a match.
Ain't it awful, Sam? Do you think anybody will pay out money to get a little
imp like that back home?"
And
so the events go on in this manner. The
irony continues when Sam finds that no one in town is in the least upset the
boy is missing. The boy doesn’t want to
go back and his parents aren’t in any hurry to get him back. Finally the kidnappers send the boy’s father
a ransom note and threaten that he will never his boy again, and they ironically
sign the note “Two Desperate Men.” The
implication may be that they will harm the boy in desperation but the reality
is they are now desperate to get rid of the boy.
You
can read the rest of the story and how irony is used to end the story. I just wanted to highlight some of O. Henry’s
prose. William Sidney Porter, his real
name, actually did go to jail for embezzlement and
he was partnered with another crook for a while. He spent time in jail, where he started writing
of short stories, and after release earned a living from it. His stories are so likable, and while they do
skirt a seedy side of life, they tend to gloss over real evil. After all, the two kidnappers could have just
killed the boy and be done with it, but that drop to heinous behavior is never
contemplated. I love his prose
style. At his best, he writes clean,
crisp sentences which have a rhythmic pacing.
He has enough “Americanisms” and local dialect splattered about that
make him clearly American. He has an ear
for American locution. Here are a couple
of examples. Sam here goes up to the
cave overlook to see what’s happening in town.
I went up on the peak
of the little mountain and ran my eye over the contiguous vicinity. Over toward
Summit I expected to see the sturdy yeomanry of the village armed with scythes
and pitchforks beating the countryside for the dastardly kidnappers. But what I
saw was a peaceful landscape dotted with one man ploughing with a dun mule.
Nobody was dragging the creek; no couriers dashed hither and yon, bringing
tidings of no news to the distracted parents. There was a sylvan attitude of
somnolent sleepiness pervading that section of the external outward surface of
Alabama that lay exposed to my view. "Perhaps," says I to myself,
"it has not yet been discovered that the wolves have home away the tender
lambkin from the fold. Heaven help the wolves!" says I, and I went down
the mountain to breakfast.
The
diction is of the American south of a particularly educated man who mixes bookish
words with down-to-earth phrases. Notice
the southerner’s use of redundant adjective qualifiers: “contiguous vicinity,”
“sturdy yeomanry,” “dastardly kidnappers,” and “somnolent sleepiness.” You might argue that the redundancy is poor
writing, but this is evocative writing of a time and place. Here is Sam at the town mailing the ransom
note.
I walked over to Poplar
Cove and sat around the post-office and store, talking with the chaw-bacons
that came in to trade. One whiskerando says that he hears Summit is all upset
on account of Elder Ebenezer Dorset's boy having been lost or stolen. That was
all I wanted to know. I bought some smoking tobacco, referred casually to the
price of black-eyed peas, posted my letter surreptitiously and came away. The
postmaster said the mail-carrier would come by in an hour to take the mail on
to Summit.
“Chaw-bacons”
and “whiskerando” are probably slang that has not lived on, but it just rings
with Americanism. And finally I love the
way O. Henry makes characters come to life with just a snippet or passage of
speech. Here he lets the boy ramble on
at dinner.
Then we had supper; and
he [the boy] filled his mouth full of bacon and bread and gravy, and began to
talk. He made a during-dinner speech something like this:
"I like this fine.
I never camped out before; but I had a pet 'possum once, and I was nine last
birthday. I hate to go to school. Rats ate up sixteen of Jimmy Talbot's aunt's
speckled hen's eggs. Are there any real Indians in these woods? I want some
more gravy. Does the trees moving make the wind blow? We had five puppies. What
makes your nose so red, Hank? My father has lots of money. Are the stars hot? I
whipped Ed Walker twice, Saturday. I don't like girls. You dassent catch toads
unless with a string. Do oxen make any noise? Why are oranges round? Have you
got beds to sleep on in this cave? Amos Murray has got Six toes. A parrot can
talk, but a monkey or a fish can't. How many does it take to make twelve?"
The
discontinuity between the boy’s sentences, his regional slang, his likes and
dislikes, his interests and musings define the boy in such a small space. I just love that passage, and this story.
Thanks
to Jan, one of this blog’s regular readers, for suggesting this story.
'Bout time you did some serious reading! Well, seriously fun, anyway....hist! Pard!
ReplyDeleteYes, that Jan. :)
DeleteI think I also have a book by O Henry on my shelves somewhere...again, one I haven't read. Seems I need to go through my own books!
ReplyDeleteThat rambling passage reminds me of my own son Ben, now 18, and is much more sparing with his speech. He had a very chatty phase, from about 3-10. Sometimes, I thought my ears might bleed. And this from a woman with five daughters!
My son is a complete chatter box. He talks a mile a minute. You just gave me a thought. I'm going to try to replicate that speech using Matthew and his rambling. Should be cool.
Delete