Plots That One Covets

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB.

IT has so often occurred to me what a delightful occupation novel-writing must have been in its beginnings, before the word “ stale ” could be applied to plots and the most delightful situations had not become hackneyed. One can fancy the joy of Fanny Burney sitting down to write the book that turned out to be Evelina, with a whole world full of plots and situations from which to choose. This in fancy. In fact, the story of the much abused, long suffering Evelina was probably the cause of her writing, not the outcome of a desire to write.

Nowadays, on the other hand, all the most openly attractive plots and situations are already taken ; special phrases, even, have been preëmpted. You can’t even have your hero clasp your heroine in his strong young arms. And yet, to be clasped in strong young arms is such an agreeable experience to which to treat one’s heroine. I have a tender affection for my heroine myself. I like to let her have the best of everything. It is with excessive reluctance that I give her any sorrows but sentimental ones, which don’t count, being half a pleasure in themselves. Sometimes I make her unfortunate and unhappy just to heighten the effect of the good things that are coming to her in the next chapter but one, or to develop her character so that she will be better deserving of the good fortune ; but to put her in sordid, unhappy surroundings and to keep her there from “Chapter I.” to “ The End,” I really don’t see how authors can make themselves do it. It may be high art, but it shows a hard heart. No doubt I shall be forced into playing her some such mean trick some day. People with high literary ideals always come to it sooner or later, for you don’t get strength and depth and other desirable things in the stories of prosperous, happy people. I may even make a book end unhappily, not with mere sentimental unhappiness, but with disgrace, or sordid, breadlacking poverty, or faith betrayed, or chronic disease, — I may do this, but it will be at the expense of regret and heartache to myself. I could almost as easily condemn my daughter to such sorrows as the dearly beloved child of my fancy.

There were so many delightful situations in which to put your heroine when people first began to write novels ; and yet, I do not believe that writers in those days had any keener realization of their privileges than an Indian at having the forests of the New World to himself. Freedom is only understood by experiencing the lack of it. I am sure neither Richardson, nor Fielding, nor any of those old fellows, ever once stretched out his arms and exclaimed, “ How glorious it is to be the first! ” And, doubtless, those that come after us will envy us, — freedom, like almost everything else, being relative.

New conditions in life make new literary conditions and new situations, and these we have; but the dear old sentimental ones that charmed in themselves, apart from the handling of them, are all used up. I am perfectly reconciled to the fact that Homer should have the Trojan War to write about, and Dante the other world, and Milton the Fall of Man. I would n’t take these subjects away from them for my own use if I could. I would n’t deprive Shakespeare of the motives of Hamlet, Othello, or Lear; but I should like the desert island situation of Foul Play. What an opportunity for an interesting human relation that gives ! The mere thought of it is alluring. First, one would have a shipwreck, — a nice, vague, ladylike shipwreck, without any nasty details such as drawing lots to decide who shall furnish the next meal, and with no incomprehensible and laboriously acquired (by the author) nautical terms, — a shipwreck in which a rope is called a rope and not a hawser or a sheet, and the deck is always just plain deck, no matter in what part of the ship you find it. I’d give the proper local color by calling the ship “she” instead of “ it,” and by throwing in an occasional “ Heave ahoy ! ” or “ Man the lifeboats! ” or even “ Shiver my timbers ! ” but nothing more difficult than that. The shipwreck should be carefully engineered so that the party on the desert island should be strictly àdeux,— after the manner of the entry into the Ark, one male and one female.

Reade, in his version, treats the situation inadequately. He has no conception of its literary possibilities. I don’t remember it very well, as I read it when I was about fourteen, but even at that innocent age I thought it tame. Still, I may have come to that conclusion (this thought has just occurred to me) because of that innocent age. I might find it quite different now. At all events, I know he did n’t put any charm into it, and charm is absolutely essential to a desert island story.

I am supposing my hero to be a strictly well - conducted young man, and my heroine a virtuous young woman, as heroes and heroines should be. They must n’t be too unconventional or too advanced, or they would simply make a picnic of the occasion (I would supply them plentifully with provisions) and forget all about the impropriety, and that would n’t do at all. To make the proper atmosphere for a desert island story, their feelings must be mixed distress and delight, and the heroine must be uncomfortably apprehensive as to what people will say when they are rescued. A heroine of mine would know that she was certain to be rescued.

If the situation really were brandnew, it would be fun to have the hero ask her to marry him, and to have her refuse because she thinks he is doing it from a sense of honor, and then all the rest of the book could be spent in undeceiving her. Of course, he really is madly in love with her, but does n’t think it proper to reveal it to her in the absence of a chaperon. I don’t mean that he would declare it in the presence of one (he is n’t as proper as that), but he would prefer to have a chaperon tucked away behind the nearest banana tree.

Just think ! if nobody had ever done it before, what fun it would be to have them find bread-fruit trees, and to pick up barrels of the luxuries of the season which had been cast up on the shore. And the hero could be deliciously stiff and constrained, because he is so much in love and is afraid of not being proper ; and the heroine could imagine all sorts of uncomfortable things from his attitude. What a wealth of misunderstandings there would be to choose from ! And they would always be looking for sails with one eye and praying that they would n’t come with the other, and neither of them will own to an unwillingness to leave. And he can make her a lodge of boughs, such as Nicolette makes herself (there is absolutely no other parallel between the two stories), and save her from innumerable dangers. Dear me ! the more I think of it, the more I am impressed with Charles Reade’s selfishness in grabbing so delightful a situation, especially when he had so little idea how to handle it.

Another plot that I have always coveted is one that you find in many books. The best specimens that I know of are a German story called Glück Auf, and The Awakening of Mary Fenwick. It also appears in the relation of two of the secondary characters in Molly Bawn. Two people who do not know each other contract a formal marriage, for some reason. They live in the same house, in armed neutrality for a time, and gradually fall in love with each other, though nothing could make them acknowledge it. The pride motive is the strongest one in this story. One has usually overheard something disparaging that the other has said, and each is determined, for varying reasons, not to be the first to give in. The interest in this situation is heightened by the contrast between the formality of their private relations and the absence of conventional barriers between them. The distance is entirely of their own making. They do not have to consider outside elements, having squared them all in marrying. Everything rests absolutely with themselves, which makes a tenser situation, by giving a sense of greater and more immediate possibilities than in the ordinary relations of man and woman. This is a plot that has an irresistible fascination for women. It has suggestions of perfectly proper improprieties in it, and that is what women like. They like to hover on the verge of things, to have all the excitement, and yet not feel obliged to disapprove.

Another attractive husband and wife story is the one in which they become estranged, and are brought together by the serious illness of their only child. The jealousy motive comes into play in this, though in the end it usually shows itself to be without foundation, — a con, venient little habit which I wish to goodness jealousy in real life would adopt. There is so much opportunity for interesting scenes in the night watches by the child’s bed. The two are necessarily thrown together in an intimate way, and find it impossible to be stiff and polite over hot water bottles and poultices.

The governess or companion story is a favorite one of mine. It is astonishing what a strong element of romance it has, when the position of a governess in real life is the most unromantic thing on earth. In real life the big man of the place whom all the mothers are trying to capture for their daughters does n’t fall in love with the governess. Her close connection with her social superiors makes her social disadvantage too evident, and it takes a very big man indeed to discover personal importance when it is overshadowed by social unimportance. The novel hero is more clear sighted or more disinterested. Besides, the novel governess is a most delightful person, demure, reserved, and self-sufficient on the surface, but daring, piquant, and original underneath, — a reminiscence of Jane Eyre, probably. She takes pleasure in snubbing the big man, and he finds it a refreshing contrast to the flattery he meets on every side. She refuses to admit that he is of any consequence to her, and in the end he discovers the truth only by some accident, the truth being that she is passionately in love with him. The Wooing O’t is the best instance of this kind of story that I know.

There is such a nice scene in a governess story by Beatrice Whitby, whose name I can’t remember. The heroine is very much in love with the step-brother of her little pupils, the heir to the estate, but never allows him to suspect it. One day she finds one of his gloves, and, the temptation being strong, picks it up, and hearing him coming hides it in the bosom of her gown. His dog, who has been left in charge of it, rushes fiercely at her; the hero arrives on the scene, saves her from the dog, and discovers what she has done. It is very thrilling, a scene to be coveted.

I suppose there are infinite combinations of man, woman, and circumstance yet to be made, the more that all three quantities are variables. Our grandchildren will be finding plots in subjects that are completely unsuggestive to us now. I can imagine a great novel with a street-cleaning or a plumbing motive. No doubt these will be extremely interesting, to their authors at all events, but I am afraid I shall always be old-fashioned enough to prefer the desert-island or the wife in name only motive.