The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 2 December 1915, Page 3

The Storyteller

A PURLOINED STORY ' That may be very true, Father Hugh, but this Don Mark is original. I insist upon that. If he isn't original, no one is,' and Arthur Stinson, Professor of English in the local high school, brought the book he held in his hand down on the table with a resounding whack. It was a volume of short stories by Don Mark which had just come from the press. ' Tut, tut,' answered his friend Father Hugh, argument atively. ' Original, indeed ! My dear fellow, there's nothing new under the sunnot even in the short stories of your favourite Don Mark. You're a teacher of English. You've read the best authorities on the short story, and you know better than I do that the number of plots is very limited and that there isn't one of them which hasn't been used over and over again.'

The English professor threw up his hands. ‘ Heresy, Father, heresy—rank heresy,-’ he cried. ‘ Don't you think that Poe was original, and Hawthorne? Why Poe tells us himself, in his Philosophy of Composition, that the writer who dispenses with originality is false to himself because originality is an obvious and easily attainable source of interest.’ ‘ You” overwhelm me,’ said Father Hugh, with gentle irony. ‘ I think- I know the essay, the one in which he lays bare the scaffolding of The Raven. How do we know that it isn’t all a post-factum analysis, made by Poe himself, of his masterpiece. Why, he does away with all poetic inspiration, and makes the poet like a carpenter putting up a ready-made house or a shoemaker pegging away at old shoes. ’ Personally I’m tempted to think that there’s as much imagination in the process of composition described in that essay as there is in The Raven itself.’

‘ That’s worse than heresy, Father, that’s scepticism, the worst kind of literary scepticism,’ retorted the Professor. But to come back to Don Mark, whose book I brought over for you to read, I certainly maintain in spite of your pooh-poohing that he’s an original writer, and I know you’ll agree with me when you’ve read him. I’ve been following him up as his stories came out in the magazines, and he certainly has that great quality. Sometimes his plots are complicated, sometimes very simple, but his vivacity, his language, his style, in a word, Kis originality.’ ‘What is original?’ interrupted Father Hugh. English literature was his hobby and he loved to tease the Professor. ‘ Why the words aren’t original—he got them somewhere else. His plots aren’t original, because if analysed they will be found to have been used before. Is he the first to think these thoughts, and write them ? Why, Aristotle told us all about the short story that we could know, and you mean to tell me that this twentieth century youngster is original because the magazines pay him a great price and because forsooth, a big publishing house N glad to bring out his books?’ And Father Hugh chuckled. ‘ Now, Father, I’ve a good mind to take this book home with me again as a punishment, though I know it will please you if you read it. Honestly you don’t ' deserve it. Why,’ he went on. enthusiastically Don Mark is simply filled with the new spirit of the West. No Eastener could write that book. You get the mountains, the valleys, the wide sweep of the plains. You can hear the hoof-beat of the horses "galloping across his pages. You can see the cowboys driving the cattle before them. Even in his pictures of city life it is of San Francisco he writes, ; with its atmosphere more Continental than American. His breeziness is of the

Pacific, not of the Atlantic. There is a joyousness and a freedom of life pictured, yet always delicately,- He makes the old Padres people again the missions, he brings you through the rose gardens. of Passadena—- : *

‘ Hold on, hold on/ cried Father Hugh, waving his hand helplessly against the storm. ‘What can a poor, priest do against an eloquent Professor of English V

But the Professor would not be silenced. ‘ Only a man brought up in that atmosphere could so faithfully produce it. I have read something about his life. He began in Dallas, where he worked on a newspaper. There he began writing his stories, and finally they brought him to San Francisco and he wrote for the Examiner. ' His stories are a real transcript of Western life.’ '

' And, therefore, not original,’ interjected Father Hugh triumphantly. ‘ Let me finish. Father. , A transcript of life passed through the imagination of the writer and therefore original. And, by the way, Father,’ and he pointed an accusing finger at Father Hugh, ‘ why this attack 01 originality ? , I’m surprised at you. I happened to glance at the catalogue of St. Lawrence College the other day, and I happened to notice that in 1898 the Barton Medal for the most original story was awarded to Hugh Donovan.’ Father Hugh threw up his hands. ‘ Thus are our youthful indiscretions revealed, and the sins of the past come back upon us. It’s come to a pretty pass when our curious parishioners go looking up our college records,’ he said severely. ‘Now, Father/ remonstrated the Professor. ‘ And at that you haven’t got it straight,’ went on Father Hugh, with a twinkle in his eye, ‘ for the fact is that for the same story I got two medalsthe first and . the last winner of that particular prize to be so honored. I’ll show them to you.’ Going over to his desk he poked around for a couple of minutes and then drew forth a couple of small boxes, held together by an elastic band. He opened them, and sure enough there were two medals, identical, with his name, the date, and the college name inscribed on each. '

‘ What in the world did they make two for, just alike?’ cried the Professor in surprise. ‘I don’t see any sense in that.’

‘ Well, I’ll tell you how it happened. A classmate, Dick Grant, and I were rivals and yet friends. Dick was especially good in the languages while I went in more for mathematics and science. He was a good French and German scholar, knew the classics well, and was also an excellent English writer, for" he had a brilliant imagination. When we were -in senior, we both went in for this Barton medal for the most original short story. T didn’t really care to go in for it, for I felt that Dick was by far my superior in this work, but the president insisted on my entering. Pie didn’t like Dick, but I did. True, he was proud and sensitive, easily offended, and would never offer an apology or explanation, but I knew him well, and in spite of the fact that we were rivals, we remained good friends. In fact we often worked together to our mutual advantage. ‘ The night before we handed in our original short stories we met at the college. Dick took his manuscript from his pocket, after greeting me, and said: “I think I have something good here. It’s been in my head a long time, but I never wrote it before. Do you mind if I read it to you?” ‘“Why,” I answered, “I’d be delighted.” ‘So Dick read it. It was a very ingenious story indeed. Dick always wrote cleverly, but the cleverness of the writing was not so obvious in this story as in some of, his efforts, for this was a story the interest of which depended on the plot. The reader was mystified in the very beginning, and interested too, and the interest was well sustained to the end. The last few words of the story cleared up the whole thing. It was a dandy plot, and I congratulated Dick on it and told him that I would hand mine in as a matter of form. I honestly meant it; I didn’t think I had a chance.

‘ Sure enough, on Commencement Day,the Barton Medal was awarded to Richard Grant.’ 'But your name is in the catalogue, ’ remonstrated the Professor. -I saw it.’ Hold on a while,’ said Father Hugh goodnaturedly ; ‘ Grant’s story was published in the .Commencement number of the college paper. Some fool of a Professor like yourself read it and immediately wrote to the president that the chief merit of the story was the very ingenious plot. He pointed out that, while the style and language were original, the whole' plot was borrowed from a short story published about fifteen years before in Blackwood’s. He gave the exact date.

‘ The president was furious. He never liked Dick, as I told you, and he sat down and wrote a scathing letter to the lad. He said that he regretted he did not know this before Commencement—that it would have cost him his degree and that he was having another medal struck to be awarded to me, and that my name would be put on the roll as the successful contestant. ‘ I knew nothing about all this till Dick came and told me one night. He was broken-hearted. He handed me the letter of the president and sat silent while I read it.

‘ I was indignant at the severity of its tone. Dick almost cried, when he saw my attitude, ‘ “ So you believe in me,” ho said. “You believe I was honest in this?’’

'"Of course I do," I cried, taking his" hand. " Confound their old prizes for originality. I hate the word. This is some terrible accident." ' " Thank you, Hugh," he said quietly, " it is kind and generous of you. I knew I could trust you, but the accusation made is —true in a sense." ' " What?" I cried amazed. ' " It's true," he answered. " I told you that the story was in my —way back in my —for a long, long, time. I never stopped to think how it came there. It seemed to me flesh of my flesh, my very own. When the president's letter came to me I raged and stormed—l was nearly crazy. And then a terrible fear came over me. What if it were true! I looked at the letter again, saw Blackwood's and the date grew faint. There was a bound set of Blackwood's in the attic. I had not seen it for years. I rushed upstairs. The door was locked, but I forced it in, and, sure enough, the volume was there. I opened it and read read my own story, substantially the same. I suppose I had seen it as a youngster, I don't remember. ' " I knew at once the impossibility of explaining. I never explain, anywayl'd rather take the medicine any time. I suppose I'm infernally proud. ' "Then I know the Professor never liked me. I did have some notion of going to the Seminarythat's all over, of course, now. He wouldn't give me a letter of recommendation. I'm going to leave town and start somewhere else. I mailed the diploma back to the college this morning, and I'm through with them." '"Dick," I begged, "Don't be a fool. I'll go with you and put this before him. We'll straighten it out. ..." ' No, Hugh," he said sadly. Do you know, I think this is the will of God. I have been in doubt about my vocation for some time, and have prayed earnestly for a sign. This cross is my sign. ' My way to the Seminary is barred through no fault of mine. I accept the sign and resign myself to His Holy Will. But I can't stand it around here any longer. I've got to get away from here, so good-bye, Hugh—God bless you, and pray for me." . "V When he had gone I found that he had left the second medal, this with the dent in it. He had his own name effaced and mine engraved in its place.; ■ 'I was so grieved and heartsore at the wretched outcome of the whole original short story competition that I hurled the miserable medal'across the room. See the dent in it. I threw myself on the couch crying, be-

cause I had always hoped to have Dick with me in the Seminary.*.: . - ' _ *•* . : ~ ,- ,„ . ;_" So that's why you stormed when I praised my author for originality. That's why you .don't like the word. Well, I don't blame you after that experience. But I'll praise him for something else, for I'm determined you shall read him. I'll call him a moralist. That should appeal to you. He is a popular moralist. He shows the rewards of virtue and the punishment of vice, he —' Just then his eye wandered over to a pile of books on Father Hugh's desk. On the top was a volume very much like the Short Stories on which he was expatiating so eloquently. He jumped to his feet and looked at the book. Sure enough, it was a copy, like his own, fresh from the — Short Stories, by Don Mark. -.'. 'Father Hugh,' he exclaimed. ' Youl hesitate to call your reverence a rascalbut you've been reading my author all along and just drawing me out.' Father Hugh chuckled. ' That's a little autograph copy I got from the author himself recently,' he said. ' I think he's great myself, but I was afraid I might be partial.' I opened the book and read on the fly-leaf, inscribed in a bold hand :

I To my dear friend and rival of College Days, Father Hugh, from his classmate, Dick Grant.’— Boston Pilot.