Suspense in Short Fiction

Nearly every short-story consists of two events or strongly marked incidents, an opening and a closing; the latter a solution of the intricacies of the former. Even the character sketch endeavors to win attention by two distinctive phases of human characteristics, frequently of differing nature. Thus contrasted traits, or developments from one trait to another, as in a rise from penury and fear to wealth and dominion or brutal courage, will bring even the literary limner under the same regulation.

In the regular narrative there is no divergence from these two parallels: if there is a going away upon which much depends, there is its complement of returning; the discovery of a. rich lode in a mine calls for the saving of the mine from a rascal for the rightful owner; a fully planned scheme for robbery or murder opens the corridor to a consummation either in death, success, or discovery and capture, just as the scene may be.

Between this opening and closing there must be a considerable amount of matter introduced that will not distract the attention, but will rather hold it in suspense. The outcome can not be made too plain or the story will lack the necessary interest to make it readable. It will become as tedious as the clock of a wayside station ticking away the time until the train, long belated, arrives.

In the means by which the story-tellers of today keep the idea of an important outcome before the mind of their readers and those employed by the writers of even thirty or forty years ago there is considerable difference. It is—with all due respect to their departed shades—the fault of these ancient writers that many of the young and unarrived narrators of to-day have stumbled thus blindly and bruisedly along the way.

They have been told to "give days and nights" to this venerable writer and the tonic would do them good. They took it and followed the line of arrant suggestions of the climax in introduction and throughout the body of their story, only to find every twig of life withered and useless. What was the matter ? It was like the venerable; he had given hints all along of the oncoming of the avalanche, and his style was a monument and a technique.

Further reading led to the belief that in moody and tense descriptions of nature there was a possibility for great achievements in holding that butterfly, the reader's attention, down to the honey dew of thought. Leaden or tempestuous skies are now not admissible, only in a general way, as a forecast of tragic situations. The poetic instinct of the narrator of yesterday reveled in these. He left a hard task as his heritage, by so doing, for the reader on the magazines and dailies of to-day.

Not many of the older writers, then, in fact very few of them, furnish a satisfactory curriculum in the literary work they have left to the present generation of writers. Their compositions may be called classics—but not models.

The writer of to-day appeals to a taste that, while possibly not more refined or elevated, is yet more, much more, exacting in its demands. The direct reference to a forthcoming event is now made by indirect or subtle methods; by suggestions that appeal to the sensibilities, rather than by open venture. Janet is not allowed to prognosticate the gloomy prospect of a rupture with her lover by a sense of foreboding and a howling wind and cloud-draped sky. She must be more circumspect, or prognosticate not at all.

The introduction of the time element and an accurate analysis of the portrayal of its passage is a favorite means of suspense among the really good writers of the day. It is a wonderful bit of technique and one that requires an infinite deal of finger exercise practice. As an example, a man has a vivid impression, an accident, or sees an apparition. He is more than excited. In the conflict of emotions he is carried from agitation to frenzy. These feelings, their description and the time that it requires for them to mature and explode are part of the element of suspense. There may be changes and varieties in feeling; there may be others confided in, or the contest may go on alone; but they all require time, which must be a part of the portrayal and lead the mind of the reader up to the final point of real feeling or the end of the story.

If these are not enough, or if there is danger of monotony or exaggeration along this line, other themes, but closely, most closely allied themes, may be introduced. Thus, in a race for an object of importance, the condition and characteristics of the horses or other means of locomotion may be brought in if having a direct bearing on the happening or not happening of the critical event. Enumerating particulars in the progress of the race that show the distance covered, about to be or that is necessary to be reached, will give weight to carry the mind on to the end.

The introduction of a secondary theme, like love with mystery, will give time for the writer to develop a great thirst in the reader for the final catastrophe. The secondary or minor element should, however, have a close relation to the first and a strong bearing on the conclusion to make its introduction tolerated. It is many times, especially in the case of love, dragged in headforemost without right or relevance, by main force, when the reader would like to see it removed feet foremost and promptly, with better effect to the main element of narration.

Added to all of these, to the introduction of the portrayal of the passage of time, to the enumeration of the particulars of a happening, the taking into account of every sympathetic feature of an oncoming event—as, in the race, the mettle of the horses, the measuring of distances again and again with the eye, the feelings of alternate fear, hope and despair, the possibilities of success and failure—added to all of these there is another and still more difficult means of developing the element of suspense. It is hard to define or describe it, because its appeal is made more through that most delicate means of expression found in voiceless suggestion.

It is the more difficult to outline for the execution of a narrator because in its general appearance it resembles that fatal gloom theories in the romance writers of the past. Their descriptions of nature as a means of leading the mind to expect something as a co-respondent to the treachery or tragedy of people or events was in reality a negation to the interest of the reader. For who would wade through mud when he could walk upon the dry and verdant earth?

It may be formed, this delicate form of description, by suggestion of effects in giving such details of description in the forthcoming event as will bear directly on the general character of the story; as in making the deep, solemn stillness of the night, the silent questionings of vacant rooms, the killing of an unoffending creature, etc., as a suggestion or hushing of the senses for the expectation of something to occur that is either hidden, secret or awful. This is the strongest element of suspense, the strongest, and, in the hands of the poor narrator, the weakest. For from the fact that it docs indeed for a time lead the mind away from the real happening it does not, when properly executed, loosen for one instant the cord that binds the attention to the fact that that event is for this reason the more inevitable and unerring in its course. It is bound to bring such strength of suggestion to the mind, such formless questionings, such indefinite decisions of feeling, as to make the reader hold his breath and read furiously to the end. He forms theories, rejects them and reforms them even as he reads ; and when the story is done lays it down with a sigh that the end could not have been delayed a little longer.