Augustine
Martin, “The Short Stories of James Stephens”, in Colby
Library Quarterly, Vol. 6, No. 8 (Dec. 1963), pp.343-53.
[ Source: available at
Colby Library - Digital Commons - online;
accessed 27.08.2020. Note: Pagination in square brackets
as per top of page. The punctuation <,> has been
changed to <,> passim.]
STEPHENSS development as a short story writer is interesting
because it parallels a certain decisive phase in the evolution
of that genre among Irish writers. His first volume, Here Are
Ladies, appeared in 1913, one year before Joyces Dubliners
and three years before Corkerys A Munster Twilight.
In other words, Stephenss collection antedated the two strong
formative influences from which the modem Irish short story took
its character. It was. from this point on that the great period
of the Irish short story - which Frank OConnor regards as
a separate art form - emerged. The lessons of the great continentals
which George Moore had made available to Irish writers a decade
before in An Untilled Field (1903) were coming to fruition
and being fused to a native genius that was triggered by Joyce
and Corkery and that issued in a distinguished line of practitioners
from OConnor and OFaolain, through Mary Lavin and
McLaverty down to such brilliant younger men as James Plunkett.
Hitherto, the Irish short story had none of that highly polished
and self-conscious artistry that we now associate with it. Yeats
and AE wrote collections of tales, often very fine
but exhibiting no particular respect for the craft as a craft.
Usually the stories, like Yeatss about Red Hanrahan, embodied
some mystical lesson or externalized some esoteric theme. This
sort of story still turns up in Irish anthologies for some reason
scarcely connected with literature and strikes one as rather
gauche and uneasy beside some taut and formal masterpiece by Mary
Lavin or Frank OConnor - like a man in homespun at a cocktail
party. There is a difference in kind between them and the modem
short story; a revolution had taken place in between. Here
Are Ladies, appearing as it does in 1913, falls somewhere
in between the two traditions. It has much of the unself-conscious
casualness of the older type of tale. No modern writer, for instance,
would encumber a serious. collection of his stories with all the
interminable blather that sprawls over the last seventy pages
of the book under the title There Is a Tavern in the Town.
This is a collection of monologues gleaned from a series of newspaper
sketches published in Sinn [343] Fein, 1909. The
pieces issue from the mouth of an old gentleman who discourses
with bewildering variety and eccentricity on all sorts of topics
and to no purpose whatever. Curiously, they do prove significant
later on because it seems that it was from the figure of the old
gentleman that Stephens conceived the Philosopher of The Crock
of Gold. In fact he adapts many of them for the Philosophers
dialogue and coming from him they take on quite an exciting coherence
and vitality. The tedious old cod in the tavern becomes the irresistible
old cod in the Dark Wood. This must be one of the few instances
in literature where the dialogue of a character was written before
the character himself had been called into existence. Apart from
There Is a Tavern in the Town there is a number of
other pieces that might have been profitably excluded, for despite
a handful of excellent stories the book as a collection exhibits
a bumbling nonchalance that embarrasses criticism.
This is in no way true of Etched in Moonlight, his only
other collection which appears fifteen years later in 1928. Stephens
has been part of the revolution and his whole approach to his
art has changed; the stories in the later volume exhibit spareness,
austerity and an obvious sense of form. He has developed from
a story teller into a short story writer. It is a pity that, as
in his poetry, the development and perfection of technique should
have coincided with a decline in energy and in optimism. The world
of these later stories is sornbre and desperate. Ill health, exile
and loneliness combined with an arid philosophy had taken their
toll and drained him of that creative joy and exuberance that
fifteen years before had marked him out as the most promising
writer of his generation. Returning to Here Are Ladies, it is
important to point out that it presents a professional talent
that is absent from the incursion of men like Yeats and Russell
into short fiction. Stephens was not a mystical poet condescending
momentarily to the lesser form. He was a fiction writer with two
successful novels behind him - and he had the fiction writers
precise and observant interest in the objects of his art. He was
not concerned with airing preoccupations or embodying myths,but
in depicting people and telling their stories. When he set out
to seriously do this, he did it superbly and, despite my strictures
above, there are at least a half dozen stories in this book that
[345] can stand comparison with the best that has been produced
by Irish writers.
Stephenss approach to the short story is, ... and he
seems to have been influenced by writers like George Moore and
Galsworthy who had absorbed the powerful contemporary influence
of the Russians, especially Turgenev. He deals largely with a
world of clerks and typists. and their employers, the middle class
and the shabby genteel of Dublin. He has moved from the tenement
of Mrs. Makebelieve to a series of musty Galsworthian offices
and Chekhovian parlors. His method and technique however are all
his own. As in his novels, the type is still dominant. He never
tells us more about a character than the bare essentials for the
story; he invariably refuses to put a name on a character unless
he is forced to do so. For instance, we never learn the name of
the young clerk in The Charwomans Daughter and even
the, policeman would have remained anonymous had it not been necessary
to give the name of his aunt.
In Here Are Ladies, a volume of thirty-one pieces, only
three of the stories contain the names of people. Instead, Stephens
prefers to identify his characters by distinguishing traits or
features. Here are a few examples of his method.
She was tall and angular. Her hair was
red, and scarce, and untidy. Her hands were large and packed
all over with knuckles and her feet would have turned inwards
at the toes, only that she was aware of and corrected their
perversities ... Her voice was pleasant enough but it was
so strong that one fancied there were bones in it. ( Three
Angry People )
This is all we are told about the woman but it is, all we need
to understand that she found her subservient position as a woman
intolerable. Again:
She had begun to g[et] a little undeterminate.
Her chin had begun to sag and her eyes to look a little weary.
( Three Women Who Wept )
This is all we get in physical description of the heroine but
it is sufficient to establish that she will prove pathetically
vulnerable to a gay and rather heartless young adventurer who
seeks sanctuary at her house. [346]
He had a high nose. He looked at one over
the collar, so to speak. His regard was very assured and his
speech was that short bundle of monosyllables which the subaltern
throws to the orderly. He had never been questioned, and,
the precedent being absent he had never questioned himself.
Again the character is sketched briefly, almost meagerly, but
sufficiently to establish that this man is quite capable of being
cuckolded by his clerk and of thus losing his wife without ever
comprehending what had happened at all.
This approach to characterization - so like the method of the
cartoonist, based as it is on the exaggeration of one feature
- has many advantages for the short story. It makes for stringent
economy and tautness. All unnecessary matter is excluded; no character
is introduced who has not a vital part to play. We learn nothing
about the protagonist over and above what is necessary to make
his actions meaningful. But on the debit side it has a dehumanizing
effect on the characters. In many cases they are not sufficiently
rounded and it is difficult to sustain ones interest in
characters so grudgingly endowed with flesh and blood. The method
is altogether successful in the novels where there is leisure
to supply all the endearing details that bring a fictional character
to life, but within the more restricted range of his short stories
we are too often asked to hang upon the words and actions of an
animated idiosyncrasy.
Hand in hand with this effect there is another, though it may
in fact be a cause. It is this. With two notable exceptions Stephenss
short stories are extremely brief flights. There is no expansiveness
or amplitude in them and this is connected, whether as cause or
effect, with the tight rein he keeps on his characters. He seldom
allows them to talk, preferring the neatness of his own oratio
obliqua. We sometimes feel that they have no existence outside
the actual events of the story and that within it they have no
more life or volition than the author allows them from line to
line. In other words, Stephens bears the same relationship to
his characters as the puppet master to his puppets; he manipulates
them. It wasnt that he could not handle dialogue; whenever
he used it he displayed miraculous authenticity. He probably felt
that if he let them talk too much they would get out of control
and upset the balance of his story. The one story in the piece
where dialogue is used [347] extensively is Three Lovers
Who Lost [ftn.1] and it, in fact, was produced as a one-act
play entitled Julia Elizabeth. The dialogue is authentic as anything
in OCasey though it has not his poetic verve and vividness.
This quality of tightness and constraint in Stephenss stories
must be viewed in relation to the themes he chooses and it is
in the themes that its justification lies. The themes are domestic
ones constantly exploring the twisted, involuted conflicts between
man and wife. Spouse maddened by spouse, this is a dominant
theme with Stephens, writes Robert Farren of his poetry,
and it is even truer of his short stories. The conflict is usually
confined to two, the incompatible husband and wife; children seldom
appear to complicate the issues and only an occasional lover encroaches.
There is a claustrophobic atmosphere generated of necessity, an
atmosphere that precludes expansiveness.
The stories, then, are largely an emotional dialogue and they
are largely typified and crystallized by his much anthologized
poem Nora Crionna. His obsession with this theme seems
to be bound up with a deep-rooted notion he had about an underlying
dualism in the universe, a system of polarities. If all his incidental
aphorisms were collected, ninety percent of them would be found
to deal with the concept. It can be crudely stated thus: the whole
world is organized on a system of opposites and these opposites
are constantly at war; Spirit versus Matter, God versus Devil,
Good versus Evil, and finally the human incarnation of the conflict,
Man versus Woman. The law in nature, therefore, is that man and
woman are constantly engaged in a war of loving hatred. The struggle
proceeds through all his stories and it gets its most extensive
and perhaps definitive treatn1ent in the violent tenderness that
existed between Patsy McCann and Eileen McCooley in The Demi-Gods.
The notion gets its support from his theosophical doctrines, it
underlies the thought of Plotinus whom his friend Stephen McKenna
was translating, and it recurs in the various mystical systems
of the East of which, under AEs influence, Stephens had
a devotees knowledge. However, as he almost certainly spent
his youth in the jungle of a Dublin tenement, he may have seen
this principle in colorful and brawling action before he found
it embodied in a system of thought. [348]
The only stories in Here Are Ladies that do not deal with
the connubial theme are There Is a Tavern in the Town,
which is not a story at all, Three Happy Places, which
concerns children, and The Threepenny-Piece, a sort
of Marcel Aymeish fantasy that eventually finds, its way into
the plot of The Demi-Gods.
The dominant mood of Etched in Moonlight is gloom and
pessimism but in Here Are Ladies, despite the dark morbidity
of many of his themes, the dominant mood seems to be one of humor
and gaiety; just as happiness manages to outweigh the gloom in
his early poetry. The stories in the volume go in triads, and
if one of the sections is unusually grim he is always ready with
the light touch in his next cameo. The opening title, Three
Heavy Husbands, covers three stories which explore the problem
of inter-personal communication. This, idea of communication,
which at the moment is absorbing writers like Harold Pinter, runs
right through Stephenss stories and finds its most terrible
and chilling expression in the story Desire in Etched
in Moonlight, which I shall come back to.
Here the problem is introduced lightly, almost facetiously, and
the treatment is delightfully humorous. Perhaps, the most amusing
is the second piece where a lugubrious, silent bridegroom looks
forward fearfully to the problem of keeping up conversation with
his wife down the interminable vistas to his death …
more and more he became doubtful of his ability to cope with,
or his endurance to withstand, the extraordinary debate called
marriage. True to his method Stephens builds him up as a
type, around the central trait of heavy silence. With some
reservations, he enjoyed listening, but particularly he enjoyed
listening to his own thoughts as they trod slowly and very certainly
to foregone conclusions. But in this particular case there
is no real problem, and the apprehensive husbands dificulty
is resolved through his wifes humor and intuition.
However, in the next story, A Glass of Beer, the
idea is given much more serious scrutiny. An aging widower in
Paris has looked forward to the day he would be free of his wife.
When she eventually dies he is unable to enter into any of the
joys that his imagination had held up to him.
His wife had been dead for over a year. He
had hungered, he had prayed for her death. He had hated that
woman (and for how many [349] years) with a kind of masked ferocity
... What unending, slow quarrels they had together! How her
voice had droned pitilessly in his ears! She in one room, he
in another, and through the open door there rolled that unending
recitation of reproaches, an interminable catalogue of nothings,
while he sat dumb as a fish, with a mind that smouldered and
blazed.
This condition of quiet desperation in marriage is,
obsessional with Stephens and invariably it is associated with
a failure to communicate and ultimately a failure to love.
The widowers isolation within a meaningless
marriage is intensified and aggravated by his meaningless release,
for he is, now isolated in a strange city and unable even to
buy a newspaper in the unfamiliar language. From the depths
of his embittered loneliness he sees with shocking clarity a
living vision of a world without love, as the prostitutes parade
past him: Raddled faces with heavy eyes and rough lips. Ragged
lips that had been chewed by every mad dog in the world. What
lips there were everywhere! Bright scarlet splashes in dead-white
faces. Thin red gashes that suggested rat-traps instead of kisses.
Bulbous, flabby lips that would wobble and shiver if attention
failed them. Lips of horrid fascination that one looked at and
hated and ran to ... looking at him slyly or baldly, they passed
along and mrned after a while and repassed him, and turned again
in promenade.
The side of Stephenss character evident in this passage
is seldom realized by those who regard him m,erely as a whimsical
humorist. But this livid realis.m instinct with bitterness screams
from some of his early poems and the curious, suppressed and largely
subconscious misogyny evident above re-e,merges savagely in The
Blind Man in this volume.
The theme of connubial discord, whether it be through isolation
or acrimony, is treated overtly in Three Women Who Wept,
The Triangle, Three Angry People, Three
Young Wives, The Horses, Three Lovers
Who Lost, and finally in The Blind Man, a story
which finds Stephens at his most unrelentingly horrific. It appears
in two stories of the Etched in Moonlight volume, Darling
and Desire. It is in Desire, one of his
finest stories, that it gets its most telling treatment. Birgit
Bramsback in a recent article in the Colby Library Quarterly sees
a similarity between Desire and Joyces The
Diead, and it is very likely that Stephens was influenced
by that great story. The point of Desire, however,
is, rather difficult [350] to grasp at first, without first understanding
the background of preoccupation that I have tried to indicate
behind Stephenss stories.
The story treats simply of how a man tells his wife of an experience
he had coming home from work. He had saved a stranger from being
run down and in the subsequent conversation the stranger had urged
him to make a wish, a wish for the thing he most desired. After
long consideration the man had chosen to be left alive at his
present age until his death. In the night his wife has a dream,
a dream that she is on an arctic voyage and that she is lost and
abandoned, freezing to death in a desert of ice. She becomes aware
of a terrible coldness near her and she wakes up to find her husband
dead beside her in the bed. Now to my mind the point of the story
does not lie in the slick irony of a man who had his desire fulfilled
to the letter. If that were all, the extended symbolism of the
arctic voyage would not have been necessary nor indeed would there
have been much point in giving his wife such a part to play in
it. The point seems to be that the husband made his wish independently,
selfishly, without consulting his wife who was rightly part of
him. The wifes dream is a realization of her own loneliness
and abandonment and the husbands death is his punishment
for the spiritual betrayal of his marriage. Seen thus it is an
extraordinarily fine story and the snow and ice symbolism is made
into an instrument of uncommon eloquence.
The story epitomizes in a most moving and tragic way the whole
trend of Stephenss thought on this theme and it stands apart
from all his other work in the richness of its symbolic overtones.
It shows Stephens having absorbed the lesson of Joyce and creating
for himself a new and expressive form and technique wherein symbolism
might play a part. But he does not -consolidate his gains. The
other stories in the book, while showing an increased mastery
of technique, are in his former manner. It is significant that
when he is not writing on his favorite theme of marital strife
and estrangement he still does not abandon his overriding involvement
in the crisis of communication. That horrible second story in
Three Women Who Wept explores the sick anxiety
of a woman to come, to terms with her brutish idiot son; The
Wolf is a brilliant portrayal of the effort of a lonely
unloved man, an outsider in the human [351] family, to establish
contact with his fellowmen. It contains, incidentally, a hilarious
description of him as he comes home from the fair drunk, done
in Stephenss drollest and most eccentric manner. Again in
stories like The Boss the theme is explored in terms
of employer and employee, a situation that has frequently appeared
in several of the stories of Here Are Ladies. Whatever
the material the same theme is eternally present, the relentle.ss
dialogue spoken or unspoken between man and woman or between man
and man.
Two important stories in Etched in Moonlight stand apart from
the general pattern. There is the title story itself which takes
the form of a dream and has a mystic dreamlike quality. It is
set in some distant indeterminate time in history and is faintly
reminiscent of one of Dunsanys heroic romances. In fact,
it is a morality, a study of guilt and punishment conveyed through
a strange and terrible story told in the clearest and most lapidary
prose. But it is somehow inconclusive; it is hard for the mind
to lay satisfactory hold on its elusive ethereal fabric. Its dreamlike
texture defeats its reality. It would provide interesting speculations
for a thesis but for all its visionary momentousness I am inclined
to dismiss it as one of the interminable experiments that his
versatility drove him to - not a failure. but not a success either.
The other story, Hunger, is considered by many to
be his finest. It is an unvarnished tale of a poor Dublin family
that withers slowly of starvation because the husband cannot find
work or the wife beg relief. The story is told simply and without
overt comment - unusual for Stephens who can seldom resist his
obiter dicta - but there is a suppressed note of white
hot anger just below the surface, that gives it grievous urgency.
It is the restraint that gives the writer away, that betrays his
fierce concern; a restraint that Stephens seldom imposed on himself
but that is most telling when he describes the final horror:
Into this place the gentleman called on the following day to
investigate, and was introduced into a room swept almost as free
of furniture as a dogs kennel is; to the staring, wise-eyed
child who lived in a chair and to the quiet morsel of death that
lay in a cot by the wall.
For my part I find that brief description more harrowing than
the most morbid of his grotesqueries, more harrowing than most
things I have read. The story, written in 1918, five years after
[352] the great strike, is his only substantial cry of protest
on behalf of Dublins poor but it is a protest more powerful
than a lifetime of manifestos. Of it Stephens himself remarked:
The story is a true one and would have killed me but that
I got it out of my system that way. It was only under the
strongest compulsion in later life that he let his mind dwell
on the naked horrors of his childhood environment and he needed
similar compulsion to engage in the literature of protest, national
or social.
Only one aspect of his short fiction remains and that is, his
treatment of childhood. Only five pieces out of the two volumes
touch on childhood themes and three of these, Three Happy
Places, are not really stories but evocative essays recalling
childhood scenes and atmospheres. In the cameo from Three
Angry People with its reference to the Paps of Dana
we have a prose telling of one of Seamus Begs encounters
on the Rocky Road to Dublin. The child acts merely as listener
and impish interrogator. But the remaining story from Three
Lovers Who Lost is a superb recreation of a childhood fantasy
comparable to Salingers The Laughing Man or
Sakis many evocations of the enchanted world of childhood.
Starting off with the young lad listening to his mother reading
a tale about the Beautiful Princess, Stephens by a miraculous
feat of projection goes on to paint the childs adventures
that are one part reality and three parts the energy of his fired
imagination. This is the mood and memory that Stephens treats
with most affection and wistfulness, the sunny summertime
of dreams! The dragons I had nerved my hand to kill. The maid
I could have rescued and the queen whose champion long ago I might
have been. There is such a spectacular contrast between
the sun-drenched world of innocence evoked in such lines as this
and the visions of malice glimpsed above that one inclines towards
the view that the writer was at least mildly schizophrenic, though
there is no external evidence to support this view.
His only other story of childhood is perhaps the best known of
his stories, A Rhinoceros, Some Ladies, and a Horse,
but I have always found it rather pointless. It was gratifying
to learn recently that it was not meant as a short story in the
first [353] place but as the first chapter of an autobiography.
(True to form the anthologists nearly always choose it to represent
his work.) It is, however, strange that Stephens, who was so drawn
to children both in his novels and poetry and who had done such
splendid things with childhood themes, should have neglected them
so conspicuously in his stories. It is a pity really, for he was
one of the very few writers of all time - and they are remarkably
few - who could portray children with absolute authenticity.
It is difficult to assess a writers influence. on his successors
and normally it is foolish to try. From purely intrinsic merits
Stephens did not deserve to exert an extraordinary influence;
his best work appeared too late - in 1928 - when the modem movement
was well under way. Yet, he came on the scene at a critical time
in 1913. It is. important to remember that at this time Stephens
had a much bigger reputation than either Joyce or Corkery. The
previous year he had published The Charwomans Daughter
and The Crock of Gold. English reviewers were comparing
him favorably with Hardy and Arnold Bennett. It is therefore possible
that he exerted an influence which, looking back in the light
of subsequent events, we might now be inclined to underrate. To
my mind the note of lyricism that one finds in OConnor,
OFaolain, and even more conspicuously in the early stories
of Mary Lavin, and in all the stories of Bryan McMahon, a quality
that distinguishes the Irish school from almost every other contemporary
movement, may have first been triggered and made accessible by
Stephenss example.
In her approach to character Mary Lavin in many of her early
stories seems to aim at a similar effect to Stephens. In stories
such as The Black Grove and The Green Grave
or The Widows Son, where the protagonists are
briefly sketched and identified by primary traits, her concept
of characterization is, like Stephenss., stark and typical.
In fact, it is interesting to trace Miss Lavins subsequent
movement away from this method of characterization as she develops
and shifts her forms to the more individualist and subtle intricacies
of human behavior.
It is, as I have said, impossible to make a definite assessment
of Stephenss influence on subsequent writers. Taken all
in all, however, it would not be unreasonable to claim for him
some place among those talents who helped strongly to shape the
modem Irish short story.
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