HorrorMasters.com -- A Short Story Collection: The Grim 13

 The Grim 13 
Edited by Frederick Stuart Greene

Contents

Vance Thompson - The Day of Daheimus
Dana Burnet - Rain
Stacy Aumonier - Old Fags
Conrad Richter - The Head of His House
Vincent O'Sullivan - The Abigail Sheriff Memorial
Ethel Watts Mumford - Easy
Wadsworth Camp - The Draw-Keeper
Richard Matthews Hallet - The Razor of Pedro Dutel
Robert Alexander Wason - Knute Ericson’s Celebration
Mrs. Belloc Lowndes -  The Parcel
Will Levington Comfort and H. A. Sturtzel - Back O’ The Yards
William Ashley Anderson - The End of the Game
Frederick Stuart Greene - The Black Pool

INTRODUCTION

There were six of us gathered around the fire that evening, and we were talking about short stories as they are published in American magazines. Three of us wrote short stories our­selves, and the most absorbing interest of two others was the critical study of the American short story. The sixth member of our circle was in a class apart. He sometimes published the short stories we had written and criticised.

   As we chatted away more or less idly, we reformed most of the magazines of our acquaintance, and dis­missed more than one momentous question of national policy with a phrase. Suddenly one of us who writes stories himself put the question half seriously: “If Poe were living to-day, would the American maga­zines publish his stories?” We wondered, a bit lazily perhaps. It was the general opinion that they would not. And then, as we began to speculate, the subject took on a certain human interest, and we were roused to question among ourselves as to what the reasons could be for this undeniable fact.

   Some of us thought that it was due to altered critical standards. Others ascribed it to the influence of O. Henry. But after some discussion, it seemed clear to us all that there was a taboo against grim or gruesome stories in editorial circles, and that American editors believed the public demanded the happy ending.

   We began to call a roll of American story-tellers, and as name after name was mentioned, the question arose in our minds as to whether or not every story­teller might not have one story in his private drawer which no magazine would agree to publish because of its gruesome character. The conviction grew among us that a grim story, no matter whether it was a lit­erary masterpiece or not, was hoodooed.

   And then the inspiration came. Why not try to find thirteen hoodooed masterpieces by thirteen un­lucky masters, and throw them upon the mercies of the public for a vote? No sooner suggested than done. Story-tellers, critics, and publisher for once were agreed. If there were thirteen unlucky stories in America good enough to print in a hook, we would find them and publish them with our appeal for judgment.

   So here they are. It is too soon to value them except by relative standards, but I must confess that many of them seem to have an assured quality that belongs to literature. For several years it has been my province to read critically the great mass of short stories published in America, with a view to gathering the best of them into more permanent form than a magazine can offer. I have found many stories of conspicuous excellence in these years, but taking into consideration the average quality of these thirteen grim stories, I am impressed more than ever with the fact that many of the best stories written in England and the United States to-day find it impossible to achieve publication in American magazines.

   In the selection of these thirteen stories, the first condition which each story had to meet was that of repeated rejection by American magazines. The thirteen stories which you are about to read have been tabooed by American editors, because they believe that you do not like realism, or unhappy romance.

   The great literary periods have been characteristic­ally tolerant in the free imaginative play permitted to writers by the general public. Wherever you find a period in which literary achievement has been com­pelled by general opinion to follow prescribed paths, you find an unimaginative formalism and an arid technical excellence. On the other hand, wherever you find a generation, eager and curious in its study of human nature, tolerant toward innovation and open-minded with regard to the literary production of its writers, you find also an alert criticism of life and a richly human art flourishing and spreading widely into other countries.

   Now the characteristic contribution of America to literature is the short story. We are specially responsive to the art of the short story writer, even when we are least critical of his achievement. During the generation which is just coming to a close, the public for short stories has grown so rapidly that it is now practically coextensive with the population of the country. Never before in history have the commercial rewards been greater, and never, alas, before have these rewards had so decisive an influence in dictating the matter and manner of the American short story.

   Under these circumstances, it behooves every American writer to search deeply in his heart for the assurance that his creative work is the sincere and uninfluenced expression of what he most desires to say. It is specially necessary that he should not per­mit himself to compromise his standards by yielding to the pressure of high commercial rewards, when these rewards imply a moulding influence upon his literary work.

   This book seeks to remove, or at least to define clearly, one taboo. It proves that thirteen writers have found that some of their finest imaginative work could not achieve magazine publication without sen­sible modification. I think that these stories one and all prove that much fine and sincere work is lost every year to America by reason of these restrictions.

   For example, “The Abigail Sheriff Memorial,” by Vincent O’Sullivan, is as fine a story as that author has given us in any of his volumes. Mr. O’Sullivan is regarded in Europe as one of the five recent Ameri­can writers of fiction whose work measures up to European standards of novel-writing. Yet his mas­terly psychological acumen, because it lacks senti­mental flabbiness, debars him from American maga­zines. Such a story as this challenges the intellect, and intellectual pleasure is not the chief end sought in the American short story of the present day.

   Some years ago, Miss Alice Brown published a story called “The Master.” It dealt with the per­sonality of a great American writer, who had given up the social pleasures of a city to retire to a remote island and give the world the imaginative fruit of his social observation. Many other writers were gath­ered at dinner and spoke of him, and editors who were there confessed that they could not often afford to print his stories because of their subtle craftsmanship, but when the old man came into their midst and sat among them, suddenly they all knew that he was their master, to whom they owed the allegiance of a pre­viously unconscious discipleship.

   When I read Mr. O’Sullivan’s story, I thought of this, and I wondered how many hidden masters America might have, if we were only more hospitable to their sincerity. I do not know whether “The Master” whom Miss Brown had in mind was Henry James, but it seems to me that this repatriated American, whom America refuses to appreciate, is likely to become his most logical successor.

   Hardly second to it in fine human quality is “Old Fags,” by Stacy Aumonier. The managing editor of one of the oldest and most conservative of America’s literary periodicals confessed to me that this was the finest story, in his opinion, that his magazine had received during 1916, yet he did not publish it. Two other editors of magazines with national reputations justly earned, also told me that they regarded it as impossible to publish, because of the offence it would give their readers. I state these facts frankly in order that the public may judge for itself how far these editors have mirrored its desires.

   When “The Black Pool,” by Frederick Stuart Greene, was first called to my attention, I was amazed to find that a story whose plot was so original and whose inevitable unfolding was depicted with such power should have been consistently rejected by mag­azine editors because of its unhappy ending.

   Now I do not claim that all of these thirteen stories are permanent additions to American literature. I am sure that five or six of them rank with the best that our writers have yet produced, but whether or not the others will be remembered twenty years from now, one thing is certain, and that is that there is no story in this volume which does not merit serious critical attention and challenging interest from the general reading public.

   I regard this book therefore as the most valuable proof that can be afforded of the fact that American literature demands tolerant fostering. It would be a serious and perhaps a fatal thing if such talents as these were denied expression because our mood was lazy and our hearts sentimental. Besides, to any reader whose mind is not sunk too far in the drowsy listlessness of narcotic fiction, these stories are a bracing imaginative summons. The give life new values, and transmute old values into a new currency of our own realm.

Edward J. O’Brien.

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