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I dedicate this book to my wife, Annie
Contents
Preface to Students
Acknowledgments
Special Notice
Index
Preface to Students
This book is based on the common sense premise that students encountering
complex legal issues for the first time will appreciate a book that provides
clear, straightforward introductions to these issues, together with examples
that illustrate how these principles apply in typical cases.
I have good reason to believe that this premise is valid. Some years ago, I
wrote a book on civil procedure, entitled Civil Procedure: Examples and
Explanations, which uses the same approach. The book has been widely used
in law schools across the country. Not only do many faculty members assign
or recommend it, but many students have found their way to the book on their
own or on the recommendation of other students who have found the
approach helpful.
Each chapter of this book includes a brief introduction to the topic,
followed by a set of examples that apply the concepts to particular fact
situations. After the examples, I have included my analysis of each example.
Unlike the typical questions found in the casebooks, which are often either
too hard to answer or downright unanswerable, the examples here tend to
start with the basics and move on to more sophisticated variations. If you
study the readings for your Torts class and the introductions in this book, you
should be able to respond effectively to most of the examples. Trying your
hand at them and comparing your analysis to mine should help to deepen
your understanding of the concepts and your ability to think critically about
legal issues in general. It may also help to convince you that you are capable
of learning the law, a type of feedback that law school seldom seems to
provide.
You will also want to use the book to review the course toward the end of
the year. Most casebooks contain representative cases and provocative
questions and notes, but they do not explain the state of the law or provide
much context for the issues raised. Reading these chapters and reviewing the
examples should help you to test your understanding of the topics covered
and fill in the gaps left by your casebook.
The last part of the book includes three chapters that will be particularly
helpful in preparing for exams. The first chapter explains the type of analysis
that law professors are looking for on a Torts essay exam (or any other first-
year exam, for that matter). The second analyzes common mistakes students
make in taking essay exams. The third includes several exam questions, with
sample answers and some comments on strategy. Law exams are quite
different from others you’ve taken. These chapters will help you to
understand the analytical approach that most law professors want to see in the
merry month of May.
Like every author, I hope that this book will go through many more
editions. If you have comments or suggestions for improvement, drop me a
note at Suffolk University Law School, 120 Tremont Street, Boston, MA
02108. Or, send me an e-mail at jglannon@suffolk.edu.
January 2020
Joseph W. Glannon
Acknowledgments
For several frequently cited treatises, I have used shortened forms after the
initial citation to the work. These are as follows: Dobbs, Hayden & Bublick,
The Law of Torts, cited as Dobbs’ Law of Torts; Harper, James & Gray, The
Law of Torts (2d ed. 1986), cited as Harper, James & Gray; Prosser and
Keeton, The Law of Torts (5th ed. 1984), cited as Prosser & Keeton; Minzer,
Nates, eds., Damages in Tort Actions, cited as Minzer, Nates; Schwartz,
Comparative Negligence, cited as Schwartz; and Speiser, Recovery for
Wrongful Death and Injury, cited as Speiser.
INTRODUCTION
The primitive world must have been a fairly scary place. Our ancestors had to
cope not only with the awesome forces of nature, impossible to predict or
control, but also with another unpredictable danger — other human beings.
Doubtless, one of the primary reasons they decided to become “civilized”
was to ensure physical security from each other.
Medieval England, from which our tort law evolved, sought to deter
physical aggression through a criminal remedy, the “appeal of felony,” for
physical assaults and other invasions of personal interests. Harper, James &
Gray, The Law of Torts §3.1 (3d ed. 1996). If the defendant was found guilty,
she would be fined; that is, she would have to pay a sum of money or forfeit
her goods to the crown. The appeal of felony helped to enforce the King’s
peace, but it did nothing to compensate the injured victim for her injury.
Over time, the English courts also developed civil tort remedies to
compensate victims of physical aggression. This tort remedy differed
according to the nature of the defendant’s invasion. For example, the tort of
battery authorized damages for deliberate, unwanted contacts with the
plaintiff’s person. Assault allowed recovery for placing the plaintiff in fear of
an unwanted contact. False imprisonment was the remedy for unwarranted
restraints on the plaintiff’s freedom of movement. This chapter examines the
action of battery, that most basic of tort remedies for invasion of the most
basic of personal rights, the right to freedom from unwanted bodily contact.
It seems as though this ought to be a very short chapter. Even the law,
with its tendency to overanalyze, can only complicate a seemingly simple
matter so much. And battery seems like a simple matter. Jones hits Smith:
She has invaded Smith’s right to freedom from physical aggression and
should be liable for any resulting injuries. All that is left to decide is how
much Jones should pay.
Sometimes it is that simple, but often it is not. Jones may have bumped
into Smith because Lopez pushed her, or she may have collided with Smith
while jumping out of the way of an oncoming car. Perhaps she pushed Smith
in order to prevent the car from hitting her, or while thrashing around in an
epileptic seizure. Each of these cases involves an unauthorized contact with
Smith, but Jones should not be required to compensate Smith for such
blameless — or even helpful — invasions of Smith’s physical autonomy.
Since the courts have refused to condemn all unwanted contacts, they
have struggled to craft a definition of battery that limits recovery to those
types of contacts the law seeks to prevent. Most courts define battery as the
intentional infliction of a harmful or offensive contact with the person of the
plaintiff. See Restatement (Second) of Torts §13. Under this definition the
defendant must act, her act must be intentional (in the restricted sense
peculiar to tort law), the act must cause a contact with the victim, and the
intended contact must be either harmful or offensive to the victim. These
requirements are discussed in detail below.
Restatement (Second) of Torts §8A. This definition lets Chu off the hook in
the bus case, since her act was not intentional in the intentional tort sense.
She did not act for the purpose of hitting Munoz, nor was she substantially
certain that she would. The contact resulted instead from her failure to take
proper precautions (such as looking where she was going) to avoid hitting
Munoz. Chu may be liable for negligence, but she has not committed a
battery.
Indeed, the purpose of the intent requirement is to confine intentional tort
liability to cases in which the defendant acts with a higher level of culpability
than mere carelessness: where she acts with a purpose, or with knowledge
that the act will cause harmful or offensive contact to the victim. If Chu
pushed Munoz to get her out of the way, she would meet this intent
requirement, since she would be substantially certain that Munoz would find
such a contact offensive. She would also meet the intent requirement if she
pushed her to embarrass her in front of a friend — an offensive contact — or
to cause her to fall in front of a car, an obviously harmful one.
The intent requirement in the Restatement is disjunctive; that is, it is met
either by a purpose to cause the tortious contact or substantial certainty that
such a contact will result. Suppose, for example, that Smith heaves a stone at
her enemy Jones, though she thinks Jones is probably beyond her range. She
is not substantially certain that she will hit Jones, but she acts with the desire
to do so. This satisfies the intent requirement; if the stone hits Jones, Smith
has committed battery.
Under this definition, an actor can possess tortious intent even though she
bears the victim no ill will whatsoever. If Chu sees Jones walking along the
street below and deliberately throws a bucket of water on her from a second-
story window, it is no defense that she was simply emptying the scrub bucket
and did not mean to offend Jones. In intentional tort terms, she intends those
contacts that she is substantially certain will occur, as well as those she
desires to see happen. Indeed, a battery can be committed with the best of
motives. In Clayton v. New Dreamland Roller Skating Rink, Inc., 82 A.2d
458 (1951), for example, the defendant’s employee attempted to set the
plaintiff’s broken arm, against her protests. While the employee was only
trying to help, he knew (because the victim told him so) that she found the
contact unwelcome, and consequently met the intent requirement for battery.
TRANSFERRED INTENT
Although intentional tort law requires a very specific type of intent, that
standard may be met if the actor intends to commit a battery on one person
and actually inflicts one on somebody else. Suppose, for example, that Chu
throws a rock at Smith, hoping to hit her, but her aim is bad and she hits
Lopez instead. Chu would argue that she cannot be held liable to Lopez, since
she had no intent to hit her — she was aiming at Smith.
Although Chu had no tortious intent toward Lopez in this example, she
did have tortious intent toward Smith. In such cases, courts hold that the
tortious intent to hit Smith transfers to Lopez. Restatement (Second) of Torts
§16(2). Thus, where the actor tries to batter one person and actually causes a
harmful or offensive contact to another, she will be liable to the actual victim.
Obviously, transferred intent is a legal fiction created to achieve a
sensible result despite lack of intent toward the person actually contacted.
The rationale for the doctrine is that the tortfeasor’s act is just as culpable
when her aim is bad as when it is good; it would be unconscionable if she
were exonerated just because she hit the wrong person. Under transferred
intent, she will be liable whether she hits her intended victim or someone
else.
The transferred intent fiction also allows recovery where the actor
attempts one intentional tort but causes another. If, for example, Chu tries to
hit Smith with a hammer but misses, placing Smith in fear of a harmful
contact but not actually causing one, her intent to commit a battery suffices to
hold her liable for assault. Conversely, if she tries to frighten Lopez by
shooting near her, but the bullet hits her instead, she will be liable for battery
even though she intended to commit an assault instead.
Examples
2. When Romeo gets out of the car to apologize, Thibault yells, “What’s
the idea?” and gives him a push. Romeo slips on a patch of ice, hits his
head on one of the mag wheels of his Trans Am, and suffers a serious
concussion. Is Thibault liable for Romeo’s injuries?
3. Romeo and Juliet are an item, “going steady” as they said when I was in
high school. Romeo comes up to Juliet in the school parking lot on
Monday morning and gives her a hug, as he is accustomed to doing each
morning. Unfortunately, Juliet is standing on a patch of ice and Romeo’s
embrace causes her to fall and fracture her arm. Is Romeo liable for
battery?
No Offense Intended?
7. Romeo considers himself irresistible. He is accustomed to flirting with
the girls at will. He comes up to Ophelia, a new student, on her first day
in the school and, by way of introduction, gives her a hug. She sues him
for battery. Is he liable?
8. Romeo is a sprinter on the track team. At the first meet of the season, he
is nosed out by Mercutio, the star of the visiting team. In a burst of good
sportsmanship, he goes over to Mercutio, slaps him heartily on the back,
and says “great run, Mercutio!” Mercutio, who, it turns out, is very
sensitive about being touched by strangers, reacts with rage at the
contact. Is Romeo liable for battery?
9. Romeo and Mercutio meet again at the regional finals. This time Romeo
ends up the victor. After the race, he turns to Mercutio on the track,
punches his shoulder playfully and says, “Well, Mercutio, turnabout is
fair play!” The humorless Mercutio sues him for battery. Is he liable this
time?
10. Romeo races Mercutio again in the state finals, and loses. Infuriated, he
takes his track shoes and hurls them into the crowded stands. They hit
Polonius, causing facial lacerations. Can Polonius sue Romeo for
battery?
Star-Crossed Lovers
11. Alas, poor Romeo. He still holds a candle for Juliet, and she won’t even
talk to him anymore. He finds her asleep at one of the carrels in the
school library. A confirmed romantic, he slips up to her and kisses her
on the cheek. Malvolio, the school sneak, later tells Juliet.
a. Upset, she heads for court. Battery?
b. You have recently passed the bar and hung out your own shingle.
Juliet brings her sneaky-kiss case to you and asks you to sue Romeo
for her. Would you take the case?
c. Assume Romeo had kissed the sleeping Juliet while they were still
going together. However, Juliet does not find out about it until after
they have broken up. Can she sue him for battery?
Explanations
2. Although Thibault is justly angry with Romeo, that does not give him a
license to retaliate against him. He has intentionally inflicted a contact
that Romeo will find offensive, and perhaps harmful as well, and he is
liable to him for battery.
But is he liable for the unanticipated and unintended concussion? As
in the Brutus example in the introduction, Thibault is fully liable for all
harm resulting from the battery. Although he had no intent — as that
term is used in either the Restatement or everyday life — to cause
Romeo’s concussion, he did intend to push him. Since he committed a
battery by doing so, he is liable for all the resulting injuries, even
unexpected ones.
This rule, that a defendant who commits an intentional tort is liable
for all the resulting harm, does not apply in negligence cases. Under
negligence law, liability is limited to the foreseeable consequences of
the defendant’s act. See Chapter 12. However, because intentional torts
are deemed more culpable, the courts generally hold the defendant liable
for all the ensuing consequences, foreseeable or otherwise. This rule
imposes very severe damages on Thibault for what seems like a
relatively innocuous act — but it didn’t turn out to be innocuous, did it?
The Solomons of tort law have concluded that the loss in such cases
should fall on the actor rather than the victim.2
For an extreme example of this, see Baker v. Shymkiv, 451 N.E.2d
811 (Ohio 1983), in which a defendant’s trespass to land (an intentional
tort) led to an argument with the owner. During the argument, the owner
had a fatal heart attack. The trespasser was held liable for it as a
consequence of the intentional tort.
4. Poor Romeo; he was only trying to help. Maybe he even was helpful.
But he still committed a battery.
In analyzing battery cases, it is important to distinguish between
intent and motive. The motive for Romeo’s act was honorable, but he
still intended to cause a contact to Juliet that he knew she would find
offensive, because she told him so. The elements of battery do not
include acting from a malicious motive, nor will a virtuous motive
prevent liability if those elements are present. The plaintiff has the right
to decide for herself which contacts are beneficial; she need not submit
to the prodding of any Romeo who wishes to be gallant. Juliet may
prefer the higher risk of slipping to the touch of the klutzy and out-of-
favor Romeo. That decision is hers, not his. Where Romeo substitutes
his judgment for hers, he is liable for battery.
Because of the fundamental value placed on physical self-
determination, courts have held defendants liable for battery, even
though their motives were pure and their contacts beneficial. The classic
example is Mohr v. Williams, 104 N.W. 12 (Minn. 1905), in which a
doctor was held liable for battery when he operated on the plaintiff’s left
ear after the plaintiff had consented to surgery only on the right.
Although the left ear was diseased, and the surgery was successful, the
court concluded that the doctor had violated the patient’s “right to
complete immunity of his person from physical interference of others. . .
.” Id. at 16.
This instruction tells the jury to find the intent requirement met if
Romeo acted with either of the states of mind required for an
intentional tort.
6. If desire can make a battery, Romeo has surely committed one, since he
fervently hoped Thibault would fall in, and was delighted when he did.
And we know that Romeo need not directly touch Thibault to batter
him: Contact with the trench suffices to meet the contact requirement.
And certainly Thibault found the contact both harmful and offensive.
But Romeo is still not liable to Thibault. He has not done anything to
cause the contact. To incur liability, he must act; he must inflict the
contact, not simply hope for it. This contact results from the acts of
others, not Romeo.
No Offense Intended?
7. Obviously, Romeo is of the opinion that no woman in her right mind
would object to his attentions. However, the question is not whether
Romeo finds his conduct offensive. It is not even whether Romeo thinks
that Ophelia will. As the introduction points out, the question Romeo
must ponder before his dalliance with Ophelia is whether the reasonable
person in Ophelia’s circumstances would find it offensive. The answer
to that question is almost certainly “yes.” Most teenagers don’t like
being hugged by strangers, even attractive strangers.
So, offensiveness is determined by an objective test — whether the
contact would be offensive to the reasonable person in the victim’s
circumstances. But isn’t it true, even if Romeo’s hug is “offensive”
under this definition, that Romeo must intend an offensive contact, not
just cause one? And, if Romeo genuinely believed that the new girl in
school would welcome his attention, how can he be said to have
intended an offensive contact?
Very likely Romeo will be held liable, even if he is too conceited to
realize that this contact is offensive under the Restatement definition; the
law will attribute to him an understanding of what the reasonable person
finds offensive. Otherwise, he could avoid liability based on his
testimony that he didn’t think it would be offensive. Such a test would
allow social boors to escape liability simply because they have poor
judgment — or lie about what they understood — even though they
inflict unwanted contacts on others.
There is some authority suggesting that an actor commits battery by
intentionally causing a contact that turns out to be harmful or offensive,
even if the actor did not intend it to be either. This “single intent” theory
(that is, that the only intent needed is the intent to make the contact) is
approved in White v. University of Idaho, 797 P.2d 108 (Idaho 1990);
but see White v. Munoz, 999 P.2d 814 (CO. 2014) (en banc) (rejecting
the single intent theory). See generally K. Simons, A Restatement
(Third) of Intentional Torts? 48 Ariz. L. Rev. 1061, 1070 (2006). The
draft Third Restatement of Torts explores this “single intent” approach
in great detail, and comes down in support of it. Restatement of the Law
Third: Intentional Torts to Persons (Tentative Draft No. 1) §102 cmt. b
and Reporter’s Note.3 Your Humble Author is troubled by the “single
intent” approach, because it would impose liability on an actor who
made a contact that was not intended to cause either harm or offense.
The Third Restatement draft acknowledges that this imposes “a modest
degree of strict liability.” Id. at §102, Reporters’ Note §b. Romeo would
be liable in this example under either a “single intent” or “dual intent”
approach.4
8. Romeo has again acted with good intentions, but we saw in Example 4
that good intentions will not negate a battery if the elements of the tort
are established. However, those elements are not met here, since Romeo
has no reason to believe that his slap will be offensive to a reasonable
person under these circumstances: Congratulatory hugs and slaps are
common among athletes on such occasions.
The requirement that the contact “offen[d] a reasonable sense of
personal dignity” (Restatement (Second) of Torts §19) allows actors to
make contacts with others that the ordinary person will not find
offensive, without fear of a suit for battery. This requirement places the
burden on the party with unusual sensibilities, such as Mercutio, to
inform people of his susceptibility. Until he does, those who interact
with Mercutio are protected if they conform to generally accepted
standards of behavior.
If actors were liable to hypersensitive plaintiffs for generally
accepted contacts like this, many everyday interactions would entail the
risk of liability. Under that rule, Romeo could be sued for tapping a
stranger on the shoulder to tell her she had dropped her umbrella, or
brushing past a fellow passenger on the subway. To avoid liability, he
would have to avoid all contact. The world might be a marginally safer
place for the hypersensitive, but a great deal of spontaneity would be
sacrificed.
9. This example is like the last, except that here Romeo is aware before he
acts that Mercutio is sensitive to physical contacts, even those generally
accepted by others. The issue is whether the actor is liable for contacts
that are not offensive under the Restatement’s “reasonable-sense-of-
personal-dignity” standard, but which the actor knows will be offensive
to a particular hypersensitive individual.
The Second Restatement declined to take a position on whether there
should be liability in a case like this, but the draft Third Restatement
guardedly approves it if the actor knows that the contact is “highly
offensive to the other’s unusually sensitive sense of personal dignity.”
Restatement (Third) of Torts: Intentional Torts to Persons (Tentative
Draft No. 1) § 103(b). Surely the values underlying battery support
liability in this case: The purpose of battery is to protect individuals
from unwanted intrusions on physical security. Where an actor knows
that another accepts contacts that others would find offensive (for
example, friends who routinely engage in rough horseplay), his actual
knowledge protects him, despite the objective standard usually applied.
Conversely, where he knows that another rejects contacts others would
tolerate, that knowledge, not the objective standard, should govern his
liability. Here Romeo knows this intrusion will be offensive to
Mercutio, and he ought to avoid it, even if others would accept the
contact.
10. Romeo will doubtless argue that he had no intent, in the battery sense of
the term, to hit Polonius. He did not desire to hit him, nor did he know to
a substantial certainty that he would hit him — the shoes could have hit
anyone.
Clearly, this is an anemic defense. As long as Romeo knew to a
substantial certainty that the shoes would hit someone, he knew his act
would cause a harmful or offensive contact to the person of another. It
should not negate the tort that his act had a large number of potential
victims. If that were the case, a terrorist who threw a bomb onto the
mezzanine at O’Hare Airport would not be liable to the strangers he
injured, since he couldn’t be sure which ones would be hurt, and wished
no ill will to any one of them in particular.
This is not really a case of transferred intent. It is not a situation in
which he threw at a specific victim and hit another instead. Rather, it is a
Another random document with
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I cannot imagine that any writer who takes his calling seriously ever
resents a sincere, intelligent, adverse notice. I have never written a
book in less than a year, devoting all my time to it; and I resent being
dismissed in a line, and called a writer of drivel, by some one who
did not take the trouble to say why. A newspaper which is particularly
jealous of its good name once pointed out with elaborate care that
an incident, described in one of my stories as occurring in broad
daylight, could not have been observed in moonlight by one of the
characters at the distance I had indicated. The same reviewer
transferred the scene of this story half-way across the continent, in
order to make another point against its plausibility. If the aim of
criticism be to aid the public in its choice of books, then the press
should deal fairly with both author and public. And if the critics wish
to point out to authors their failures and weaknesses, then it should
be done in a spirit of justice. The best-selling of my books caused a
number of critics to remark that it had clearly been inspired by a
number of old romances—which I had not only never read, but of
several of them I had never even heard.
A Boston newspaper which I greatly admire once published an
editorial in which I was pilloried as a type of writer who basely
commercializes his talent. It was a cruel stab; for, unlike my heroes, I
do not wear a mail-shirt under my dress-coat. Once, wandering into
a church in my own city, at a time when a dramatized version of one
of my stories was offered at a local theatre, I listened to a sermon
that dealt in the harshest terms with such fiction and drama.
Extravagant or ignorant praise is, to most of us, as disheartening as
stupid and unjust criticism. The common practice of invoking great
names to praise some new arrival at the portal of fame cannot fail to
depress the subject of it. When my first venture in fiction was
flatteringly spoken of by a journal which takes its criticisms seriously
as evidencing the qualities that distinguish Mr. Howells, I shuddered
at the hideous injustice to a gentleman for whom I have the greatest
love and reverence; and when, in my subsequent experiments, a
critic somewhere gravely (it seemed, at least, to be in a spirit of
sobriety!) asked whether a fold of Stevenson’s mantle had not
wrapped itself about me, the awfulness of the thing made me ill, and
I fled from felicity until my publisher had dropped the heart-breaking
phrase from his advertisements. For I may be the worst living author,
and at times I am convinced of it; but I hope I am not an immitigable
and irreclaimable ass.
American book reviewers, I am convinced from a study of my returns
from the clipping bureaus for ten years, dealing with my offerings in
two kinds of fiction, are a solid phalanx of realists where they are
anything at all. This attitude is due, I imagine, to the fact that
journalism deals, or is supposed to deal, with facts. Realism is
certainly more favorably received than romance. I cheerfully
subscribe to the doctrine that fiction that lays strong hands upon
aspects of life as we are living it is a nobler achievement than tales
that provide merely an evening’s entertainment. Mr. James has,
however, simplified this whole question. He says, “The only
classification of the novel that I can understand is into that which has
life, and that which has it not”; and if we must reduce this matter of
fiction to law, his dictum might well be accepted as the first and last
canon. And in this connection I should like to record my increasing
admiration for all that Mr. James has written of novels and novelists.
In one place and another he has expressed himself fully and
confidently on fiction as a department of literature. The lecture on
Balzac that he gave in this country a few years ago is a masterly and
authoritative document on the novel in general. His “Partial Portraits”
is a rich mine of ripe observation on the distinguishing qualities of a
number of his contemporaries, and the same volume contains a
suggestive and stimulating essay on fiction as an art. With these in
mind it seems to me a matter for tears that Mr. James, with his
splendid equipment and beautiful genius, should have devoted
himself so sedulously, in his own performances in fiction, to the
contemplation of cramped foreign vistas and exotic types, when all
this wide, surging, eager, laboring America lay ready to his hand.
I will say of myself that I value style beyond most things; and that if I
could command it, I should be glad to write for so small an audience,
the “fit though few,” that the best-selling lists should never know me
again; for with style go many of the requisites of great fiction,—
fineness and sureness of feeling, and a power over language by
which characters cease to be bobbing marionettes and become
veritable beings, no matter whether they are Beatrix Esmonds, or
strutting D’Artagnans, or rascally Bartley Hubbards, or luckless Lily
Barts. To toss a ball into the air, and keep it there, as Stevenson did
so charmingly in such pieces as “Providence and the Guitar,”—this is
a respectable achievement; to mount Roy Richmond as an
equestrian statue,—that, too, is something we would not have had
Mr. Meredith leave undone. Mr. Rassendyll, an English gentleman
playing at being king, thrills the surviving drop of mediævalism that is
in all of us. “The tired business man” yields himself to the belief that
the staccato of hoofs on the asphalt street, which steals in to him
faintly at his fireside, is really an accompaniment to the hero’s mad
ride to save the king. Ah, the joy in kings dies hard in us!
Given a sprightly tale with a lost message to recover, throw in a fight
on the stair, scatter here and there pretty dialogues between the
lover and the princess he serves, and we are all, as we breathlessly
follow, the rankest royalists. Tales of real Americans, kodaked “in the
sun’s hot eye,” much as they refresh me,—I speak of myself now,
not as a writer or critic, but as the man in the street,—never so
completely detach the weary spirit from mundane things as tales of
events that never were on sea or land. Why should I read of Silas
Lapham to-night, when only an hour ago I was his competitor in the
mineral-paint business? The greatest fiction must be a criticism of
life; but there are times when we crave forgetfulness, and lift our
eyes trustfully to the flag of Zenda.
But the creator of Zenda, it is whispered, is not an author of the first
or even of the second rank, and the adventure story, at its best, is
only for the second table. I am quite aware of this. But pause a
moment, O cheerless one! Surely Homer is respectable; and the
Iliad, the most strenuous, the most glorious and sublime of fictions,
with the very gods drawn into the moving scenes, has, by reason of
its tremendous energy and its tumultuous drama, not less than for its
majesty as literature, established its right to be called the longest-
selling fiction of the ages.
All the world loves a story; the regret is that the great novelists—
great in penetration and sincerity and style—do not always have the
story-telling knack. Mr. Marion Crawford was, I should say, a far
better story-teller than Mr. James or Mr. Howells; but I should by no
means call him a better novelist. A lady of my acquaintance makes a
point of bestowing copies of Mr. Meredith’s novels upon young
working-women whom she seeks to uplift. I am myself the most
ardent of Meredithians, and yet I must confess to a lack of sympathy
with this lady’s high purpose. I will not press the point, but a tired
working-girl would, I think, be much happier with one of my own
beribboned confections than with even Diana the delectable.
Pleasant it is, I must confess, to hear your wares cried by the train-
boy; to bend a sympathetic ear to his recital of your merits, as he
appraises them; and to watch him beguile your fellow travelers with
the promise of felicity contained between the covers of the book
which you yourself have devised, pondered, and committed to paper.
The train-boy’s ideas of the essentials of entertaining fiction are
radically unacademic, but he is apt in hitting off the commercial
requirements. A good book, one of the guild told me, should always
begin with “talking.” He was particularly contemptuous of novels that
open upon landscape and moonlight,—these, in the bright lexicon of
his youthful experience, are well-nigh unsalable. And he was equally
scornful of the unhappy ending. The sale of a book that did not, as
he put it, “come out right,” that is, with the merry jingle of wedding-
bells, was no less than a fraud upon the purchaser. On one well-
remembered occasion my vanity was gorged by the sight of many
copies of my latest offering in the hands of my fellow travelers, as I
sped from Washington to New York. A poster, announcing my new
tale, greeted me at the station as I took flight; four copies of my book
were within comfortable range of my eye in the chair-car. Before the
train started, I was given every opportunity to add my own book to
my impedimenta.
The sensation awakened by the sight of utter strangers taking up
your story, tasting it warily, clinging to it if it be to their liking, or
dropping it wearily or contemptuously if it fail to please, is one of the
most interesting of the experiences of authorship. On the journey
mentioned, one man slept sweetly through what I judged to be the
most intense passage in the book; others paid me the tribute of
absorbed attention. On the ferry-boat at Jersey City, several copies
of the book were interposed between seemingly enchanted readers
and the towers and spires of the metropolis. No one, I am sure, will
deny to such a poor worm as I the petty joys of popular recognition.
To see one’s tale on many counters, to hear one’s name and titles
recited on boats and trains, to find in mid-ocean that your works go
with you down to the sea in ships, to see the familiar cover smiling
welcome on the table of an obscure foreign inn,—surely the most
grudging critic would not deprive a writer of these rewards and
delights.
There is also that considerable army of readers who write to an
author in various keys of condemnation or praise. I have found my
correspondence considerably augmented by the large sales of a
book. There are persons who rejoice to hold before your eyes your
inconsistences; or who test you, to your detriment, in the relentless
scale of fact. Some one in the Connecticut hills once criticized
severely my use of “that” and “which,”—a case where an effort at
precision was the offense,—and I was involved, before I knew it, in a
long correspondence. I have several times been taken severely to
task by foes of tobacco for permitting my characters to smoke. Wine,
I have found, should be administered to one’s characters sparingly,
and one’s hero must never produce a flask except for restorative
uses,—after, let us say, a wild gallop, by night, in the teeth of a storm
to relieve a beleaguered citadel, or when the heroine has been
rescued at great peril from the clutch of the multitudinous sea. Those
strange spirits who pour out their souls in anonymous letters have
not ignored me. I salute them with much courtesy, and wish them
well of the gods. Young ladies whose names I have inadvertently
applied to my heroines have usually dealt with me in agreeable
fashion. The impression that authors have an unlimited supply of
their own wares to give away is responsible for the importunity of
managers of church fairs, philanthropic institutions, and the like, who
assail one cheerfully through the mails. Before autograph-hunters I
have always been humble; I have felt myself honored by their
attentions; and in spite of their dread phrase, “Thanking you in
advance,”—which might be the shibboleth of their fraternity, from its
prevalence,—I greet them joyfully, and never filch their stamps.
Now, after all, could anything be less harmful than my tales? The
casual meeting of my hero and heroine in the first chapter has
always been marked by the gravest circumspection. My melodrama
has never been offensively gory,—in fact, I have been ridiculed for
my bloodless combats. My villains have been the sort that anyone
with any kind of decent bringing-up would hiss. A girl in white,
walking beside a lake, with a blue parasol swinging back of her
head, need offend no one. That the young man emerging from the
neighboring wood should not recognize her at once as the young
woman ordained in his grandfather’s will as the person he must
marry to secure the estate, seems utterly banal, I confess; but it is
the business of romance to maintain illusions. Realism, with the
same agreed state of facts, recognizes the girl immediately—and
spoils the story. Or I might put it thus: in realism, much or all is
obvious in the first act; in romance, nothing is quite clear until the
third. This is why romance is more popular than realism, for we are
all children and want to be surprised. Why villains should always be
so stupid, and why heroines should so perversely misunderstand the
noble motives of heroes, are questions I cannot answer. Likewise
before dear old Mistaken Identity—the most venerable impostor in
the novelist’s cabinet—I stand dumbly grateful.
On the stage, where a plot is most severely tested, but where the
audience must, we are told, always be in the secret, we see
constantly how flimsy a mask the true prince need wear. And the
reason for this lies in the primal and—let us hope—eternal
childlikeness of the race. The Zeitgeist will not grind us underfoot so
long as we are capable of joy in make-believe, and can renew our
youth in the frolics of Peter Pan.
You, sir, who re-read “The Newcomes” every year, and you, madam,
reverently dusting your Jane Austen,—I am sadder than you can be
that my talent is so slender; but is it not a fact that you have watched
me at my little tricks on the mimic stage, and been just a little
astonished when the sparrow, and not the dove, emerged from the
handkerchief? But you prefer the old writers; and so, dear friends, do
I!
Having, as I have confessed, deliberately tried my hand at romance
merely to see whether I could swim the moat under a cloud of the
enemy’s arrows, and to gain experience in the mechanism of story-
writing, I now declare (though with no illusion as to the importance of
the statement) that I have hung my sword over the fireplace; that I
shall not again thunder upon the tavern door at midnight; that not
much fine gold could tempt me to seek, by means however
praiseworthy, to bring that girl with the blue parasol to a proper
appreciation of the young gentleman with the suit-case, who even
now is pursuing her through the wood to restore her lost
handkerchief. It has been pleasant to follow the bright guidon of
romance; even now, from the window of the tall office-building in
which I close these reflections, I can hear the bugles blowing and
look upon
“Strangest skies and unbeholden seas.”
But I feel reasonably safe from temptation. Little that men do is, I
hope, alien to me; and the life that surges round me, and whose
sounds rise from the asphalt below, or the hurrying feet on the tiles in
my own corridor of this steel-boned tower,—the faint tinkle of
telephones, the click of elevator doors,—these things, and the things
they stand for, speak with deep and thrilling eloquence; and he who
would serve best the literature of his time and country will not ignore
them.
THE END
The Riverside Press
CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS
U.S.A
FOOTNOTE:
[1] “Heckling the Church,” The Atlantic Monthly,
December, 1911.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been
standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
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