The Role of Space, Money, and Travel in O. Henry's New York Stories

Home , Austin History Center, The Four Million, The Gift of the Magi, The Skylight Room, The Third Ingredient

THE ROLE OF SPACE, MONEY, AND TRAVEL IN O. HENRY’S

NEW YORK STORIES

Cristen Hamilton

APPROVED BY SUPERVISORY COMMITTEE:

______Rene Prieto, Chair

______Patricia Michaelson

______Jessica C. Murphy

______Nils Roemer

Cristen Hamilton

For my mother

THE ROLE OF SPACE, MONEY, AND TRAVEL IN O. HENRY’S

NEW YORK STORIES

CRISTEN HAMILTON, BA, MA

DISSERTATION

Presented to the Faculty of

The University of Texas at Dallas

in Partial Fulfillment

of the Requirements

for the Degree of

DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY IN

HUMANITIES - STUDIES IN LITERATURE

THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS AT DALLAS

August 2017

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am indebted to my chair, Dr. Prieto, for challenging me to really get to the heart of O. Henry’s works, being patient with me, and helping me adhere to a rigorous submission and revision schedule. I would like to thank my committee: Dr. Michaelson, Dr. Murphy, and Dr. Roemer, for their helpful comments and criticisms on my work. I also wish to thank the members of the

UTD Writing Group: Jenny, Ray, Madhavi, Lance, and Thomasina, whose suggestions and encouragement were most helpful in the writing process. I am much obliged to Ande for watching Emma so I could get some research done in North Carolina and my parents for taking me on a family vacation to Greensboro and funding my research. I am grateful for Arthur G.

Erickson and Tim Cole from The Greensboro Public Library for helping me find a place to start my research, as well as answering my questions about citations, the staff at the Austin History

Center for dragging out box after box of materials on O. Henry, and the tour guides at the O.

Henry Museum for offering new insights into the author’s life. In addition, I wish to thank Elise

Allison at The Greensboro History Museum for answering my questions about artifacts in the museum and the staff at The O. Henry Hotel for their kindness and excellent hospitality.

Additional thanks goes to Diana Secker Tesdell, publisher of the annual O. Henry Prize Stories.

Most of all, I would like to thank my mother, whose financial assistance and moral support made the completion of my dissertation possible.

February 2017

THE ROLE OF SPACE, MONEY, AND TRAVEL IN O. HENRY’S

NEW YORK STORIES

Cristen Hamilton, PhD The University of Texas at Dallas, 2017

ABSTRACT

Supervising Professor: Rene Prieto

The aim of my dissertation is to contend that O. Henry deserves a higher place in literary history than previously given to him by critics. Although most critics dismiss him as a popular writer who operates mainly on formulas to get to his signature “surprise ending,” these formulas are really a subtle means used not only to criticize social norms, but also to suggest social changes that needed to be made in America at the turn of the twentieth century. In order to argue this, I grouped thirty of O. Henry’s New York short stories, the bulk of which contain female characters, into themes of space, money, and travel. My dissertation provides a study of the literary representations of New York City generated by O. Henry, particularly with regards to these three thematic elements and the way female characters in his stories grappled with these themes, as well as how society dealt with such female characters in the context of space, money, and travel. Through close readings and computational analysis, specifically in the form of word frequencies, I discovered O. Henry was a writer who was seriously committed to social reform in

America at the turn of the century, especially with regards to women.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS...... v

ABSTRACT...... vi

INTRODUCTION.……………...... 1

CHAPTER 1 WOMEN’S SPACE IN THE CITY...... 29

CHAPTER 2 MONEY MATTERS...... 90

CHATPER 3 TRAVEL AND TRANSIENTS...... 144

CONCLUSION...... 201

WORKS CITED...... 213

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH...... 223

CURRICULUM VITAE...... 224

vii

INTRODUCTION

The first time I read O. Henry’s iconic tale “Gifts of the Magi” (1905), I remember cringing at

the illustration that portrayed Della’s hair, right next to the line where readers learn she cuts it all

off for twenty dollars. As I thought then, some girls look good with short hair, but Della looked

like a boy, and my fourteen-year-old self believed that was the worst thing ever. I remember

touching my own hair and wondering if I could sacrifice it for someone I loved as Della had

done.

Della’s sacrifice had to be made so she could afford a watch fob for her husband’s

Christmas present. Even more disturbing than the loss of Della’s hair, “[which will] grow out

again,” as she loses no time in telling her husband Jim, is his sacrifice of an heirloom watch to

buy Della a pair of combs for hair that is no longer hers (Henry, “Gifts” 1). Selling a practical item, like a watch, could be forgiven, I thought back then, but an heirloom that had been in the family for generations? What was Jim thinking? Though I did not appreciate it at the time, a few years later I understood that he was thinking of Della and she of him: above and beyond anyone else. This is what makes “Gifts of the Magi” so poignant. The idea that two people could love each other so much that they willingly sacrifice their greatest possessions in order to make the other one happy contains all the elements necessary for a touching story, but O. Henry adds another layer when he praises these characters (via a tacit comparison) by suggesting that they are like “the magi” for having sacrificed their precious possessions (1). Grasping only years later O. Henry’s praise for these selfless deeds made me feel like an awful person for wondering, when I was fourteen, if Jim ever got his watch back.

In today’s world, being romantic is never tantamount to being wise. I never forgot O.

Henry’s story; in fact, the tale moved me so much that I still own the paperback collection of his

work I bought at the time.

Twelve years passed before I came across O. Henry’s works again; this time I was sitting

on the other side of the desk as a sophomore English teacher in Dallas ISD. Having been tasked

with finding short stories for our next unit, the biggest dilemma for me was whether or not to add

“The Red Roses of Tonia” or “Hearts and Hands” to the list, both of which were in our textbook

at the time (Henry, “Red” TX18-TX25; “Hearts” 264-265). I settled on “The Red Roses of

Tonia,” a tale of two men who ride through the Texas brush on a quest to find an Easter hat for

the woman they love. This was a story with a love triangle, and the romantic in me was

immediately interested. As in “Gifts of the Magi,” I confronted the idea of making a sacrifice for someone you love, a theme so prevalent in O. Henry’s work. “The Red Roses of Tonia” ended

the way a true romance is supposed to—the hero gets the girl. Yet there was also another layer

to this tale that I did not notice until one of my students confessed that she did not like the

ending. When I asked her why, she said she did not like the character of Tonia because she

manipulated these two men into getting her hat for her. This idea intrigued me. Good literature

always generates discussion, and I was struck by what I perceived only at that point as a second

layer to the story: the idea that, perhaps, women could be a “voice” spurring men to action. As I

continued to read O. Henry’s stories over the years, I realized that casting women as agents of

action was central to his ideology.

“The Red Roses of Tonia” also appealed to my great love for Texas, where I lived the

first eighteen years of my life on a cattle ranch one hundred and thirty-four miles southwest of

San Antonio, way out in the middle of nowhere. Though over a hundred years old, O. Henry’s descriptions of south Texas are still so fresh and true that reading “The Red Roses of Tonia” always brings a wave of longing to my heart. Descriptions of “a white gulf cloud sailing across a cerulean dome…” and “a stretch of high, level prairie, grassy and dotted with the lighter green of the mesquites in their fresh spring foliage” take me straight home (Henry, “Red” TX20). That is one of O. Henry’s greatest strengths as a writer, to capture setting so succinctly and clearly that you feel as if you are sitting in the saddle, riding through the brush on a warm Texas day.

“The Red Roses of Tonia” was also, as I told my students, one of the very few works of literature in our textbook with a happy ending (if one ignored what my DISD student referred to as Tonia’s “manipulations”). When they asked me why so few stories had happy endings, I explained that it was partly due to what I call the “gloom and doom” trend, popular for some time in American literature. All one needs to do is look through the last few editions of The

Norton Anthology of Short Fiction or Fiction 100 in order to corroborate what I am saying. The majority of the stories included in these collections have depressing plots that typically end in some sort of death: be it the death of a character, of someone’s humanity, or of one’s faith in that humanity. Why this “gloom and doom” trend persists is a topic for another dissertation, one

I am not ready to write.

The trend for “gloom and doom” fiction also explains O. Henry’s unpopularity among most twenty-first century critics, in contrast to his widespread public fame in his own day. To put his popularity in perspective, almost five million copies of O. Henry’s short story collections were sold by 1920 in the United States alone, staggering sales figures that were rivaled only by

Rudyard Kipling’s (Langford xiii). Though O. Henry earned a reputation as the master of the surprise ending in his day, in our century critics have primarily dismissed him (Blake xxv-xxvi).

As far as biographies are concerned, the most recent biography of O. Henry, published six years ago by Golgotha Press (The Life and Times of O. Henry 2011) is only available electronically and barely skims the surface of the author’s life in a scant forty pages. The most recent biography on O. Henry prior to Golgotha’s is Writing is My Business: The Story of O.

Henry (2006), by Peggy Caravantes. Although well researched and filled with color photographs that present the writer’s past in an interesting way, Caravantes’s work was written for a young adult audience as part of a biography series on famous writers. It is informative and entertaining, but not as scholarly as previous biographies by C. Alphonso Smith (1916), Richard O’ Connor

(1957), Gerard Langford (1970), and David Stuart (1990).

For recent critical editions of O. Henry’s work, there is Harold Bloom’s O. Henry:

Comprehensive Research and Study Guide, Bloom’s Major Short Story Writers (1999), which includes plot and character summaries, analysis, and critical commentaries on three of O.

Henry’s most famous stories: “The Gift of the Magi,” (aka “Gifts of the Magi”) “A Municipal

Report,” and “The Furnished Room.” The study guide, like Caravantes’s, is aimed at the young adult reading public, one that seems to be on the decline if we look at the content in some recent textbooks and anthologies. To take a case in point, neither the recent Norton Anthology of Short

Fiction (2015) nor Fiction 100: An Anthology of Short Fiction (2012) contains any of O.

Henry’s stories. With the exception of “Gifts of the Magi,” typically included in most ninth- grade literature books, his works seem to be disappearing from most secondary education textbooks. For example, around 2011 the high school literature textbooks in DISD went up for

adoption, so the district had to get new books. My vote for Prentice Hall Literature: Language

and Literacy, Grade 10, whose old sophomore edition contained two of O. Henry’s stories as

opposed to the recent edition that only included one, was vetoed in favor of a textbook that had

none of O. Henry’s stories, Holt McDougal Literature, Grade 10. Not only that, the eleventh

grade Holt McDougal American Literature textbook, which is about three inches thick and must

weigh at least five pounds, also conspicuously omits all of O. Henry’s tales.

There are many reasons why O. Henry’s works are appearing in fewer and fewer editions

of textbooks and anthologies, including the possibility that many editors do not consider him

worthy of study, or even a serious literary writer. To take a case in point, although scholars

Karen Charmaine Blansfield and Harold Bloom do acknowledge that O. Henry is worthy of

critical study, this acknowledgment is predicated on the belief that he is an important “popular”

writer, a title that I will argue insufficiently describes him (Blansfield 129; Bloom 9).

Admittedly, his works did entertain a wide audience, but O. Henry’s literary contributions to

society served a far greater purpose as a social critique of American society at the turn of the

twentieth century, and as critics we should not be content to categorize this writer based merely on the grounds of his undeniable popular appeal.

Besides categorizing him as a popular writer, others place O. Henry’s works in the field of cultural studies, such as Robert Coles and Albert LaFarge, editors of Minding the Store:

Great Writing About Business, from Tolstoy to Now, a collection of short stories from various writers that serve as models for how to navigate the business world (LaFarge ix). Although they do not present an in-depth analysis of O. Henry’s included selection, Coles explains that the collection was assembled with the idea that stories have a cultural significance from an ethical

standpoint, meaning they serve as models that teach us how to behave (viii). In addition,

Christopher P. Wilson presents O. Henry’s works, especially his short stories with working women as key figures, in the context of both cultural and historical studies in his White Collar

Fictions: Class and Social Representation in American Literature, 1885-1925. Though O.

Henry’s short stories do hold a place in cultural and historical studies, I will argue that most of his works, particularly the pieces analyzed in my dissertation, hold a more significant position in

New Woman’s fiction, literature written around the turn of the twentieth century that was “a discursive response to the activities of the late nineteenth-century women’s movement” (Ledger

1). As Sally Ledger also explains, “the New Woman of the fin de siècle has a multiple identity,” an argument echoed by Martha H. Patterson: “the New Woman…represented a complex response to an emerging, feminized conception of modernity…” (Ledger 1; Patterson 16). The term “New Woman” and New Woman literature had a wide reach at the turn of the twentieth century, almost a catch-all term that encompassed not just women supporting the suffragette movement, but also women in favor of upholding their individual rights, like the right to have whatever lifestyle they wanted, the most visible one being in the workforce (Patterson 8). We see New Woman qualities in some of O. Henry’s female characters, and his depiction of these characters suggests that he was an advocate for women’s rights.

It is important to keep in mind that although the general public tended to favor his works,

O. Henry received mixed reviews from critics even in his day. In a 1909 review of his collection

Roads of Destiny, sharp-tongued literary critic H. L. Mencken had this to say about O. Henry:

“either he is the best story-teller in the world to-day, or the worst. Sometimes I think he is the one and sometimes I am convinced that he is the other. Maybe he is both” (175). Writer and

editor Robert Cortes Holliday stated in 1919 that, “the short story, as O. Henry conceived it and molded it is essentially an artificial thing; it turns on a juggler’s trick….the story is less preoccupied with the characters than about the situation—the predicament—in which they are placed” (12). In a 1916 interview, writer Katharine Fullerton Gerould remarked, “‘I hear O.

Henry is being used in the schools and the colleges. I hear that he is held up as a model by critics and professors of English. The effect of this must be pernicious. It cannot but be pernicious to spread the idea that O. Henry is a master of the short story. O. Henry did not write the short story. O. Henry wrote the expanded anecdote’” (qtd. in Kilmer 12).

Although many criticize him, others came to his defense, especially in response to these complaints. One example is Stephen Leacock’s possible response to Mencken’s comment in

1916 insinuating that when it comes to considering the validity of O. Henry’s work, “the voice of the carping critic is lifted up, half doubtful even of O. Henry’s best, and positively contemptuous of his worst” (121). More intriguing than this comment are Stephen Leacock’s and Archibald

Henderson’s arguments against Katharine Fullerton Gerould’s scathing remarks on O. Henry, as quoted in the prior paragraph. Leacock points out the ludicrousness of Gerould’s claim that O.

Henry’s work is “pernicious” by rebuking critics who say O. Henry “degraded” the short story:

“he [O. Henry] would, they tell us, have choked it [the short story] with his rough handling, poisoned its pure blood with the bacillus of his western slang, and marred its usefulness for the college textbook by his crude stoicisms and his ignorance” (121). Leacock uses hyperbole in this comment to prove a point: O. Henry is not being treated—nor is he judged—fairly for his work.

Leacock states as much when he says, “the truth is that in matters of literature, indeed of all the arts, we must judge a man by his best, and never by his worst” (121). Strong protestations

against Gerould’s criticisms of O. Henry are also echoed by Archibald Henderson in 1920, who

is quick to point out her “condemnatory” and “caustic commentary” against the writer as unfair

(15, 16). In further defense, Eugene Current-Garcia in 1965 notes: “to condemn O. Henry’s

stories in toto for not being realistic and serious, for depending too heavily on coincidence, and

for playing to the galley is an evasion of the critic’s responsibility…” (137).

Though O. Henry is overlooked and undervalued by most critics in the twenty-first century, I agree with Current-Garcia that it would be a grievous mistake to completely dismiss this great writer and his literary accomplishments. In an effort to justify why we should still read him, I once wrote a paper for a short story class at UTD entitled “Defending O. Henry: His

Style, Criticism, and Texas Stories.” I love his Texas stories, and for a time I entertained the idea of writing a dissertation about them. Then I read “The Furnished Room,” one of O. Henry’s few “gloom and doom” stories, set in New York City. Critics rave about this story, and it is one that has been included in countless O. Henry collections over the decades, including: The Pocket

Book of O. Henry Stories (1956), Stories by O. Henry (1988), and Selected Stories of O. Henry

(2003).

“The Furnished Room” has a dark ending, very uncharacteristic of an O. Henry story, and

I found this ending upsetting. But I also noticed something else. As I delved deeper into his other New York stories, I began to realize that the theme of space shows up repeatedly in O.

Henry’s work, and that space was always an issue in his life. Issues of confinement and space are heightened in his New York stories, and I began to notice a stronger emphasis on women and space in these stories as well. I also began to notice that O. Henry’s New York stories reveal commentaries about important social issues addressed at a time and place in American history

when so many changes were taking place. Although Christopher Wilson comments, “the

question of O. Henry’s politics—praised by Soviet formalists, yet discounted as timid or

contradictory by liberal historians and critics—has often confounded his readers,” I will argue

that upon closer inspection, O. Henry actually makes clear commentaries about the social changes taking place at the turn of the twentieth century, especially with regards to women (47).

Social issues interest me greatly, which is why I decided to focus my dissertation on these urban

tales instead of on his Texas stories.

Once I started conducting close readings of his New York stories, I realized that some of

O. Henry’s critics were right: as a writer, he largely operated on formulas like the surprise

ending and irony. Richard Fusco, for example, briefly analyzes O. Henry’s reliance on formula

in Maupassant and the American Short Story: The Influence of Form at the Turn of the Century,

a rather negative portrayal of the author and his technique as compared with French writer Guy

de Maupassant (118-137). Karen Charmaine Blansfield explains how O. Henry uses formulas in

Cheap Rooms and Restless Hearts: A Study of Formula in the Urban Tales of William Sydney

Porter, noting that many critics categorically dismiss his work merely on account of these

formulas (130-131). Blansfield’s work is a defense of formula fiction as “an artistic expression

of the subliminal human need for security and certainty in a life that promises just the

opposite…” (34). For Blansfield, “the very basis of formula…is fundamental to human

literature” (131). She analyzes four plot patterns in O. Henry’s urban stories and six character

types in an attempt to characterize the writer as a “craftsman and artist” (37, 132). Although

Blansfield affirms that O. Henry was a humanitarian, she does not consider him to be a reformer

(121, 127). I argue, however, that in order to gain new ground in the literary criticism of O.

Henry, we not only have to recognize the validity of the formulas he uses in his writing, but we

also have to realize that they do serve a greater social purpose: to make subtle social

commentaries in favor of advocating humanitarian ideals during a tumultuous time in American

history.

The most recognizable of O. Henry’s formulas is the one he is most famous for—the

surprise ending. Though the surprise, or “trick,” ending must be carefully plotted in order to be

successfully executed, many see this formula as trite and overused. Admittedly, this formula

does have its limitations, but it is a trope that serves a purpose, and it would be an untruth to

dismiss O. Henry as a writer on account of form when the content of his stories breaks with the

norm by suggesting social change in a way that is both revolutionary and revelatory, as I will

show in my dissertation.

Blansfield reminds us that a “major element of formula [is] repetition…” (36). It is

important to note the repetition of formulas in O. Henry’s stories because he uses these formulas

to create a layer in his work that we need to peel back in order to reach the core “lesson” of the

stories we read. At first, this “lesson” may be perceived as a moral (and sometimes it is), but

when we step away from the proverbial tree to look at the composition of the forest, we can see

that this “lesson” is really more social criticism than anything else.

Once I found that O. Henry’s stories had hidden layers designed to impart social commentary to his readers, I started to look for ways to group his work into thematic clusters.

Because I was also concerned with stories that the public was reading during his lifetime, I decided to focus on his one hundred and thirty-nine New York stories (published from 1902 to

1910). It became apparent that three themes were primordial to O. Henry: space, money, and

travel, all of which provide avenues to enter into his stories. After circumscribing these three

categories, the titles for my chapters evolved naturally. It also became apparent that women,

particularly working women, were prominent in many of his New York stories. I was struck by

O. Henry’s sympathetic yet frank portrayal of their lives, and I wondered why he chose not only

to focus on women and their problems at the turn of the twentieth century, but also what elicited

his concern for their welfare. Such musings helped me to narrow my focus on stories in which

women had a strong (and also sometimes subtle) presence, and these stories gave me a reservoir

of texts from which to choose and put into groups based on these three categories.

The first and most readily apparent theme that is recurrent in many of his stories is space.

In many of his stories, space is the driving force in the narrative, which is why I decided to

analyze this topic in my first chapter.

The first anecdote of O. Henry’s life that, to me, really portends his need for space

occurred when he was a toddler growing up in Greensboro, North Carolina. Christened William

(Will) Sydney Porter, he was born in 1862, during the Civil War. For the duration of the war,

fear of the “Yankees” spread like wildfire to children of the South, sometimes in the form of

stories like the ones Will and his brother Shirley’s nanny used to tell when they were little boys

(Porter, S. W. 10). Though these stories used to instill fear in Shirley for any “group in blue,” three-year-old Will was either too young or too unimpressed for such terror to take hold (10).

Shirley tells of a time when soldiers from both the North and the South congregated around their water well at the end of the war in 1865, and, unlike himself, “Will…made no distinction between the wearers of the blue or of the gray, and the nurse had to be on the jump constantly to keep him from under their feet” (10). This tendency to always be on the move while also being

unconcerned with whom or what was in his domain is one that would continue into adulthood.

In addition, this anecdote seems to foreshadow both Will’s ability to comingle with all groups of

people, as well as his humanitarian beliefs, which included respecting all sorts of people and

being kind to others, ideas prominent in so many of his stories.

A new space opened up for Porter in 1865 when his father, Dr. Algernon Porter, moved

in with his mother and sister after the death of his wife and baby boy (Arnett 14). Although he

had a reputation for being a kind and good doctor, Algernon spent most of his time sequestering

himself in the barn to create inventions and to drink (Stuart 22). Thankfully, Will Porter had

strong women in his life to raise him and his brother: his Grandmother Porter and Aunt Evelina

(Lina), who fed, clothed, and educated the boys (22). C. Alphonso Smith informs us that Aunt

Lina was their schoolteacher until Porter was fifteen; she was strict but fair, amply qualified to

teach with a college degree, and she loved art and literature above all subjects (O. Henry 72-75).

In fact, Aunt Lina loved literature so much that during the school day she took recess time to

read to those who wanted to hear stories instead of using that time to grade papers, plan lessons,

or any of the numerous responsibilities in which teachers engage during the day (75). She also

willingly sacrificed her Friday evenings to continue reading stories to her pupils; there were

snacks for everyone at the schoolhouse, and in addition to the readings, she started a game where

everyone took turns in making up an original story (75-76). Teaching was not just a job for Aunt

Lina—it was a pleasure. The fact that both she and many of her students eagerly gave up recess

(a.k.a. playtime) and Friday nights to spend time engaged in literary activities when they could have been doing a number of other things is a testament to how quickly her passion for literature spread to others, as well as how much she cared for her students. Telling and reading stories thus

surrounded Porter during his childhood, and his gift as storyteller was both encouraged and developed in this literary environment.

No matter how stimulating his education may have been, young Porter’s life at home was far from idyllic. Admittedly, he had plenty of space in which to roam; his childhood home was on an extensive piece of property that also contained a large barn, chicken coop, various outhouses, fields, a water well, and a vegetable garden that was tended to by his grandmother and her daughter, Aunt Lina (Arnett 16-19). An open space to play is very important to the development of a child, especially one with Porter’s active imagination, and he took full advantage of everything this open environment had to offer (23). This outdoor area was not just a place to play—it was also a place to escape into a new world, perhaps away from his problems at home. Later in life, biographer David Stuart explains O. Henry, “confided to a friend that his childhood years were not very happy, at least within the household” (23). I attribute these feelings to several reasons. First of all, there was a growing tension regarding money matters between Grandmother Porter, Aunt Lina, and Algernon (Langford 16). Then there was also the fact that Will did not get along with his brother Shirley (6). In addition, though Aunt Lina was a phenomenal teacher, she never pampered Will or his brother (O’ Connor 10). She also did not hesitate to discipline them with her “favorite riding whip,”—known as “the ‘Little Black

Doctor’”—if they misbehaved (Arnett 39).

While his father was absent most of the time, his grandmother and aunt had to fulfill the role of providing for the family financially, something that, at least for one of his biographers, was an embarrassment for Will Porter (Langford 7). A childhood friend of his, John H. Dillard, said he and Porter used to go into the doctor’s barn and “…demolish, destroying often in a few

minutes that which it had taken much time and labor [for Will’s father] to construct. While, of course, I did not know the fact, I strongly suspect that the doctor’s mother inspired these outrages” (qtd. in Smith, O. Henry 44-45). Dillard’s final comment about Will Porter’s grandmother “inspiring” these attacks leads one to wonder if it frustrated him to see the women in his family forced to work so hard as a result of his father’s ineptitude, or perhaps Porter supposed that if he got rid of his father’s inventions, he would be forced out of the safety of his barn and into reality, where he would have to do something more practical to help the family.

We are told Porter “was deeply devoted to his grandmother,” a sentiment that allows for the possibility that she may have said something to him, perhaps indirectly, to prompt these destructive tendencies (Arnett 21).

All this work that his grandmother and Aunt Lina had to do meant they did not have much time for Porter (Stuart 23). One would think that the absence of a strong fatherly figure, as well as his lack of a nurturing motherly figure, would turn a person cold and hard. But it did just the opposite. Even at a young age Porter had compassion for those in need, and he was very protective of helpless animals (Arnett 36). Porter especially liked cats, and at one point in his childhood he faithfully kept an “animal kingdom” of nine kittens in the barn (37). Ethel

Stephens Arnett tells us Aunt Lina “loved animals too, and she promptly named the nine of them

Dink, Dank, Dunk, Link, Lank, Lunk, Spink, Spank, Spunk,” all playful names that perhaps allude to a fondness for alliteration, one we will later see exhibited by O. Henry himself in the titles of his stories (37).

Besides his Aunt Lina’s schoolhouse, Porter had another place where he became educated: church. According to Arnett, his family attended the First Presbyterian Church, and

Langford tells us Porter also attended Sunday school (Arnett 29; Langford 6). It is important to

note that the teachers in his young life were all women: his Sunday School teacher (Miss

Annie), Aunt Lina, and Betty Hall were all three influential in imparting moral lessons, mainly

through stories and books. As Porter respected learning and knowledge, he respected the people

who could give this knowledge to others. While his aunt was one of his teachers, his

grandmother taught him about gardening, “and in this garden with his grandmother the lad had

many early experiences of giving a part of his yield to others…” (Arnett 21). Although Arnett

does not elaborate on those to whom he gave, it is clear that, starting early in life, helping others

was important to Porter. As for his feelings about his grandmother, I agree with Arnett that they

are best reflected by the fact that his daughter Margaret’s middle name is “Worth,” his

grandmother’s maiden name (21). Porter was very present in his grandmother’s and aunt’s

spaces during his early youth and teens, and he understood their place in society both as it was

and as it could be if they had possessed the same rights as men. As we will see, his relationships

with these strong female role models were instrumental in shaping how he would later portray

women in his stories.

Space became restricting for Porter when he started working at his uncle’s drugstore in

1877 when he was fifteen, earning his license as a registered pharmacist in 1881 (Langford 12-

14). Besides the monotony of his job as pharmacist, the constricting space behind the pharmacy

counter made him restless (15). O. Henry left a record of this feeling when he admits: “‘the

grind in the drug store was agony to me’” (qtd. in Smith, O. Henry 92). His good friend Anne

Partlan later relates O. Henry considered this period in his life as ‘“his old days of bondage in the

country drug store’” (qtd. in Moyle 16). In order to get out of this restrictive space, Porter needed to travel to more open spaces, and for that, he needed money.

Although almost all of O. Henry’s biographers note his irresponsible behavior with money, David Stuart’s O. Henry: A Biography of William Sydney Porter (1990) tells the story of his life mainly in terms of the writer’s struggles and concerns with money, a central theme in an overwhelming number of his urban works, which is why my second chapter specifically deals with this issue. My second chapter focuses on ten of O. Henry’s New York stories in which money is a key theme. Concerns over money were frequent in his life. As I have already noted, his father did not significantly provide for the family financially, and the burden of picking up where he left off fell to the women in the family. The responsibility of making money was not their only burden, moreover.

In her biography O. Henry from Polecat Creek, Ethel Stephens Arnett explains that both

“Grandmother Porter and her son Algernon looked after all property business” (28). Were it not for this property, which undoubtedly provided them with food and a place to put Aunt Lina’s school, the family struggles would have increased. It was not a common occurrence for a man and a woman to be both legally responsible for property in the nineteenth century, and joint property ownership perhaps helped shape Porter’s views and attitudes on gender relations. In fact, as will be shown in later chapters, men and women meeting on equal grounds in terms of money is expressed in a number of O. Henry’s short stories.

The strength of many of his female characters can perhaps be traced to Aunt Lina. One anecdote that illustrates her tenacity is the story of when she was planting beans in the family garden. Arnett tells us that when Aunt Lina found a chicken eating the beans, “she caught the

hen, cut out her craw, got the beans, and planted them again. Then she took the dead fowl to its

rightful owner” (22). Not even one of Nature’s animals was going to take property from the

Porter family and get away with it. The fact that Aunt Lina returned the chicken to its owner

reveals a combination of frugality and thoughtfulness—she was not about to let any food go to

waste, even if it was not hers to keep. Such characteristics are reflected in some of the female

characters in Porter’s urban tales.

Although the family was not penniless, they did not have enough money to send Porter to study when he was offered free room and board to attend the Bingham School (Smith, O. Henry

82). Colonel Robert Bingham said Porter “could not accept my offer for lack of means to provide for his uniform and books” (qtd. in Smith, O. Henry 82). As many other times in his life, finances would prove to be the biggest obstacle for Porter. Money was always a means to get out of tight spaces, and he understood its power to make him both free and mobile, which is one of the reasons, no doubt, why so many of his stories focus on monetary issues.

Later in life Porter would make quite a bit of money selling his short stories. His editor

Arthur B. Maurice said that as his stories became more popular, “editors were offering him $300,

$500, and occasionally even $1,000 for a tale. But always the money slipped through those easy, generous hands. It was not extravagance or self-indulgence; simply the checks came, were cashed—and the money disappeared” (15). Though Porter spent some of his money on life’s basic needs (food, drink, and rent), as well as on his daughter’s education, a lot of it was given away in big tips to servers, to the homeless on the street, to starving shop-girls, and to anyone who asked him for it. His compassion for the poor and needy knew no bounds, and he felt strongly that everyone should do something about poverty. In fact, O. Henry once told his friend

Mabel Wagnalls “[poverty] is something you cannot imagine. No one who has not known it can image the misery of poverty” (qtd. in Wagnalls xxiii-xxiv). More touching than this is O.

Henry’s insistence that we should all do something about it: “Poverty is so terrible and so common, we should all do more than we do—much more—to relieve it. We intend to, perhaps, but we don’t do it. You ought to do more, so ought I, right now. I ought to give fifty dollars, but

I don’t” (qtd. in Wagnalls xxiv). This compassion should come as no surprise given the writer’s background, for he knew what it was like to live with limited funds. The poor had no means to go anywhere, no way of finding a stable space where they could rest their heads. O. Henry could relate to these feelings of hopelessness, a sentiment he includes in many of his tales, as we shall see.

Money allowed O. Henry to move through constraining spaces, and we see this amplified in the latter part of his life with his need to travel. Time and time again there are examples in his life where he must escape the constraints of a restrictive environment. For example, his salvation from the confinement of the drugstore in Greensboro came in the form of Dr. and Mrs.

Hall, family friends who took Porter with them to Texas in 1882 in order to cure his bad cough

(Long 20). His move to Texas, a new and open space, was just what he needed to open his lungs and clear his mind. He continued to read voraciously, and Betty Hall kept a steady flow of books going his way (27).

Texas was an important place for Porter, and traveling there changed his life. He met his first wife Athol Estes in Austin around 1885, and their loving relationship was the inspiration for some of his most touching short stories. In fact, he once admitted later in life “that Athol was the only woman he ever loved” (O’ Connor 35). Porter had a rival for Athol’s hand, however, a rich

German whom her mother favored (Stuart 46). But Porter wooed Athol with fervor, serenading her, writing her poetry, and drawing cartoons that made her laugh (Long 58-59). One of the poems he composed for her was a neatly handwritten acrostic in her autograph album in which he lovingly compared her to the stars (Porter, William Sydney, Verse). The young couple eloped in 1887, and eventually Athol’s parents accepted him, becoming his most loyal supporters when he was sent to prison in 1896 (Stuart 94).

Porter attended the Southern Presbyterian Church with Athol and sang in the choir with her (Maltby 39). Thus his exposure to religion continued. There is no doubt in my mind that he saw the virtues he would later portray in his stories as essentially Christian values, even though

God and Jesus are rarely mentioned in them. What is clearly made in his works, and quite frequently, are allusions to the Bible. O. Henry was famous for his allusions, around 450 of which appear in his works (Current-Garcia 147). Of these allusions, “the Bible leads with sixty- three references” (Smith, Selected xiii). Although the stories that contain Biblical allusions do not generally have a religious undertone, they do contain social criticism. It could be supposed that O. Henry never wrote so as not to offend, or to be “politically correct.” He was conscious that people from all walks of life and all walks of faith were reading his works as they were published in various magazines and newspapers. In order to reach his audience, he could not alienate anyone, a lesson he learned the hard way when some political content in his humorous weekly paper The Rolling Stone (1894-1895) offended many readers, causing sales to dip so low that it put an end to the paper’s publication (Long 75).

Porter’s issues with money were amplified when he was charged with embezzling funds in 1896 from the Austin bank where he worked from 1891 to 1894 (Blake x). Did he steal the

money? Some think he did in order to fund The Rolling Stone (Long 99). Porter affirms his innocence in a letter to his mother-in-law in 1898: “I am absolutely innocent of wrong doing in that bank matter, except so far as foolishly keeping a position that I could not successfully fill”

(Porter, William Syndey, Letter to Mrs. Roach 25 March 1898 146). C. Alphonso Smith notes he wrote this letter “immediately after being sentenced,” a fact that suggests to me he was concerned with his loved ones knowing the truth (O. Henry 146). He swore to his innocence, even if some were to say that his flight to Honduras suggested otherwise (O’ Connor 53).

In any case, instead of standing trial, Porter fled first to New Orleans and then to

Honduras (Long 84-85). This flight was just another example of his need for freedom. E.

Hudson Long speculates that O. Henry’s self-imposed exile to Honduras in 1896 was most likely due to either a moment of panic or could have been planned in advance (80). Porter could have stayed in Honduras forever, or at least until the statute of limitations expired and he could return to the United States a free man (80). But he didn’t. His wife was dying, and news of a sharp decline in her health brought him back home in January of 1897 without a moment’s hesitation

(Langford 106).

He was with his wife as much as he could before she died, carrying her to the carriage on

Sunday mornings so they could go to church, listening outside the walls to the sermon and the choir (Long 89). Athol died in July of 1897, leaving behind her parents, an eight-year-old daughter, her husband, and many other friends and family members who mourned her loss. It was said by more than one biographer that Athol’s death took the life from O. Henry, which is why at his trial he was silent and uncooperative with his lawyers (Maltby 76). It appears as if he just didn’t care about anything now that Athol was gone, and there is no record or mention of

him ever going back to church after she died. His New York friends say he was not a religious

man (Langford 200). One of his friends even referred to him as a “modern world pagan” (qtd. in

O’ Connor 157). Perhaps his faith died with his wife, or as a result of his three years in prison.

Porter’s pharmaceutical background proved to be his salvation when, in 1898, he was sentenced to five years in the Ohio Penitentiary (Smith, O. Henry 146). As C. Alphonso Smith further explains, “the profession which he loathed in Greensboro because it meant confinement was now, strangely enough, to prove the stepping-stone to comparative freedom” (147). Though he had more freedom than the other prisoners as a night druggist, where he was “given leisure and…allowed a room, not a cell…,” prison was still prison (Pattee, Development 358). Porter witnessed horrors there that exposed him to how cruel people could be to one another, and his time at the Ohio Penitentiary affected him more than he ever expressed in writing. It was a great, perhaps the greatest, shame to him, and he did everything in his power to hide this part of his past, even adopting the pen name O. Henry to conceal his identity. In fact, even his daughter

Margaret, who was living with his in-laws in Pittsburg, had no clue that her father was in prison;

Stuart tells us that everything about where he was remained a secret to her and she knew nothing of his time in jail until after his death (101).

In spite of the sorrow, the shame, and the feelings of estrangement that came from spending three years at the Ohio Penitentiary, prison is where Porter became O. Henry, and it was here that he had the time and the motivation to write (Long 103). Though Porter only threatened suicide once upon first entering prison, these dark thoughts were abandoned when he remembered his daughter (Langford 133). Langford suggests that Porter’s motivation to write stemmed from a sense of obligation to his in-laws, who raised Margaret while he was in prison

(137). E. Hudson Long believes Margaret was a reason for him to write; he had to make money to provide for her upbringing (100).

Although Langford claims Porter used fiction as an “escape” while in prison, one could view this attitude as necessary to retain his sanity (137). A sensitive soul such as Porter’s, one who needed open space and room to roam, would have either broken or shriveled and died in prison without some sort of release. Richard Fusco believes “his writing gave…[Porter] a psychological avenue to escape from his own difficulties” (121). Since Porter could not go anywhere in body, he went everywhere by means of his imagination, writing, as the prison night

guard Mr. Rumer said, “often…for two hours continuously without rising. He seemed oblivious

to the world of sleeping convicts about him…” (qtd. in Smith, O. Henry 153). O. Henry’s

success as a serious writer began in prison. He published twelve stories in the three years spent

in the Ohio Penitentiary (he got off early for good behavior), and his time there helped him hone

his craft and establish himself as a writer (Pattee, Development 358).

I would hazard to say that O. Henry felt the consequences of his stay in prison his whole

life, and issues with space, money, and travel were heightened as a result of his experience there.

His second wife Sara, a childhood sweetheart whom he married in 1907, reports that he once told

her, “he would die if I didn’t let the cage door open sometimes. He said he would always come

back if that cage door stood open” (Porter, Sara Coleman, “The Gift” 375). It is interesting, to say the least, that O. Henry used the metaphor of a “cage door” to convey feelings of entrapment.

The image of being trapped in a “cage” brings to mind the saying “a bird in a gilded cage,” an expression typically used to describe a woman who is in a beautiful space, but the space— beautiful though it may be—restricts her movement. This expression probably originated from

“A Bird in a Gilded Cage,” the title of a popular song in 1900 with lyrics by Arthur J. Lamb.

The song tells the story of a beautiful woman who feels caged because she sold herself to an old rich man (Tear). It is tempting to speculate that O. Henry viewed his second marriage to Sara as a sort of “gilded cage.” This idea finds corroboration when we learn that even Sara noticed his

“restlessness, and his quite apparent unhappiness” not too long after their marriage (Porter, Sara

Coleman, “The Gift” 375).

This comparison of a man relating to a woman who is possibly confined by space brings to mind other female short story writers at the turn of the twentieth century who were writing

New Woman fiction in protest of the restrictions imposed by marriage. Kate Chopin’s “The

Story of an Hour” (1894), for example, is a brief tale about a woman who feels excitement at the prospect of freedom upon her husband’s death, only to ironically die in horror when she realizes he is in fact alive (277-279). The story takes place entirely in a home, primarily in one room, and the open window in that room serves as a metaphor for the short-lived freedom she feels

(277-278). Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wall-Paper” (1892) is also a good example of a woman who is stifled by a restricted environment (519-530). The main character’s husband, a doctor, takes her and her family to a summer home in the hopes to cure her “temporary nervous depression,” but the place increasingly seems more like a prison than a vacation destination

(519-520). In Gilman’s tale the setting, as in “The Story of an Hour,” is a house, primarily one room that is an old nursery with bars on the windows and odd wall-paper covering the walls

(520). The woman becomes obsessed with the wall-paper and believes she sees “a woman stooping down and creeping about” within it (520). At the end of the story, she sets the woman in the wall-paper “free” by tearing down the space that constricts her (the wall-paper), opening

up a new space for her to “creep” (530). Gilman and Chopin are just a few among many New

Woman writers at the turn of the twentieth century America who used space as a vehicle to express their dissatisfaction with gender inequality. Just as Gilman and Chopin, O. Henry used literary techniques as devices to criticize the unfairness of gender inequality.

O. Henry was always a vagabond, and even after his marriage he continued to enjoy his wanderings about town, which one would suppose should come to an end when a man “settles down.” But, Langford tells us, O. Henry was not the type to settle down, and attempts to do so were met with failure (221). As for Sara, she didn’t fit in his space in New York—and was not always welcome in that space—as becomes evident when she tries to see him at the Caledonia, where he was writing, and was denied entry by the staff until he himself allowed it (207). O.

Henry valued his privacy, describing himself as a “wraith,” admitting, “I always disliked publicity” (Letter to Mabel Wagnalls 13 Oct. 1903 45). It is perhaps for this reason that he chose not to write in an office, or a park, or a restaurant. His writing space was his private lodgings, and sometimes he had to sequester himself in his room, a small space, in order to get pen to paper (Williams 177). His small space is similar to that of many of the working girls in his stories, girls like Daisy, who “lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet by eight” (Henry,

“Psyche” 2).

If the experience of confinement led at first to an identification with these girls, it ultimately culminated—as I will show—in a veritable crusade in defense of working women. He wrote about these women, and he wrote about them frequently, as many of his biographers (and a poet) have noted (Smith 216; O’ Connor 125; Stuart 171; Vachel Lindsay 1338). It is not too early to highlight that women are always treated with respect in O. Henry’s stories, much as he

treated them with respect in his own life (Williams 137). Of the many human rights issues hotly

debated in Progressive America, O. Henry took the time to write about working women, giving

them a space in literature, and, as at least one critic has noted, “his stories of the shop girl [sic]

constitute a new literature of pity…” (Henderson 18). Pity was all too familiar to Will Porter

given the horrors he saw in prison, where he affirmed “suicides are as common as picnics”

(Letter to Mrs. Roach 8 July 1898 157). Release from this nightmare could not come soon

enough, but it did—in the summer of 1901 he was released two years early for good behavior

(O’ Connor 79).

After his release from prison, Porter briefly traveled to Pittsburg in 1901 to live with his in-laws and Margaret. To further his writing career and make more money, he ended up moving to a new space in 1902. That space was New York City, and, as it turned out, it was the perfect place for him. Always a keen observer of people, this great American metropolis had much to offer in the way of culture, art, and society. O. Henry saw this new world around him with fresh eyes, like an immigrant in a new land.

O. Henry lived in New York City from 1902 to 1910. The years from 1903 to 1907 were spent at 55 Irving Place, just a few blocks southeast of Madison Square and about two blocks south of Gramercy Park. It was here, in a rented room, where he did most of his writing

(Williams 177). He told his friend William Wash Williams that when he had a story in his head, he had to get it out right away, sometimes locking himself in his room, to finish it (176-177).

Trapping himself in his room in order to write became O. Henry’s way of disciplining himself in order to produce. Writing in tight quarters at 55 Irving Place would be an experience similar to his prison days, when he would find discipline from the experience of being restricted or

confined. After all, the experience of being constrained can sometimes be enriching. Any time

he needed money to move about the City, he locked himself up in his room to write a story. In a

sense, he held the key to his own cage because his imagination and skills as a writer allowed him

to soar far from feelings of entrapment.

O. Henry’s last journey in the City was to the hospital on June 6, 1910, just three days

before his death. Though most of his biographers claim the journey was taken in a cab, I prefer a

different version, which rings truer to the kind of man I believe O. Henry to have been (Langford

244; O’ Connor 228; Stuart 240). According to biographer Peggy Caravantes, when O. Henry

fell seriously ill and could not pay for an ambulance to take him to the hospital, the manager of the Caledonia, where he was staying at the time, paid his fare (126). Although this version may not be true, the story sounds plausible enough. Money was a never-ending issue for O. Henry, and lack of funds—even at his deathbed—does not come as a surprise. As David Stuart explains, “O. Henry was almost always broke” (141). If he did not take the money for the ambulance and rode instead in a cab, we do know for a fact that he could not have afforded the ambulance, for O’ Connor reports that he only had twenty-three cents in his pocket when he got to the hospital (229). Even at the end of his life, finances set limits and constraints on the way he lived.

Because money played such a key role in his life, an overwhelming amount of O.

Henry’s stories reflect concerns over “money matters.” Some of the theories about how money can affect people as expressed by Georg Simmel in The Philosophy of Money and “Metropolis and Mental Life” were instrumental in my analysis of the works discussed in Chapter 2. I noticed monetary concerns are expressed through O. Henry’s language, such as in the repetition

of a specific monetary amount at the beginning of some stories, like “Gifts of the Magi,” when he discusses the dual meanings of “worth” versus “value,” and also in the form of word frequencies. Further studies of these techniques reveal social critiques on gender and class, critiques that are also apparent in other patterns in his language, specifically with regards to syntactic patterns and the repetition of literary devices like personification, metaphor, and irony.

O. Henry uses personification, for example, to give women a “voice,” as in “The Lady

Higher Up” (1904), a fantasy story that calls our attention to women’s roles in society and how they are in flux during Progressive Era America. Metaphors in “The Third Ingredient” (1908) are used to challenge society’s conceptions of a woman’s place in society, and irony is often used to point out the hypocrisy and injustice of gender inequality in some of his other stories.

Analysis of these literary techniques also calls attention to details and facts in O. Henry’s stories, another technique he skillfully employs. I turned to Sally Ledger’s The New Woman: Fiction and feminism at the fin de siècle and Cheap Amusements: Working Women and Leisure in Turn- of-the-Century New York by Kathy Peiss to corroborating my argument that, not only are the details in his works historically accurate in their depictions of women, but also that O. Henry uses them to express his advocacy for women’s rights.

Chapter 3 consists of close readings of some of O. Henry’s stories, specifically with relation to how the syntactic construction of sentences, such as the repetitive use of commas and present participles to not only depict the movement of a character in “Psyche and the

Pskyscraper” (1905), but also “move” the plot of the story forward. The movement of characters within the City and their relation to space is an important factor in this chapter, especially with relation to the home, so I turned to Gaston Bachelard’s explanations of inside and outside space

in The Poetics of Space in an attempt to justify the psychological ramifications of not owning a house in the City. Other literary devices, such as frame stories, triads, and leitmotifs in stories like “The Thing’s the Play” (1906) not only express the movement of the narrative along plot lines, but also direct our attention to a larger movement that O. Henry subtly supported through his works—the women’s rights movement.

CHAPTER 1

WOMEN’S SPACE IN THE CITY

The growth of New York City at the turn of the twentieth century was markedly visible as bridges, elevated railways, and skyscrapers changed the landscape forever. According to urban theorist Sir Peter Hall, “between 1870 and 1915 [the City’s] rate of growth was faster than any pre-1800 city anywhere in the world” (746). Change came quickly and created many obstacles, in part because Manhattan was an island “13 miles long, 2 miles wide at its widest point, covering 23 square miles…,” sobering facts that lead to “cut-throat competition for space” (747).

Space was necessary for survival, and, as Sir Peter Hall and American writer Eric Homberger point out, engineers saved the City from increasing massive problems of congestion, which not only threatened space, but also could lead to a halt in movement (Hall 748; Homberger,

Historical 108).

Engineers made changes in the landscape of the City possible through new technologies such as elevators and interior electric lights, created out of the necessity to accommodate needs for booming businesses that required more employees, especially those working in skyscrapers, a

“term first applied to tall buildings in 1891” (Homberger, Historical 105). As Sir Peter Hall notes, transportation moved above ground, and on the “El,” or elevated train, “traffic grew from

2 million to 86 million passengers…between 1876 and 1882” (758). Eleven different bridges were built as a means to reach Manhattan from the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens between the years 1883 and 1910 alone, a critical need when the City expanded to include these boroughs

(and Staten Island) in 1898 (Homberger, Historical 108-109). Many of these massive urban and demographic changes are portrayed in O. Henry’s short stories. These new technological

advances gave his characters mobility, something that particularly affected his female characters

and their space in the City, a place where one could say vertical growth mirrored women’s

heightened opportunities in the workplace. For example, new job opportunities, like those of the

telephone operator and office clerk, both of whom typically worked in skyscrapers, meant women could leave their homes, a space that, heretofore, had represented their almost exclusive domain (Peiss 185).

New places in the City were especially designed with a new woman in mind. As

biographer Richard O’ Connor points out, O. Henry noticed a shift in women’s roles and became

“interested in what was happening to the modern woman, the New Woman as she was being

called…” (122). Much of what he learned about their lives was from one of his few close friends

“Anne Partlan, daughter of a labor leader, reformer, and advocate of women’s rights, and one of

the early muckrakers, whose articles about the plight of women in the cities had attracted

attention” (Stuart 142). The shift in women’s roles is further explained by Kathy Peiss who

remarks, “numerous voices questioned the inviolability of women’s traditional sphere. Public

attention turned to the ‘New Woman,’ who relished personal autonomy and activity in the public

arena and challenged the boundaries of domesticity and female self-sacrifice” (185). This new role for women is in vivid contrast with the traditional role of a woman whose “sphere” is in the household (Veblen 126). Elizabeth Ewen expresses the conflict between traditional and new spaces some immigrant women struggled with upon entry to America, where many felt “this new world undermined the basis of traditional womanhood” (16).

We can see the dichotomy between the New Woman and the traditional woman symbolized in two prominent New York City statues, Diana of the Tower and the Statue of

Liberty, both featured in O. Henry’s “The Lady Higher Up” (1904). Both of these statues engage

in a seemingly innocuous conversation that brings the two figures together by means of, as O.

Henry puts it, “a bit of feminine gossip” (“Lady” 4). But this story is about much more than just

two statues chatting with one another. O. Henry uses the personification and symbolism of these

two statues to make subtle commentaries about contemporary societal issues, like women’s roles

in society and immigration (one of the most controversial issues at the turn of the twentieth

century).

Although O. Henry had a voice and was not afraid to express his opinions about social

issues, he did so indirectly, and by this I mean that he often used subtle ways to make social

critiques in the form of various literary techniques like personification, irony, and the surprise

ending. Many of his stories in the World are a reflection of these commentaries, a weekly

publication for which he produced “one hundred and thirteen stories in some thirty months…”

(Pattee, Development 359). Just as O. Henry used the space of this paper to express his social

commentaries, others were using it, Sally Ledger argues, as “a discursive space for her [The New

Woman], a space that was quickly filled by feminist textual productions sympathetic—not antagonistic—towards the claims of the New Woman and her sisters” (9). We see these

“sympathetic claims” in O. Henry’s constant, sometimes subtle, allusions to Diana.

Besides “The Lady Higher Up,” O. Henry includes Diana in several other tales as a reminder of the emerging New Woman, of progress, and of change. Sometimes she serves as either a contrast or a comparison to the female protagonist in a story, as in “The Ferry of

Unfulfilment” and “A Lickpenny Lover.” As a statue, Diana invites us to consider physical space in the City, that is to say, the setting in which the characters find themselves, and she also

suggests a (female) character’s place, both socially and locally, in society. Though O. Henry did write briefly about the shop-girl in the department store, he once stated “it is not the sales girl in the department store who is worth studying; it is the sales girl out of it. You can’t get romance over a counter” (qtd. in Williams 126). In order for a romantic situation to develop, shop-girls must forgo business to go out into the City into different environments, like parks and restaurants. We see this happen in many of the stories discussed in this chapter, where a change in environment affects characters and their relationships with one another. Sometimes this movement allows relationships to grow, and sometimes, as we shall see, there are problems with this type of movement—especially with relation to the parlor, a space that so often governs the propriety of gender relations.

The parlor, an indoor sitting room to entertain guests, serves as the dichotomy of a space that is both confining and yet also safe. In “The Venturers” (1908) for example, the parlor is where Mary receives Ives so they may speak in private. It is a place where he notices feminine touches in the forms of art and knick-knacks, where items “were monuments to order and stability,” a metaphor of the parlor as a traditional space where women are expected to remain

(Henry, “Venturers” 492). As Gaston Bachelard notes, “in the intimate harmony of walls and furniture, it may be said that we become conscious of a house that is built by women, since men only know how to build a house from the outside…” (68). Such conceptions about women’s space being the “interior,” or domestic sphere, varied at the turn of the twentieth century, when spaces like the parlor were changing, something O. Henry notes in “The Skylight Room” (1905), a story where the parlor as a social room was increasingly becoming extinct because people were converting it into one more room to rent (47). O. Henry lived in a parlor room on 55 Irving

Place, and the fact that his lodgings were in many ways similar to those of the working-women about whom he wrote suggests that he could relate to how a female character’s space in society can be dictated by changes in the physical landscape. As E. Hudson Long explains, “air-shaft

apartments, skylight rooms, parlor bedrooms—all of these he delineated with the touch of one who has seen them and has sympathy for their occupants” (122-123).

Due to the lack of a parlor in her boardinghouse, a respectable place where girls could entertain men, the female protagonist of “Brickdust Row” is forced into unseemly spaces, such as, for example, the street. This may seem shocking because usually prostitutes, and not respectable young women, meet men on the street. Other female characters in tales such as “The

Buyer from Cactus City” and “A Lickpenny Lover” face the same challenge of not being able to have a space to properly entertain gentlemen callers. These stories showcase how progress, though usually beneficial, could lead to some unforeseen and awkward social situations that affect a woman’s role and locus in the City. For example, although new living quarters afforded some of them the opportunity to live alone, many of these residences did not provide socially acceptable places to entertain a man indoors. Examples from stories such as these two represent

a New Woman’s struggle to remain respectable in the eyes of society while also maintaining her

newfound independence.

In addition to the lack of a parlor and its effects on a woman’s role in society, there are

other situations in O. Henry’s stories that provide examples of what life was like inside the new

spaces in the City, small spaces with limited room in which to move. O. Henry uses monetary details and the repetition of key words to convey these ideas in stories such as “An Unfinished

Story” and “The Third Ingredient.” Although Christopher Wilson refers to a character’s

“arithmetic rights,” what he defines as facts like “shopgirls [sic] cannot live on eight dollars a week; landlords should not charge what they do; people need a place to work, young women a place to meet young men,” I argue that there is more to O. Henry’s stories than this (50). Wilson is correct in these statements that people have monetary and social needs that must be met by society in order for them to survive, and O. Henry does use “accounting procedures” to

“identify” with his readers (50). But I contend that Wilson is too dismissive of the repetition of monetary details, like a very specific amount of cash, lists of how much items cost, or the repetition of language that refers to one’s finances. Though Wilson claims, “O. Henry repeatedly denigrates any attempts at ‘moral reform’ and prefers instead simply to list the essential, arithmetic requirements of life…,” O. Henry does much more than rattle off a “list” of

“arithmetic rights” in his stories (50). Rather than mere “accounting procedures,” I propose that monetary details in O. Henry’s stories serve a greater purpose—to suggest that women deserve the same rights as men, a suggestion which makes him an advocate for social change.

For example, as for shop-girls Hetty and Dulcie, it is not just monetary details that convey their poverty. The few “treasures” that Dulcie can afford in “An Unfinished Story” make her more personable and pitiable because, though they are seemingly minor things like “a calendar” and “some rice powder in a glass dish,” they mean the world to her (Henry,

“Unfinished” 423). Likewise, in “The Third Ingredient,” Hetty lives a frugal life on the verge of wretchedness. The narrator best expresses this with his description of her “2x4-foot china—er—

I mean earthenware closet…” (“Third” 791). Not only are Hetty’s dishes of a lower quality than china, she has so few of them that she does not need much space to store them. Both stories use the personal space inhabited by many working girls at the turn of the twentieth century, like

furnished rooms and apartment complexes, to reflect the thoughts and feelings of the characters within them and also to demonstrate the new sort of places available to women, specifically those who were shop-girls.

Though O. Henry wrote about women in many different professions, like the office girl

(“The Romance of a Busy Broker”), the waitress (“The Brief Debut of Tildy” and “An

Adjustment of Nature”), the cashier girl (“While the Auto Waits” and “The Girl and the Habit”), and the store model (“The Buyer from Cactus City”), he is most famous for his stories about shop-girls, a theme C. Alphonso Smith explains “O. Henry has almost pre-empted…” (O. Henry

216). Shop-girls are prominent in stories such as “The Trimmed Lamp,” “The Purple Dress,” and “A Lickpenny Lover,” to name a few. The better part of this chapter will focus on the shop- girl and her role in society, especially with relation to men.

According to O. Henry, the shop-girl was a term that people created by turning “an occupation into an adjective” (“Trimmed” 391). If a job is a descriptive word, then perhaps our occupation determines who we are as individuals. If this is the case, then many women at the turn of the twentieth century were no longer just wives, mothers, or care-takers. Many, especially young women, had jobs (Peiss 34). Jobs granted them a certain degree of economic freedom because employment meant they were not dependent on a father or a husband for money. Though at the turn of the twentieth century there were still societal norms and expectations to marry, perhaps this newfound economic freedom gave women the opportunity to do so for reasons other than money (62). We see this idea reflected in a number of O. Henry’s stories, such as “The Trimmed Lamp” and “The Buyer from Cactus City.”

A shop-girl’s profession—like almost all new professions available to women at the turn

of the century—required her to be indoors. Though inside, this space was unfamiliar territory

because it gave women the opportunity to have a different role, not just as a customer, but also,

more to the point, as a provider of goods. As women earned money, they left home to spend this

money, oftentimes alone. Though not a common shopping practice in the past, this new

opportunity became acceptable as department stores took up more retail space in the City, and

“the department store assured women a place in city life…” (Barth 25).

Edwin G. Burrows and Mike Wallace explain that Alexander T. Stewart opened New

York City’s first department store in 1846, nicknamed the “Marble Palace,” a colossal five-story building downtown near City Hall (666-668). The venture was immensely successful, and Lord and Taylor, Arnold Constable, and the Hearn Brothers followed suit in the 1850’s (668). As

Homberger remarks, these stores would keep their businesses flourishing by moving further north in order to keep pace with consumers who were moving uptown; between 1850 and 1900 around twenty-one department stores opened up in an area that Burrows and Wallace explain would be known as “the Ladies’ Mile” (Homberger, Historical 102; Burrows and Wallace 946).

A few examples of these merchandise meccas include: Macy’s (1858) on Sixth Avenue between

Thirteenth and Fourteenth streets, Tiffany’s Jewelry Store (1870) on Fourth Avenue and

Fifteenth Street, Hearn’s Department Store (1879) on Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, and

Ehrich Brothers Emporium (1889) on Sixth Avenue and Twenty-fourth Street (Homberger,

Historical 102). In order for these businesses to thrive financially, they had to take a geographical move up. Movement is thus equated with growth, much like a woman’s movement

out of the house and into a new space can signify new opportunities available to her at the turn of

the twentieth century.

Department stores helped to get women into a new public space and thus “made the new

phenomenon of a feminine public possible. Its rise accompanied that of the modern city” (Barth

121). Now instead of remaining inside a home, women were allowed inside public places that

granted them both economic freedom and movement. Some department stores adopted practices

in which they “clearly marked prices on wares … [which] made social equality an element of the

convenience of a store catering to a cross section of the population…” because it put an end to

bargaining over goods (Barth 130-131). The department store was also a highly influential retail

establishment because it gave women a place where they could find all of their goods in one

building (Burrows and Wallace 812). Not only that, “the appearance of the department store

heightened the illusion of shared luxury among the shoppers” (Barth 130).

Although Gunther Barth makes many valid points as to the “democratic” policies of some

department stores, the fact of the matter remains that wealthy women were the predominant

shoppers for two reasons: they had more money and more time to spend it than the lower

classes. The more these wealthy women shopped, the stronger their presence was felt in this

public space. The stronger their presence, the more opportunities it gave lower class women to

have a career. For example, as retail giants like Macy’s began to realize that most wealthy women felt more comfortable discussing personal items like lingerie with other women, they began to rethink their hiring patterns (Burows and Wallace 1177). This led to a radical shift in retail practices, and before the turn of the twentieth century “80 percent” of department store

employees were women (1177). Thus, department stores were a New Woman’s space for both workers and customers, rich and poor.

Gunther Barth argues that the department store gave “women a place in city life” (25).

This “place” was a new space for women in the City, and it created a ripple effect in the City that gave a wider range of mobility to women. This mobility gave them new spaces in which to venture and “claim” as their own while “the buying stage of shopping appeared as the most widely visible sign of female emancipation in the modern city” (Barth 137). The irony of this

“emancipation,” however, rests on the idea that women were paying for their freedom. Some of the money they made as shop-girls in the department store went back to the department store to pay for goods that they needed, a cycle of dependence that still exists for some women working in the world of retail. Barth seems to note this irony when he acknowledges “in a long range perspective it can be seen that shopping actually provided the framework of a gilded cage keeping women from their share of freedom” (129). I find this description arresting because it perpetuates the idea that, although there is freedom in being able to move from one place (the home) to another (the department store), regardless of where they go, women are still being contained in the department store by means of consumerism. In a sense, some of them are exchanging one “cage” for another.

Standing apart from the mass consumerism encouraged by department stores in New

York City are two female figures that neither sell nor purchase goods. These figures are statues that could be said to represent the juxtaposition of the two different types of women at the turn of the century: the New Woman and the traditional woman. Embodiments of these types in O.

Henry’s “The Lady Higher Up” are cast as two of the most iconic statues in the history of New

York: Diana of the Tower and the Statue of Liberty.

1. Statues as Symbols

O. Henry uses symbolism and personification in “The Lady Higher Up” (1904) to show that Diana of the Tower and the Statue of Liberty embody certain “expected” ideas about women.

Personification is an important technique that he uses in this story because not only does it ensure that a woman’s presence is in these new spaces, but the technique also gives these women a voice. This “voice” is perhaps one that could be easier to hear for two reasons: first, not only is “The Lady Higher Up” a work of fiction, but the “voice” of the female characters in this work comes from statues whose ability to convey ideas falls in the realm of fantasy. Works of fantasy can sometimes be easy to “digest” because they are not only works of fiction, but they are also so far removed from reality that what occurs in them may not seem possible. This improbability leads to the idea that perhaps readers do not need to take what is in the fantastic realm seriously, which can also make the ideas presented in this world seem less threatening.

Eugene Current-Garcia comments on the accessibility of this fantasy story and O.

Henry’s talent for using the genre: “how many New Yorkers would have conceived the fanciful idea of an aerial conversation on the state of things in Manhattan between the statue of Diana atop Madison Square Garden and the Statue of Liberty down the bay? Or conceiving it, would have found the perspective and the details for setting it in motion?” (150). Current-Garcia refers to O. Henry’s “lightness of touch” when it comes to his deft handling of allusions, a skill that allows for him to insert subtle social commentaries in his work (149). Sometimes O. Henry layers social commentaries underneath things like the plot of a story, or behind another literary

technique in order to reach a wide audience. For example, people may read a story and understand the personification of the statues, but they may not necessarily grasp that what these two characters are saying contains a social critique because the story may be too far removed from reality to be taken seriously.

Before these statues can speak, the narrator breathes life into Diana of the Tower with such descriptions as, “its constancy shown by its weathercock ways, its innocence by the coating of gold that it has acquired, its devotion to style by its single, graceful flying scarf, its candor and artlessness by its habit of ever drawing the long bow, its metropolitanism by its posture of swift flight to catch a Harlem train—remained poised with its arrow pointed across the upper bay”

(Henry, “Lady” 4). The details in this description of Diana establish the narrator’s credibility because they suggest that he is knowledgeable about his subject. O. Henry knew the importance of adding specific details to his stories. In a letter of advice to his friend and ex-convict Al

Jennings, who was trying publish a story he wrote, O. Henry encouraged him to “put in as much realism and as many facts as possible [in the story]. Where you want to express an opinion or comment on the matter do it as plainly as you can. Give it life and the vitality of facts” (Porter,

William Sydney, Letter to Al Jennings 848).

Other than the obvious use of the details to establish the setting in which Diana is located and give the narrator credibility, they also convey a social commentary about the New Woman.

Much like the real-life statue after which she was molded, the eponymous Diana in the story is a modern girl who can be said to represent the “New Woman” at the turn of the century: a woman with new opportunities. As Kathy Peiss explains, “women’s movement into employment, higher education, and political activism expanded the notion of women’s place” (7). Peiss further notes

that, at the turn of twentieth-century America, “in popular culture, the emergent ideal of the

‘New Woman,’ imbued women’s activity in the public domain with a new sense of female self, a

woman who was independent, athletic, sexual, and modern” (7). Diana can be said to embody

these new ideals because she is naked, and she is perched at the top of a very famous building in

New York City. In other words, she is in every way prominent in the public’s eye. So too,

Diana of the Tower is modeled after a specific Roman goddess and embodies the ideas

associated with that goddess, including freedom to remain unwed, to roam the night, and even

perhaps to hunt.

In contrast to Diana, Lady Liberty represents traditional views: that women should

marry, that they have a duty to the hearth and home, and that they should remain at home to

perform that duty. From the start, Lady Liberty is described by the narrator as “a heroic matron,”

a respectful term that insinuates honor and motherly qualities (Henry, “Lady” 4). Edward

Berenson adds that, to some people, the statue conforms with “prevailing gender roles” at the turn of the century by explaining that the creator of the statue “rejected the revolutionary goddess of liberty for the conservative one, the frankly sexual Marianne of Delacroix’s Liberty Leading the People for the unerotic mother figure he ultimately produced” (101-102). In “The Lady

Higher Up,” Diana teases Lady Liberty for her “Mother Hubbard” attire, insinuating that she is

old and out of fashion, much like the old lady in the children’s nursery rhyme to whom she

alludes (Henry, “Lady” 4; “Old” 2). Lady Liberty is a more traditional figure in appearance, and

this appearance is a reflection of her traditional role in society.

Yet the Statue of Liberty is not just a woman’s symbol. According to Berenson, it is also a symbol that represents “freedom and hope” for many immigrants coming to America (115).

Journeying to New York shortly after his prison term, O. Henry could relate to this feeling of

hope in the land of opportunity. As he himself expressed before coming to the City in 1902,

“this work of mine in New York means a new life and a resurrection of my old ambitions to me.

I feel that I can do work that will be a success, and now is my opportunity” (Porter, William

Sydney, Letter to Frank Maddox). Perhaps O. Henry felt that this new city was a place where he could get a fresh start, so to speak, a chance to dust off the past and forget his three years in prison. This idea of a fresh beginning was one he shared with millions of immigrants around the turn of the twentieth century.

Of the millions of immigrants who came to America before the turn of the twentieth century, Burrows and Wallace explain, the Irish had the largest immigrant presence in New York

City (1112). Mirroring reality, in “The Lady Higher Up,” Lady Liberty speaks with an Irish brogue, saying things like “‘a fine chat I’ve had with ye, Miss Diana, ma’am, but I see one of them European steamers a-sailin’ up the Narrows, and I must be attendin’ to me duties”’ (Henry,

“Lady” 4). This speech is clearly a nod to the massive population of Irish who immigrated to

America, and this seemingly casual reference to Lady Liberty’s brogue in O. Henry’s story suggests, in and of itself, that the statue should be a welcoming symbol for people from different lands because she speaks as many of them do. Given the discrimination against and distrust of the Irish, this is no doubt why the “The Lady Higher Up” was not well received at the time of its publication in 1904 (Berenson 115, 120). To further this idea is the fact that ten of O. Henry’s short story collections were published before “The Lady Higher Up” was finally anthologized in

Sixes and Sevens (1911), a year after his death. Although some of the social criticisms in his

stories were subtler than others, people reacted to “The Lady Higher Up,” a testament that his

skills of indirection were having an effect on the public consciousness.

Though many people viewed the Statue of Liberty as a representation of freedom and

liberty, there were others who did not. This may be why Diana comments on Lady Liberty’s

brogue: “‘I didn’t know that Liberty was necessarily Irish’” (Henry, “Lady” 4). This is a playful and teasing response from Diana, but it is not gratuitous. The playful tone is linked to irony, and as such it is a subtle and thus indirect comment on ideals of freedom and liberty in America at the turn of the twentieth century. Though the consensus of most critics and biographers is that

O. Henry was not political, the message in “The Lady Higher Up” can certainly be construed as being so. The statement that “Liberty” is “Irish” makes clear that “liberty,” that is to say freedom, which is what the statue symbolizes, is a foreign concept. This statue represents freedom and liberty because immigrants made her represent these ideas, not because she actually does. Lady Liberty points out the unwelcome attitude many Americans held towards immigrants when she says, ‘“sure ‘tis a great country ye can come to for $8.50, and the doctor waitin’ to send ye back home free if he sees yer eyes red from cryin’ for it’” (4). This ironic comment is in reference to efforts curtailing immigration at the turn of the century, when laws were established that prohibited certain undesirable groups from entering America (Homberger, New 75-76). As

Edward Berenson corroborates, people could be denied entry to the United States during this time merely because of their “physical deformities, mental disabilities, breathing problems, infections, and hearing disorders…” (113-114).

In addition to Lady Liberty’s caustic comment about the injustice of denying entry to immigrants just because they look ill is the narrator’s remark that her “duty…is to offer a cast-

ironical welcome to the oppressed of other lands” (Henry, “Lady” 4). The pun on “iron” and

“ironical” is not subtle, nor is the fact that “oppressed” immigrants are not welcome in America.

Both Lady Liberty’s and the narrator’s comments point to the hypocrisy of a nation that does not really stand for what it is renowned for—ideas of freedom, equality, and opportunity.

Lady Liberty tells Diana that she ‘“was made by a Dago and presented to the American people on behalf of the French Government for the purpose of welcomin’ the Irish immigrants into the Dutch city of New York’” (4). This comment is significant for several reasons. There are five different cultures represented in this sentence, suggestive of the “melting pot” America was becoming at the turn of the twentieth century. The comment also suggests that, for this very reason, the United States should be a country that welcomes other cultures, a place where we should all coexist in harmony.

This social critique is couched in a list of incorrect information, something intentionally done on O. Henry’s part. O. Henry was someone who was known for reading “newspapers, which he devoured three or four times a day” (Smith, O. Henry 76). He was always precise when presenting facts, and if he got a fact wrong in one of his stories, it was for a reason. As

Smith affirms, “he made misquotation an art,” and his deliberate misquoting “increases a new meaning and releases a new thought” (Selected viii). It was a deliberate move on O. Henry’s part to state that someone of Italian or Spanish descent made the statue instead of its real designer, Frenchman Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, as a “welcome” for the Irish, when in reality the statue was “a gift from the French people commemorating the centennial of the American revolution [sic]” (Berenson 32). These deliberately false facts are perhaps O. Henry’s commentary on the controversial issue of immigration in America at the turn of the twentieth

century, and they suggest that sometimes people may be wrong in their preconceived notions of other cultures. They may also be a comment on the idea that, though some cultures perceived the Statue of Liberty as a welcoming landmark, there were others who viewed it as merely a monument that celebrated a historic American moment.

In addition to the conflicting ideas associated with these statues, both differ sharply in terms of dress. Diana is unclothed, with the exception of “its single, graceful flying scarf…”

(Henry, “Lady” 4). Although her nudity could also be a reflection of the New Woman’s perceived “sexual freedom,” one of the many characteristics of the movement as expressed by

Martha Patterson, O. Henry does not remark on this aspect of the New Woman, nor does he ever address sexuality in his works (Patterson 2). Instead, nudity is likened to freedom in general.

Unencumbered by the restrictions of clothing, Diana is free in a sense that Lady Liberty is not.

Her nudity sets her beyond the confines of fashion or style and could be said to help reinforce the idea of Diana of the Tower representing the New Woman because she, like the New Woman, has more freedoms available to her than previous generations. Her state of undress could also could serve to symbolize the freedom that one has when unencumbered with clothes. Clothing can hamper movement, and not wearing clothes sets Diana apart because her nudity is a freedom from restrictions.

It is clear that, in many regards, O. Henry envied Diana’s freedom and her ability to be herself. An unfinished letter to his editor expresses his feelings: “all of us have to be prevaricators, hypocrites, and liars every day of our lives; otherwise the social structure would fall into pieces the first day. We must act in one another’s presence just as we must wear clothes. It is for the best” (Porter, William Sydney, Letter to Steger [circa 1909-1910] 847). Put

another way, we must pretend, or lie, in order to keep society functioning. O. Henry’s analogy

that behaving in a certain manner is comparable to wearing clothes suggests that when we “act”

we hide behind something and pretend to be someone we are not. Diana is herself, without

pretense or falsehood, and that is its own liberty. There is a freedom in being who you really are

as a person; you do not need to worry about what others think when you are unabashedly you.

The statue has no clothes to hide behind, which many found shocking (Burrows and Wallace

1148). Just as Diana’s nudity was shocking to some, so too were several movements the New

Woman embraced, like having a job, living alone, and socializing with men outside in the streets.

Though lack of mobility in “The Lady Higher Up” is something Diana and Lady Liberty

have in common, they experience this immobility on different terms. Both statues are static in a

spatial sense because they cannot move. Though Diana’s pedestal is permanently affixed atop

the building in Madison Square Park, she is a weathervane (Henry, “Lady” 4). She has freedom of movement, but this freedom is limited to the whims of the wind. Much like the New Woman at the turn of the century, her freedom is restricted.

Lady Liberty’s freedom of movement is even more limited than Diana’s. Liberty’s freedom has to be restricted because of the ideals she represents. If she moves, the idea of freedom could be de-stabilized. Firmly affixed on Staten Island, the Statue of Liberty is a beacon of hope to many entering the United States (Berenson 115). As O. Henry further notes, she has

“an extra burden upon her. ‘Liberty Lighting the World’ (as her creator christened her) would have had a no more responsible duty, except for the size of it, than that of an electrician or a

Standard Oil magnate. But to ‘enlighten’ the world…requires abler qualities” (“Lady” 4).

Although she has responsibilities that Diana does not have, Lady Liberty is not qualified to fulfill

these responsibilities. Her responsibilities are greater than those of “a Standard Oil magnate,”

undoubtedly a reference to billionaire John D. Rockefeller, founder of Standard Oil, and also to

those of “an electrician,” probably a reference to Thomas Edison, whose inventions helped light

up the City (4).

Liberty has a heavier burden on her shoulders than these two famous men, a

responsibility to “enlighten,” to teach. The freedom that she figuratively represents is supposed

to give hope to those who see her. The irony is that she has “a fireless torch and an empty head,”

qualities unfit to complete her task (4). Clearly, if she has no brains, how can she educate, and if

her torch is “fireless,” how can she enlighten? Stating that she cannot do these things suggests

that America is a place that does not guarantee freedom to immigrants—or to women, for that

matter. Lady Liberty is unable to teach people anything, and the hopes and ideals that others associate with her are just that: associations. As Lady Liberty herself says in the story, “‘[it’s]

with statues the same as with people—‘tis not their makers nor the purposes for which they were

created that influence the operations of their tongues at all—it’s the associations with which they

become associated…’” (4).

The irony of this idea conveys a social criticism. Talking statues seems to be a playful

and humorous device because statues cannot speak, and the “feminine gossip by wireless

mythology” is in several moments lighthearted and superficial, but under this thin veneer of

comic relief, both statues have something serious to say about immigration and the human

condition (4). This is why fantasy tales can create layers of levity that, when peeled away, can

expose a political or social stance on a controversial issue, and people are more likely to listen to

such issues when wrapped in levity. As he himself wrote towards the end of his career, “about

the only chance for the truth to be told is in fiction” (Porter, William Sydney, Letter to Steger

[circa 1909-1910] 847). If we look at these “truths” as social commentary, they are expressed through an indirect means instead of boldly and blatantly stated, a subtle means of expression.

Subtle techniques in writing, like the use of personification and irony, are tools O. Henry

uses to suggest, rather than openly state, social criticisms. This technique is subtle because it is a

layer in the narrative, meaning that what a reader first encounters contains, but does not

immediately reveal, what the author intended. Though O. Henry uses various “layering” devices

(literary techniques), personification is not frequently used. To take a case in point, only three of

O. Henry’s one hundred and thirty-eight New York stories use personification as a device to

convey social criticism. “The Lady Higher Up” (1904) personifies two key female statues in

New York, “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner” (1905) is told from the point of view of a ten-dollar

bill, and “Memoirs of a Yellow Dog” (1906) is recounted through the point of view of a dog. In

particular, O. Henry’s personification of Diana of the Tower and the Statue of Liberty in “The

Lady Higher Up” works as a subtle device much like Aesop’s fables, where nonhuman objects

are given human characteristics in order to reveal human nature, as well as to convey a social

critique that might be easier to accept because it is hidden under the guise of fantasy, creating a

truth within an untruth. In addition, O. Henry’s irony adds humor to lighten the tone of the story

so it is less judgmental in nature. Mixing up facts and playing word games are funny and clever

tactics, and using humor to make a social commentary is a powerful and effective device that O.

Henry wields to his advantage. Though all of his fantasy stories are different, they all subscribe

to the same humanitarian philosophy: people should be respected as human beings and treated

with kindness.

This humanitarian viewpoint should come as no surprise to anyone familiar with O.

Henry’s background. Ethel Stephens Arnett describes him as a compassionate young man, especially towards creatures who were suffering (36). As he got older, O. Henry helped many people by giving them money. Smith relates after being released from prison, “his charity was now as boundless as the air and his sympathy with suffering, especially when the sufferer was down and out, as prompt and instinctive as the glance of the eye” (O. Henry 168). He gave money freely to every homeless person, friend, or shop-girl he came across. To put his boundless generosity another way, William Wash Williams explains: “O. Henry’s ‘constant pennilessness’ held no mystery to anyone who knew him. The only reason he didn’t throw his money to the birds was that it might frighten the little fellows if he did” (214). Giving money to help people in need was important to O. Henry, and we see this humanitarian ideal expressed in many of his short stories, as will be seen in later chapters.

In order to convey the importance of humanitarian ideals such as kindness towards others, O. Henry often used duality as a literary technique. For example, the title of the story

“The Lady Higher Up” has, as do many of O. Henry’s stories, a meaning that can be read in two ways. In this story, “higher up” literally refers to the statue that is the tallest spatially, that is, the highest point in the sky. This would be Diana, a fact pointed out by the narrator when he states

“had [her] arrow sped truly and horizontally it would have passed fifty feet above the head of

[Lady Liberty]” (Henry, “Lady” 4). Besides this meaning, we can also peel away another layer—the concept of being “higher up” in importance or significance.

Lady Liberty envies Diana’s independence and wistfully remarks, ‘“ye have the best job for a statue in the whole town, Miss Diana”’ (4). In the story Lady Liberty is morose in her

speech, and oftentimes sees her duty as a burden. But Diana boosts her morale, encouraging her

with the words ‘“don’t run down your job, Aunt Liberty; you’re all right, all right’” (4). Though

Lady Liberty doesn’t move, she “stands” for a higher, life-changing ideal, something that

“moves” people and can change their lives. As Diana points out to her in reassurance, ‘“that’s a pretty sick looking bunch of liberty chasers they dump down at your end of it; but they don’t all stay that way’” (4). Even though the Statue of Liberty does not really represent or guarantee

freedom in America, there is still hope for people. Many people come to America with big

dreams that are soon squashed by reality, yet in spite of that, dreams can be redirected to more

feasible and realistic goals, such as getting a job and working your way up in the world like

Helen does in “The Buyer from Cactus City,” or marrying a man for love instead of money, like

Nancy in “The Trimmed Lamp.”

2. Characters as Statues

According to O. Henry’s second wife Sara, the author had a fondness for Diana of the

Tower, a sentiment that is evident in some of his stories (Porter, Sara Coleman, “O. Henry” 8).

In addition to “The Lady Higher Up,” O. Henry mentions the statue of Diana in five other New

York stories, four of which will be discussed in this chapter. I will argue that the brief allusions to Diana of the Tower in these stories carries more weight when one considers the possibility that the statue could stand as a symbol for the New Woman at the turn of the twentieth century. As

Eugene Current-Garcia notes, “many of O. Henry’s serious classical allusions are both apt and pointed; often they are subtle as well in conveying complex moods and attitudes through the medium of a single sharp image” (149). Diana is therefore another layer the writer uses to express social commentaries in his works, and allusions to her call our attention to female

characters in his stories and what they have in common with her and, by extension, what New

Woman characteristics they possess. For instance, all of O. Henry’s female characters in these four stories are financially independent from men. Most of them are shop-girls, like Masie in “A

Lickpenny Lover” (1904).

There is a brief allusion to Diana in this story, when Irving meets Masie at a glove counter in a department store where she works. After Masie agrees to go on a date with him, “he then hastened to his mother, who was looking about for him to ratify her purchase of a bronze

Diana” (Henry, “Lickpenny” 8). The purchase of this item is significant for many reasons. First is the notion that, although Diana represents strength and independence, a woman must ask for a man’s permission to purchase a miniature version of the statue. Unlike St. Gaudens’s statue above Madison Square Garden, this smaller version of Diana is for sale. Also unlike the real

Diana, who is outside, this reduction is inside the building. If Diana is a symbol for the New

Woman, she is also a gentle reminder that the attributes of the New Woman can be found in both interior and exterior spaces in the City. This suggestion brings with it the notion that women have mobility because they are free to be in private and public spaces. Both the public space outside of the department store and the public space inside the department store are areas where women can display their newfound independence. The department store is a place where women can work, and it is also a place where women can shop. Thus, it serves as an environment that provides a better socioeconomic representation of women. All these women are from different backgrounds, but they are brought together under one roof.

The adjective “bronze” used to describe the statue is no small coincidence (8). Later in the story when Masie and Irving sit on a bench in a park, “her gold-bronze head slid restfully

against his shoulder” (8). Although blonde hair is usually described as “gold,” pairing this word

with the metal “bronze” is arresting, making it even more compelling to draw similarities

between Diana and Masie. If both females have the same hair color, might they have something

else in common?

Besides her “gold-bronze head,” Masie resembles Diana in her independence (8). Irving

refers to Masie as a “wild Psyche” because she is mercurial in her ways, calling all the shots and

making decisions in their relationship (8). For instance, she tells him where he can meet her for

their first date, and she doesn’t let him meet her family (8). Like Diana, the weathervane that

turns with the wind, Masie changes her “varying, thistledown moods” (8). One moment she

seems to be warming up to Irving, then the next she coldly rebuffs him (8). Similar to Diana,

Masie has the freedom to do as she pleases. She is not beholden to a man’s whims, and she

makes her own decisions.

Also like Diana, Masie has traits about her that are god-like. We are told at the

beginning of the story that “Masie was beautiful” (8). This explanation pales in comparison to further descriptions of her, however, because Masie is likened to a plethora of goddesses including “Hebe,” the Roman goddess of youth, and “Minerva,” goddess of wisdom, whose

“eyes” are similar to Masie’s (8). Masie is also said to have “curved an arm [at her counter], showing like Psyche’s through her shirt-waist sleeve…” (8). A comparison to Psyche is made again when we learn that Irving, her love interest, also envisions her as a “wild Psyche” (8).

Such descriptions put Masie on another level. She is not merely a pretty girl. Masie is likened to the divine, far above mere mortals. Not only is she youthful, like Hebe, she is also wise and discerning, like Minerva. Like Psyche, her beauty is so great that it rivals that of the most

beautiful goddess, Aphrodite. Comparisons between these goddesses and her insinuate that

Masie is a powerful force, an agglomeration of divine women who represent important ideals

such as youth, beauty, and wisdom.

Likening Masie, a saleslady, with these goddesses is perhaps O. Henry’s way of

suggesting that she deserves to be treated with respect. O. Henry was known for being respectful

of women, and his friends say he “was always courteous to women. The lowest, rum-soaked

‘tart’ in an East Side dive was treated with as much consideration and respect as a real ‘lady of

quality’” (Williams 137). Besides being respectful of women, O. Henry admired the ideals

embraced by the New Woman. Richard O’ Connor explains in his old Rolling Stone magazine,

O. Henry commented on “The New Woman—the girl of independent spirit, with brashly modern

ideas, who left home and took a job. The Rolling Stone came down heavily on the side of the

old-fashioned girl who stayed at home and waited for Mr. Right” (42). According to O. Henry,

the working woman is someone who should get our attention and respect, which is no doubt why

Masie has features of ancient goddesses.

Another more subtle mention of Diana is in “The Buyer from Cactus City” (1906). Miss

Helen Asher, undoubtedly like her namesake Helen of Troy with her blonde beauty, also serves as a reminder of Diana (Henry, “Buyer” 8). Much like Masie, Helen is bossy with the man who asks her out on a date. In Helen’s case, this man is John Platt. John is a junior partner of a store in Cactus City, Texas who goes to New York to buy goods for his store (8). He meets Helen at the Zizzbaum & Son store where she works as a model (8). The owner of the store sets the two up on a date, and Helen insists that John arrive not a moment before his requested time of seven

in the evening, and also that he wait in the hall (8). Much like Masie, Helen dictates where she will meet her gentleman caller.

Helen and John go to dinner, and “after the dinner they walked down Broadway and came upon Diana’s little wooded park” (8). In this instance we are reminded that this space in the City is Diana’s. Prior to her creation in 1891, this area of the City was a man’s space where traditional male pursuits like boxing and horse racing took place (Burrows and Wallace 1147).

When the original Diana, who was disproportionate and too heavy to function as a weathervane,

was upgraded to a lighter, more delicate statue in 1893, this area became not just a woman’s

space, but also a space for the New Woman (Wilkinson 215-216). Diana of the Tower was

different and stood apart from her environment not only because of her nudity, bronze

composition, and height, but also because she was a lone female figure in a sea of skyscrapers.

Even this new statue’s name was different: Diana of the Tower, a name now associated with the

space in which she was perched. Diana of the Tower was a “new” Diana, one who represented

the New Woman. As Sally Ledger explains, “the ‘newness’ of the New Woman marked her as

an unmistakably ‘modern’ figure, a figure committed to change…” (5). Just as Diana of the

Tower was a new figure in the New York skyline, she was also a “modern figure,” a changed

version of the original statue.

One of the changes we see with the advent of the New Woman is some women’s sharper interest on the ascension of their careers, something with which Helen could relate. For example, Helen affirms her independence as a working woman when she tells John, ‘“I’ve been supporting myself for eight years. I was a cash girl and a wrapper and then a shop girl [sic] until

I was grown, and then I got to be a suit model’” (Henry, “Buyer” 8). She gets paid to be a

model, a job that gives her financial independence. Helen has worked her way up in the world,

as we would say, and John holds her up on a pedestal as his ideal woman. Diana of the Tower is

also a “model” in this case—a model for the New Woman, separated from others by open space, perched high above Madison Square Garden.

It is also in this open space where we discover Helen’s true feelings towards John.

Though at dinner John boasts, “‘I’m worth a hundred thousand dollars,”’ Helen is not impressed

(8). She uses his money as an excuse to push him away, immediately snapping back; ‘“you can’t buy me…if you had a hundred million”’ (8). Though cool and distant at dinner towards John, making comments like ‘“don’t get fresh,’” and saying things like ‘“don’t expect to find me in any of the suits you buy,”’ Helen really does want to believe John could be different from all the other men she has known who just wanted to use her (8).

Her hurt and disappointment that John is like all other men is expressed when the couple walks in “Diana’s park,” and “the lights [from the statue] shone upon two bright tears in the model’s eyes” (8). The lights of the statue reflect what Helen is really feeling. Though her tears are “bright,” they reveal a softer side to Helen, a hopeful side that thought John might be a good man, genuine in his proposal of marriage earlier at dinner (8). As John is leaving her for the

night, “his arm was halfway around her waist, when she struck him a stinging blow on the face

with her open hand” (8). Used to rebuffing men’s advances, Helen is a woman who can defend herself, much like Diana of the Tower with her bow and arrows. But this injury to John’s face,

and undoubtedly to his pride, revealed the truth about his intentions, for “as he stepped back a

ring fell from somewhere and bounded on the tile floor” (8). This ring, a wedding ring, was

enough to convince Helen of John’s honorable intentions. Faced with the one thing she has

never found, an honest man who cares for her, Helen decides then and there that she wants him.

Though her actions at the end of the story may seem to reveal a woman who is the polar opposite

of Diana, a virgin goddess who swore never to marry, they are, in fact, similar to the ideals that

the statue represents. Helen’s choice to marry John is exactly that: a choice. She does not have

to marry him, and marriage is not the only option open to her. Helen is a New Woman free to

make choices: she can choose to marry, she can choose to remain unmarried, she can choose to

have a job, and/or she can choose to rely on the assistance of a man.

We find another allusion to Diana in the story entitled “The Voice of the City” (1905).

At the beginning of this story, the male character is on a quest to find “the Voice of a Big City”

(“Voice” 4). At the beginning, he explains to his lady friend, Aurelia, that, ‘“I have a fancy that

every city has a voice. Each one has something to say to the one who can hear it’” (4). His

interest in Aurelia and respect for her opinion is evident because the first person he asks about

this “voice” is her. Aurelia’s response is that ‘“all cities…say the same thing”’ (4). The male protagonist, who is never named, is not satisfied with this response. He points out that in New

York City, “‘the conjunction of so many units into so small a space must result in an identity— or, rather, a homogeneity—that finds its oral expression through a common channel’” (4).

Dissatisfied with Aurelia’s sweet smiles at his blustering, he determines to search the City for his answer (4).

In his search for “the Voice of the City,” the protagonist travels far and wide, asking different men for an answer (4). He asks a bartender, a policeman, a poet, and finally a newsboy.

None of them answer him because they are all either distracted by or completing a job for a woman. Though women have small roles as characters in this story, they function, nonetheless,

as strong motivations for men to do things. They are the impetus for movement because they get

the male characters to react. We are reminded of the female characters’ subtle but persistent

presence when the protagonist passes by “an artificial Diana, gilded, tortuous, heroic, poised, wind-ruled, on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her namesake in the sky” (4). Though this image of Diana of the Tower is fleeting, it exists in the story to remind the male protagonist, as well as the reader, that women are a central component of the City’s character. Much like

Diana, the women of the City stand as “heroic” and “poised” in a high place either spatially or in

a man’s heart. All of the men whom the narrator asks about the “voice” are running towards, or

doing things for women they love. So, in fact, it is women who are “the Voice of the City,” and

theirs is the call men answer. It doesn’t become clear until the end of the story when the narrator

realizes that the voice he has been looking for all over the City is the voice of the woman he

loves: Aurelia.

Aurelia is comparable to Diana in many ways. For a start, Aurelia is stationary like the

statue, and also like Diana, finds herself described as spatially above the protagonist: “she sat on

the high stoop” (4). This height suggests her prominence and importance. Aurelia also does not

leave her spot, suggesting that her lack of movement makes her a constant and reliable factor in

the protagonist’s life. Significantly, the name “Aurelia” means “golden” (Lewis 84). This is a

term associated with Diana who is described in the story as a “gilded” statue who “shimmered”

(Henry, “Voice” 4). Also like Diana, Aurelia is “poised” (4). She is calm and polite, sitting

with the protagonist in silence for thirty minutes until she smiles for the third time in the story,

remarking on his silence (4). The protagonist’s response to her is that she “‘is the Voice of the

City’” (4). Every man he spoke to heard a different voice—the voice of his beloved.

The complex answer the protagonist was seeking in “The Voice of the City” is really

quite simple: women are the people who speak for, who emblematize, the City because their

voices help to move and motivate men into action. Though stay-at-home women, like the characters Mary in “The Venturers” (1909) and Alice in “The Discounters of Money” (1908), do not fit into the category of the New Woman, they can still get men out of the house to do things for them. After all, traditional women have value and also can be good role models, something discussed at length in later chapters. For example, were it not for Alice’s insistence that Howard learn to disregard money in “The Discounters of Money,” he never would have understood humility and the importance of helping others (“Discounters” 544). Were it not for Mary’s quiet comment that she is engaged in “The Venturers,” Ives never would have ceased his adventures to settle down and marry her (“Venturers” 493). In this regard, O. Henry challenges conventional gender roles because he is expressing the idea that women have power. He understood this power on a personal level; his first wife Athol was a homemaker, and when she fell ill and was unable to perform household tasks traditionally delegated to women, like cooking, he gladly took over these duties (Maltby 46).

Another story that alludes to Diana’s presence in the City is “The Ferry of Unfulfilment”

(1903). As in “A Lickpenny Lover,” “The Buyer from Cactus City,” and “The Voice of the

City,” there is a male protagonist in this story who becomes entranced with a female character.

Henry Blayden is smitten with Miss Claribel Colby the first time he sees her as she gets off work. She is one of “a thousand girls from the great department store of Sieber-Mason [who] flowed along the side-walk…” (Henry, “Ferry” 12). Blayden notices Claribel’s beauty, and as she moves “down Twenty-third street she glided swiftly, looking to neither side; no more

flirtatious than the bronze Diana above the Garden” (12). The strongest trait Claribel shares with

Diana of the Tower in this description is her independence. At this moment, Claribel is a woman with a mission: to get on her ferry so she can go home and get some rest (12). As she admits to

Blayden later in the story, she didn’t notice him on the street because ‘“I never look at fellows on the street”’ (12). Claribel has her mind on her job and on a hard day’s work (12). In addition to being tired from her job, she is also fatigued because she stayed up late dancing (12). Claribel represents the New Woman not only as “an independent feminine wage-earner,” but also because she has an active social life at the same time (12). Descriptions of her late night revelries remind us of Diana in “The Lady Higher Up,” who also enjoys music, dancing, and having fun (“Lady”

4).

Blayden is determined to catch Claribel’s attention, so he joins her on the ferry and attempts to woo her. Claribel falls asleep on his shoulder, but “he did not suspect sleep, and yet he was too wise to attribute the movement to surrender” (“Ferry” 12). He wonders if she can love him for who he is because, although he has money, “he wanted to be liked for himself” (12).

He expresses these concerns to the sleeping Claribel, repeating a popular theme of the author’s when he tells her “‘money’s a mighty good thing to have, but to have the love of the one you like best is better still”’ (12). O. Henry himself was a big advocate of love over money. He had a rival for his first wife, a rich man who wooed Athol with pretty baubles while he had to rely on his skill with pretty words in song and verse (Maltby 19, 16). Luckily for O. Henry, love won out.

In “The Ferry of Unfulfilment,” Blayden wants to make sure Claribel shares his philosophy on love, so he asks her “‘if you was ever to marry a man, Miss, which would you

rather he’d have?’” (Henry, “Ferry” 12). Still in a deep sleep, Claribel yells “‘cash!’ [and] the

word came sharply and loudly from Miss Colby’s lips, giving evidence that in her dreams she

was now behind her counter in the great department store of Sieber-Mason” (12). Upon hearing

this, Blayden leaves. In the case of this ending, the title of the story “The Ferry of Unfulfilment”

is (ironically) fulfilled. The ferry in this story was a space where both characters saw their

respective dreams dashed to bits. Although all Blayden wanted was for Claribel to accept him as

he was, her outburst in her sleep made him think she felt otherwise. Though Claribel seems

content with her life as it is, there are moments when “she has yearnings to be set in some home

and heart; to be comforted, and to hide behind some strong arm and rest, rest” (12). She had her

opportunity to get these things when Henry came along, but she lost it when she fell asleep,

another layer of irony: sometimes we lose sight of our dreams when we are dreaming.

3. The Parlor: Moving Private Space to Public Places

Though there are some O. Henry female characters who live at home with their parents while working, like Masie in “A Lickpenny Lover,” many others came to live in new residences in the City. New spaces opened up for these women, such as boardinghouses, tenements, apartments, and furnished rooms. Though these new spaces meant freedom for women, they were restricted spaces in terms of size. As Kathy Peiss explains, a major issue women grappled with at the turn of the century in New York was “the problem of space and privacy in tenement apartments, where the ‘parlor’ served as kitchen, dining room, and bedroom” (71). Among these, the most important “meeting” space was no doubt the parlor. Less interior space to move within meant more space to move outwardly, and more public space was used as a result. If we take a look at these new homes for women, we can see how they helped foster a new culture.

The lack of space for some women in the early twentieth century meant “the street corner

is her parlor; the park is her drawing-room; the avenue is her garden walk; yet for the most part

she is as inviolate mistress of herself in them as is my lady behind her tapestried four-walled

chamber” (Henry, “Lickpenny” 8). The sacrifice of the parlor marked a significant change in a woman’s life and in the space allocated to her in the City. The parlor was a place to entertain friends and suitors, much like our modern-day living room. Thus, it was a space that served to

fill a social need.

Although it was a public place, the parlor was also an interior space concealed from the

outside world inside the home. In addition, it was a woman’s space as well, something that became scarce with the addition of tenements in the City. The advent of tenements around the

1850’s started a mode of living that packed people into a building like sardines, and created

issues with ventilation and sanitation that would plague the City for decades (Homberger,

Historical 110). Many parlors were sacrificed to become one more room to rent. Now lacking

this space, women needed something to fill the void. Thus, “streets served as the center of social

life in the working-class district” (Peiss 13). O. Henry asserts that this change is not to the

detriment of a woman’s character; she can be just as proper outside the home as she can be inside

of it (“Lickpenny” 8). The City becomes her home, and its spaces function to fulfill needs that are not met at her place of residence.

The heroines of both “A Lickpenny Lover” and “The Buyer from Cactus City” are adamant that their suitors do not meet them inside their homes. For Masie in “A Lickpenny

Lover,” this is because her family is squeezed in too tight a space for comfort and privacy (8).

Instead of meeting her at her house, she tells Irving to meet her at ‘“the corner of Eighth avenue

and Forty-eighth street at 7:30. I live right near the corner’” (8). Helen’s suitor gets farther than the street corner in “The Buyer from Cactus City.” She explains to John ‘“I room with a school

teacher, and she doesn’t allow any gentleman to call in the room. There isn’t any parlor, so

you’ll have to wait in the hall’” (“Buyer” 8). In both cases, the street corner and the hallway

serve as a waiting area for the man to receive a woman, a sort of makeshift replacement for the

parlor.

Florence of “Brickdust Row” (1906) also complains of a lack of a parlor to her love

interest Blinker when he chastises her for meeting men outside of her home (8). Florence

explains ‘“I live in Brickdust Row. They call it that because there’s red dust from the bricks

crumbling over everything….There’s no place to receive company. You can’t have anybody

come to your room. What else is there to do?”’ (8). The brick’s red dust is not just “crumbling”

around the physical environment; it is also a metaphor for crumbling old social structures,

particularly the old roles for women. New places, like tenements, are forcing women into new

spaces. Florence has no options when it comes to meeting men; she must leave her house.

Blinker does not understand this, and he judges her for something that is out of her control. She

admits ‘“I wish there was a parlor, so I could ask you to call, Mr. Blinker…”’ but her excuses do

not satisfy him; in fact, he is shocked and appalled at this situation (8).

Ironically, it is Mr. Blinker who owns the building in which Florence lives. The parlor

issue is one his father sought to remedy before he died. As the family lawyer states, ‘“he

intended that the parlors of these [Brickdust Row] houses should not be sub-let, but that the

tenants should be allowed to use them for reception rooms. These houses are…mainly tenanted

by young working girls. As it is they are forced to seek companionship outside”’ (8). Blinker

knows all too well what the situation is with these girls because he experienced it firsthand.

Unlike O. Henry, he does not have sympathy for these girls. Blinker coldly tells his lawyer he

can do whatever he wants with Brickdust Row: ‘“remodel it, burn it, raze it to the ground. But

man, it’s too late, I tell you. It’s too late. It’s too late. It’s too late”’ (8).

At this point, it would appear that Florence’s salvation is impossible. The one man who

has the ability to help get her off the street chooses to do nothing, believing she is already ruined.

He is not taking responsibility for her; instead, he is condemning her without trying to help her

and the other girls who live in the buildings. Not only does he not help her, he offers no

compassion or concern for her well-being. Even though he protests otherwise (“it’s too late”),

Blinker has the power to change Florence’s life—and the lives of future shop-girls who may live

in this area (8). But he chooses not to do so. He is upset by a society that forces Florence out in

the streets to meet men, but he is unwilling to do anything about it (8). The unhappy ending of

this story suggests that it is not enough to be angered by a social problem—that problem will not

change unless we are willing to do something to fix it. Read this way, O. Henry does not merely critique society. He also makes suggestions on how to instigate reform.

4. New Personal Spaces for Women

Tenements and apartments in New York City usually had “three rooms [that] were a

combined sitting room, parlor, and work-room; a kitchen; and a dark bedroom” (Ewen 150).

Families shared these spaces, oftentimes at the expense of privacy. Kitchens, for example, were

also places where they could bathe (151). Though homes varied by class and what one could

afford, they were typically places that encouraged familial duties, and “the care of the home

demanded a great deal of attention” (159). These homes fostered the idea of the housewife, the

woman who was both mother and wife and lived in this area (161). In contrast to this

environment are the spaces in which most single working women at the turn of the twentieth century lived.

Kathy Peiss explains that “many young women sought lodging in commercial rooming houses and apartments for greater social freedom, in order to come and go as they pleased” (74).

Though some lived in boardinghouses, several of them housed too many women, enforced curfews, and infringed too much on the independence most working girls desired (74). The compromise for freedom from these restrictions, however, was space. Some girls lived in furnished rooms in the City. Similar to hotels, these rooms provided the basic necessities, like a bed, washstand, and desk, for a rental fee. Although these rooms afforded a woman her freedom,

“[furnished] rooms were small, bleak, and cold, and houses usually lacked public parlors or reception rooms where women could socialize with their friends” (75). Thus, personal privacy came at the cost of both personal comfort and social privacy, an issue that comes up in many of

O. Henry’s shop-girl stories, such as “An Unfinished Story” and “Brickdust Row.”

Lack of space was an issue O. Henry could relate to; he could empathize with the shop-

girls’ narrow quarters and restrictions probably because of his prison experience. His three years

in prison at the Ohio Penitentiary were about as good as one could have it, where Pattee claims,

“he seems to have been treated more as an employee than as a prisoner…” (Development 358).

But prison is still prison, regardless of the size of the cage in which one is caught. Perhaps this is

why upon first moving to 55 Irving Place, his residence from 1903-1907, O. Henry remarked “I

like lots of room…lots of space to move about in, breathe in, stretch out in, you know” (qtd. in

Williams 41).

As stated by the narrator of “A Lickpenny Lover,” a shop-girl’s “home is often either a scarcely habitable tiny room or a domicile filled to overflowing with kith and kin” (Henry,

“Lickpenny” 8). The character Dulcie in “An Unfinished Story” (1905) lives in one of these

“scarcely habitable tiny rooms,” a furnished room in her case. Anne Partlan explains that O.

Henry “told me the hand-to-mouth life that girls lead in New York rooming houses interested him” (117). We see this interest reflected in this story, as well as compassion for these girls with comments like “there is this difference between a furnished room and a boarding-house. In a furnished room, other people do not know it when you go hungry” (Henry, “Unfinished” 423).

The social atmosphere in furnished rooms is more private than that of a boarding-house.

Dulcie’s room is small; she lives in “the third-floor-back [room] in a West Side brownstone- front” (423). Her room contains “couch-bed, dresser, table, washstand, chair—of this much the landlady was guilty. The rest was Dulcie’s. On the dresser were her treasures—a gilt china vase presented to her by Sadie, a calendar issued by a pickle works, a book on the divination of dreams, some rice powder in a glass dish…” (423). Dulcie’s small luxuries and knick-knacks are what make this furnished room a home. They provide a sense of self in an otherwise generic room. But she does not have many things, because she cannot afford to buy them on her salary.

O. Henry knew this to be true of a shop-girl’s life, which is why, as Anne Partlan explains,

Dulcie’s tale “and ‘The Third Ingredient’ were taken straight from life. That is why there is never anything sordid in the little stories. We [working girls] were poor enough in our dingy rooms, but he saw the little pleasures and surprises that made life bearable to us” (117). Not making their lives “sordid” could have been O. Henry’s way of showing these women respect.

Although one could argue that O. Henry trivializes their lives with these details, one could also

contend that details such as Dulcie’s “treasures” convey a tone of pity rather than disdain (Henry,

“Unfinished” 423). Instead of the dirt and grime that likely existed in the places where they

lived, perhaps O. Henry focuses on their “little pleasures” not only to exhibit sympathy and

understanding for them, but also to call into question the morality of paying these girls such low

wages (Partlan 117). As E. Hudson Long notes, O. Henry “realized the injustice of a system

which would permit an employer to pay a clerk only six dollars a week” (121). He wrote about

this injustice, usually using subtle measures, like listing how much the shop-girls were required

to pay for their purchases. Such monetary details point to the idea that, as O. Henry himself

stated, a story must be “natural, direct, and concise” (Porter, William Sydney, Letter to Al

Jennings 849).

In “An Unfinished Story,” the narrator tries to account for how Dulcie can even afford to live on such meager wages by itemizing her expenditures down to the last penny, from her meals to her two-dollar a week rent on the room (Henry, “Unfinished” 423). To say she is on a budget would be an understatement. Dulcie splurges in her purchase of “an imitation lace collar with her fifty cents. That money was to have been spent otherwise—fifteen cents for supper, ten cents

for breakfast, ten cents for lunch. Another dime was to be added to her small store of savings;

and five cents was to be squandered for licorice drops…” (423). Although all but the licorice

drops are necessities, the narrator further explains, “the licorice was an extravagance—almost a

carouse—but what is life without pleasures?” (423). This seemingly lighthearted, almost

nonchalant comment hides something ironic: the likening of spending “five cents” on licorice to

“almost a carouse,” a party or a moment of great celebration. These girls are afforded only five

cents for pleasure, a paltry sum. O. Henry makes the shop-girls’ situation dire through irony and

dollar signs, suggesting the conditions under which these women are living needs to change. O.

Henry uses monetary details to make a social critique at the turn of the twentieth century,

something I do not see in the works of other short story writers at the time, or at least not to the

extent that he uses it in his New York stories.

This criticism is indicative of a reformer, though his biographers insist O. Henry was not

one. As David Stuart states, though O. Henry witnessed many serious social problems around

him, he was not a “muckraker,” and, “unlike a Lincoln Steffens or an Upton Sinclair he did not

try to change these aspects of life by screeching with a shrill pen” (136). This description by

Stuart seems to suggest that a “reformer” is someone who makes clear and obvious social critiques, almost to the point of being didactic or harsh. Richard O’ Connor seems to define the word “reformer” along the same lines as Stuart, as a person who “raged…[against injustice] with a shower of invective and a fusillade of statistics…” (90). O’ Connor explains that O. Henry was a “social historian” who “depicted in his own storyteller’s voice” issues of the day that were addressed by the “muckrakers,” although he does goes so far as to say O. Henry “was a more effective muckraker than Lincoln Steffens or Ida Tarbell” (90). Due to the negative connotation and denotation of the word “muckraker,” I argue that “reformer” is a better word to describe O.

Henry. Gerald Langford, like Stuart and O’ Connor, mentions the word “muckraker” when discussing reform in his biography, although his reference to the word is much less colorful

(138). Langford depicts reform as “reporting…unexploited milieux [sic]…” and expresses disappointment that O. Henry did not write about prison reform, an important social issue in the

Progressive Era (138). Although these definitions of reform suggest activism and an obvious, loud “call to arms” in order to instigate social change, reform does not have to be loud, caustic,

or readily visible. Reform can be quiet and subtle, as is often the case with O. Henry’s works, and I will argue that his social critiques are those of a reformer because they are not just social criticisms—they also offer suggestions for change in society.

O. Henry himself insisted that he was not a reformer, claiming “writing short stories is my business…it is the way I make my livin’; it is my way of getting money to pay room rent, to buy food and clothes and Pilsener [sic]. I write for no other reason or purpose” (qtd. in Williams

163). This comment of O. Henry’s is an unconscious itemization of his expenditures (somewhat) by order of cost from greatest to least, and I argue that it is important because this list tells us what is significant to the writer. Typically rent is the highest expense a person has, so this is the first item of business on the list. Pilsener, a beer, probably cost the least amount of money of all expenditures, so it is listed last. When it comes to his paycheck, O. Henry associates spending money on space (“room rent”) first, before other needs like food and clothing, something that clearly reveals the importance of space in his life.

O. Henry also reveals an acute awareness of space to his friend and former prison inmate

Al Jennings. Concerning writing about prison reform, O. Henry was adamant that, “I shall never mention the name of prison. I shall never speak of crime and punishments. I tell you I will not attempt to bring a remedy to the diseased soul of society. I will forget that I ever breathed behind these walls” (qtd. in Jennings 222). Not surprisingly, O. Henry wanted to forget prison.

But in his own way, regardless of what he said, O. Henry did use his short stories to speak of

“crime and punishments,” and his social critiques were “a remedy to the diseased soul of society” because they provided readers an interesting, often humorous story with a subtle social criticism and, typically, a solution to the social problems he addresses. His stories are fun to

read, a welcome escape from the dreary world, but they are much more than mere entertainment.

Although not all of his tales have a “happy ending,” they critique society in flux at the turn of the

twentieth century, calling attention to the unfair treatment of women and serving as examples of

how we should treat each other as human beings.

O. Henry was clear in his protestations that he was not a reformer, and one can speculate

that he had good reasons for this behavior. More than likely, he did not want any attention called

to him. Attention meant prying into his past life and a discovery of his years in prison, a secret

he desperately—and carefully—hid. As C. Alphonso Smith reminds us, “he had his secret and

he determined to keep it” (O. Henry 167). As a result, O. Henry hid behind his pen and, in a

sense, the person he really was, William Sydney Porter, was hiding behind his nom de plume.

Richard Fusco explains, “the pen name O. Henry became a mask to disguise the embittered and

ashamed William Sidney Porter [sic], embezzler and ex-convict…” (123). This pen name added

a layer to his life, practically another life for the writer. Fusco remarks, “the surprise-inversion

story lifted him, if only for a moment, out of his continual lament over his own life” (123). I argue that O. Henry’s stories were more than, as Fusco later calls it, an “escape” for him, or even for readers for that matter: his stories contain social commentaries insinuated behind literary devices (123).

Symbolism and irony are two literary devices used in “The Third Ingredient” (1908) to make a social commentary about gender relations and socioeconomics. The story begins with

Hetty Pepper, the heroine intent on enjoying a nice stew for dinner (Henry, “Third” 791). When the story begins, she has just been fired for slapping her boss, who was sexually harassing her, so a good meal is in order (791). Although Hetty Pepper lives in an apartment, the narrator says

“the (so called) Vallambrosa Apartment-House is not an apartment-house. It is composed of two old-fashioned, brownstone-front residences welded into one” (790). Like Dulcie’s home, Hetty’s is a brownstone. Brownstone, an affordable building material that was easy to find, was popular

with the rich in the eighteen hundreds, and many wealthy people had mansions made of this

material, which turned a different color as the years passed as a result of its composition

(Burrows and Wallace 716-717). I point this out to demonstrate that the materials of buildings

can serve as a reflection of the social changes taking place at the time.

Just like the crumbling dust in “Brickdust Row” could be viewed as a metaphor for the

changing roles of women in society (as explained in the third section of this chapter), so too can

the materials of the tenement in “An Unfinished Story,” the apartment in “The Third Ingredient,”

and even in the ripped wall-paper in Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s “The Yellow Wall-Paper” as

discussed in the introduction. The compositions and purposes of these buildings and rooms are

physically changing just like the roles of women were changing at the turn of the century.

These new roles for women included living in a public space with men, and also sharing

a space with people of different classes. We see this in Hetty’s apartment complex, where “you

may have a room there for two dollars a week or you have one for twenty dollars. Among the

Vallambrosa’s roomers are stenographers, musicians, brokers, shop-girls, space-rate writers, art

students, wire-tappers…” (Henry, “Third” 790). The juxtaposition of the cost of rent and the

long list of male and female professions immediately following suggests that the Vallambrosa is

a place where all comingle, regardless of gender or class. Like Hetty’s apartment complex, O.

Henry’s home at 55 Irving Place was a brownstone residence, where “the front room looked

down upon the pavement; and from his window he could study the passing types [of people]”

(Maurice 14). Besides getting story ideas from the people he observed around him, he would

listen to people’s stories—especially those of the working women—when he used to go to “The

Club,” what William Wash Williams refers to as “a little café at the corner of Eighteenth Street

and Irving Place” (62). O. Henry also told tales based on his own life experiences.

One of these real-life experiences, as retold by O.Henry’s friend and writer Anne Partlan,

is the story of a night when he was fed stew by a kind girl who found him wandering around the

hallways of his lodgings, a man with no money to buy a meal, distracted by a hunger sharpened

by the smell of good food (qtd. in Moyle 17). Though the kind actions of the girl might have

provided the foundation for the story “The Third Ingredient,” the rest of the anecdote, where O.

Henry finds an empty room when he later returns to the girl’s room to try and repay her for her

kindness by taking her to dinner could be said to have been the inspiration for “The Furnished

Room” (Caravantes 99). Regardless of which story it inspired, the source for both “The Third

Ingredient” and “The Furnished Room” is real life.

Besides being based on an experience that happened to O. Henry, “The Third Ingredient”

is also a story that conveys the universal struggles faced by the inhabitants in the building. Hetty was recently fired, but she is determined that “one hot, savory beef-stew for supper, a night’s good sleep, and she would be fit in the morning to apply [for another job] again…” (Henry,

“Third” 791). Her positive attitude serves her well. Not even the lack of potatoes and onions, a staple typically accompanying beef stew, is going to dampen her resolve to have a good meal with what she has at hand (791). Luckily, she meets a girl at the sink in the hall who is having similar financial troubles, as evinced when she “smiled starvedly” at Hetty and tried in vain to properly cut her potatoes (792). Hetty suggests that the two go back to her place and combine

their ingredients for stew (792). The girl, Cecilia, agrees, and soon Hetty is cooking the meal,

wishing she had an onion while “Cecilia’s part was to sit on the couch helplessly and beg to be

allowed to do something…” (792). Soon enough the pretty, young, out of work artist tearfully

tells the homely, out of work, thirty-three year old Hetty her sob story about how she tried to drown herself in the river, but then was saved by a kind man on the ferry who jumped in after her

(793-794). Though Cecilia was too embarrassed to give him her name, the man said he would

find her anyway (794). He has not, and she bemoans Prince Charming’s inability to find her, but

Hetty tells Cecilia to be patient: he may still come (794).

Prince Charming does come, in fact, and even better, he arrives with the coveted onion.

Hetty does not know who he is at first, but she is able to convince the young man to relinquish

his onion for a meal with Cecilia and her (795-796). Concerned for propriety, Hetty asks for

Cecilia’s permission to invite the man to dinner, telling her she will vouch for the man’s

character (796). But Cecilia is too ravenous for propriety and old social rules: “‘I’m so hungry.

What difference does it make whether he’s a prince or a burglar? I don’t care. Bring him in if

he’s got anything to eat with him’” (796). More important than social mores, O. Henry seems to

suggest with these lines, is satisfying basic human needs like hunger.

Hetty discovers the young man’s identity as Cecilia’s prince when she comes back in the

hallway and finds him yelling at his chauffeur (796-797). Having both a driver and an

automobile are important elements in the story because these facts indicate social status,

something Hetty shrewdly notices. As O’Connor notes, “O. Henry sensed the fact that the

automobile would soon be used as a status symbol,” and he used the automobile for such means

in several of his stories (97). The automobile also signifies movement. Prince Charming is not

just here at Cecilia’s apartment; he also has the means to get her out of this environment. Hetty

tells him he has a few minutes alone with Cecilia before she comes in with the onion (Henry,

“Third” 797).

Although “The Third Ingredient” has a happy ending for Cecilia and her prince, the only

thing certain about Hetty’s fate is that she will have a good beef stew for dinner. The story really

ends on a bittersweet note, in fact. While Hetty jokingly refers to Cecilia as “Potatoes” and her

young man as “Onion,” the playful metaphors aren’t so funny when one reads the last line of the

story: ‘“but it’s us,’ she said grimly, to herself, ‘it’s us that furnishes the beef’” (797). Russian

critic B. M. Ejxenbaum remarks on what he calls the “submerged analogy…between the role of the onion in the dish being prepared (meat and potatoes) and the role of the young man who appears at the end of the story (with onion in hand). The analogy comes out explicitly in Hetty’s line with which the story ends” (18). I argue that the metaphors in the story are more important than the analogy, and I propose to look at these metaphors by first observing word frequencies.

Although the dish is not considered beef stew without the onions and potatoes, it is possible to make a stew with just beef, some condiments, and flour (Henry, “Third” 791). Beef is a central component in composing a stew, and many people plan entire meals around produce. Yet for all its importance, the word “beef” is only repeated thirteen times in the story, while “meat,” a related word, appears just twice. The word “potato(es),” however, is mentioned nineteen times.

And then there is the onion.

Because it is repeated so much in the story, it would seem that the onion seems to be the most important ingredient in the stew. Hetty expresses the wish to have an onion—the only ingredient that would make her meal complete—ten times when Cecilia is in her apartment, and

the word “onion(s)” is mentioned a total of forty times in the story, a little more than twice the

number of times as “potato(es),” and more than double of both the words “meat” and “beef” combined. These word frequencies are significant because they require us to look at the text in a different way, namely through what Franco Moretti calls “distant reading…[which] allows you to focus on units that are much smaller or much larger than the text: devices, themes, tropes—or genres and systems” (Distant 48-49). The constant repetition of the soup ingredients, in addition to implicit food metaphors and the title of the story, requires us to paradoxically step away from the text in order to take a closer look at their significance to the overall meaning of the story. Let us begin by taking a closer look at food metaphors.

Hetty calls Cecilia “Potatoes” because those are the ingredients she furnished for the soup

(Henry, “Third” 797). “Onions” is her name for the rich young man who saved Cecilia because he has the onion for the stew (797). If people are what they contribute, then that makes Hetty the beef. She recognizes as much at the end of the story when she says to herself ‘“it’s us that furnished the beef’” (797). If we look at the City as a stew of people, then rich men, or even men in general, could be said to be like onions: they are powerful, they are noticeable, and they can be overwhelming. That the word “onion” occurs so many times leads one to believe that the onion/men “count” for more, meaning they are more significant as people, than the other ingredients/women in the stew. If we take a closer look at the other ingredients, then the Cecilias of the City, the young, helpless, sweet, pretty girls, are like potatoes: you can have a meal of them and not starve, but a meal of potatoes is not as fulfilling as one of beef because they lack substance. Although it is tempting to make a correlation between the Cecilias/Potatoes and the

Irish at the turn of the twentieth century, there is not a correlation between ethnicity and the other

stew ingredients, which leads me to believe that this would be a fruitless endeavor. As for the

Hettys, the “beef” of society, the plain, hard-working, resourceful shop-girls, they are the heart

of the meal, the central component to the City, the necessary ingredient for survival.

Yet of all the ingredients, the “beef” word frequency is the lowest, insinuating perhaps

that, though working-women with Hetty’s characteristics are the most valuable component to

society, they “count” the least, they are worth less than other members in society. This is a

powerful social commentary to make, one that goes beyond moralizing to merge class and gender lines. Though all “soup ingredients” exist in the City and serve different purposes, the one in particular that is more substantial than the others is the corresponding New Woman in the story—Hetty.

As the New Woman in the story, Hetty serves as a reminder of the complexity of the term. Martha H. Patterson explains, “signifying at once a character type, a set of distinct goals, and a cultural phenomenon, the New Woman defined women more broadly than the suffragette or settlement worker while connoting…a distinctly modern ideal of self-refashioning” (2). “The

Third Ingredient” can be classified as New Woman literature because it is a story that celebrates

New Woman qualities. Even Cecilia, as helpless as she is, is a sort of mini “New Woman” in her protestations to forego propriety to get fed (Henry, “Third” 796). Hetty is obviously the traditional example of the New Woman, a shop-girl trying to maintain her dignity in the workforce, ever independent and resourceful. O. Henry validates the rights of the New Woman

and states her importance to the City with the examples of Cecilia and Hetty, insinuating that the

New Woman holds a valuable place in society. In addition, going back to food metaphors, if

Hetty does not need an onion to “save” her stew, then she does not need a man to “save” her

from poverty. If his readers can accept this social criticism, perhaps they can then begin to see the shop-girl as more than just a part of the thousands, among millions of nameless faces behind a counter in a department store.

5. Inside Public Places: The Department Store

The department store was a relatively new place for American women at the turn of the twentieth century. This new space allowed for a greater range of movement between the home and the outside world, as well as more economic freedom. No longer are women merely homemakers. Now they can gain outside experience, although it was limited to a new space.

Most shop-girls were assigned a floor or a counter in which to work, as Masie is assigned the glove counter in “A Lickpenny Lover” and Nancy works the handkerchief counter in “The

Trimmed Lamp” (Henry, “Lickpenny” 8; “Trimmed” 394). Many shop-girls became good at their jobs, and even better at reading people. The department store became its own entity with its own rules, beginning with the organization of space. A. T. Stewart’s, for example, was a store where “the carefully arranged space, with counters and aisles symmetrically disposed, gave the ground floor and the open circle of upper stories the appearance of a utopian order…” (Barth

127). The floors of Stewart’s store were organized with precision as well: unwanted jobs like working in the boiler room and packing goods were in the sub-cellar, the basement was for

“carpet assembly,” the first floor (at street level) contained an assortment of affordable and rich goods like “haberdashery, silks, bonnets, cloaks,” the second and third floors consisted of

“carpets, ladies suits, shawls,” the fourth and fifth floors were manufactories, and the stock room and laundry were on the sixth (Homberger, Historical 103). In short, the layout of the store seems to emulate the layout of the class system in America at the turn of the century: the most

undesirable positions, held by the lower classes of society, are underneath the store, a suggestion of space indicating that these people are “beneath” the rich.

Shop-girls were on the sales floor, a place to purchase, to sell, and to observe those doing the purchasing. Many working women, like Nancy in “The Trimmed Lamp” (1906) modeled their behavior and dress after the affluent women shopping where they work: “from one she would copy and practice a gesture, from another an eloquent lifting of an eyebrow, from others, a manner of walking…” (Henry, “Trimmed” 394). In real life, some saw this behavior and thought it meant “working women were seeking upwards mobility, dressing like their betters in order to marry into a higher class” (Peiss 63). In Nancy’s case, this is absolutely true. She tells her friend Lou she is perfectly happy with her pitiful wages at the department store (“eight

[dollars] a week”) and small living quarters (a “hall bedroom”) because the trade-off is worth it:

“‘I like to be among nice things and swell people. And look what a chance I’ve got! Why, one of our glove girls married a Pittsburg—steel maker, or blacksmith or something—the other day worth a million dollars. I’ll catch a swell myself sometime”’ (Henry, “Trimmed” 392). Now in a new environment, these working women had opportunities to share space with people of higher classes, which gave them a chance to “spread their social wings,” so to speak, and perhaps find a way to co-mingle with these people outside of work.

Shop-girls learned many things in this new environment. Most of these department stores were little cities with their own rules and regulations. Many of them were massive. At the beginning of “A Lickpenny Lover” we are told “there were 2,000 girls in the Biggest Store”

(Henry, “Lickpenny” 8). In “The Ferry of Unfulfilment,” “a thousand girls from the great department store of Sieber-Mason flowed along the side-walk…” (12). When she was looking

for a job, “[Hetty] walked into the Biggest Store one morning four years before, with seventy- five other girls…” (“Third” 790). Only six of them could get hired (790). It was a competitive environment to be sure, in fiction and in real life: A. T. Stewart’s had “2,000 employees” (Barth

127). If we look at the department store as a microcosm of New York City, perhaps the counters assigned to the shop-girls could be viewed as representing neighborhoods or burrows where they sell their wares.

Some of these “neighborhoods” could foster a competitive environment. O. Henry was told this when his feminist friend Anne Partlan asked him to join her and some working girls for dinner. Anne relates “he leavened their shop-talk with genial, simple expressions of mirth as they told their tales of petty intrigue and strife for place amid the antagonism and pressure which pervades the atmosphere of every big organization” (qtd. in Moyle 16-17). After dinner O.

Henry remarked to Partlan “if Henry James had gone to work in one of those places, he would have turned out the great American novel” (qtd. in Moyle 17). Perhaps this comment was due to his belief that the stories of the “four million” people in New York were just as, if not more so, important than the stories of the “four hundred,” the people James wrote about. Although it is a bit of a digression, it is important for us to take a closer look at this comment about “the great

American novel” because there was a great concern that one was lacking in American culture at the turn of the twentieth century.

On a literary level, America is famous for the short story. Stephen Leacock remarks in

1916: “that petted offspring of hopes, the American Short Story…is expected some day to bloom with such effulgence as to prove that we are after all a literary people…” (121). In the same year, Katharine Fullerton Gerould explains, “we cannot have the genuinely American

novel, the novel reflecting our national life. And so we have the short story” (qtd. in Kilmer 12).

American literary critics take great pride in their short stories, which is perhaps why they are so protective of them.

This attitude may also explain the harsh criticism concerning O. Henry’s works. Going back to O. Henry’s quote about James, I find it interesting that it was thought at one time that

Henry James could remedy this embarrassment to American culture. Katharine Fullerton

Gerould reports, “when Henry James came back to the United States after years of absence, some one said to him: ‘Now you’ll write us the great American novel!’ He answered, ‘No, I can’t. I don’t know the American world of business’” (qtd. in Kilmer 12). Although this comment could be about the commercial enterprise in America and how it affects artistic license,

James could also be expressing the importance of understanding American commerce in order to accurately capture the spirit of the country during the Progressive Era, something O. Henry was able to do in his short stories.

Admittedly, O. Henry does not dwell on department stores as competitive environments but instead focuses on working women who united to help one another. This is expressed in

“The Trimmed Lamp,” where “there was another source of learning in the great department school” (Henry, “Trimmed” 394). In this “school,” women meet to learn from one another. Like the “feminine gossip” between Lady Liberty and Diana in “The Lady Higher Up,” in “The

Trimmed Lamp,” the “apparently frivolous conversation” between the girls at this “department school” is more than it appears (“Lady” 4; “Trimmed” 394). We are warned that these working women do not speak of frivolous matters because we are told “during this council of war they pass weapons one to another, and exchange stratagems that each has devised and formulated out

of the tactics of life” (“Trimmed” 394). The interesting thing about this group is that no one is

excluded. The working women of this store are all plotting together for a common goal, and

they are described as being united in this goal: “the heads, brown, black, flaxen, red, and yellow

bob together; the answer is given; and the parry to the thrust is decided upon, to be used by each thereafter in passages-at-arms with the common enemy, man. Thus Nancy learned the art of defense; and to a woman successful defense means victory” (394). These girls have to know how to deal with men, and the words they learn to use to defend themselves are like swords that protect them from unwanted advances.

But working women need to be careful what they say—and do. If they make a mistake, they could end up without a job, like Hetty in “The Third Ingredient.” To prevent this fate (and worse), some women banded together in department stores and their tutelage became a sort of education that taught them how to survive in this new environment. It was not uncommon in the real world to have this camaraderie, and some working girls even “used their selling skills to manipulate managers, supervisors, and customers…” (Peiss 46). Such manipulations were necessary to survive, not just to protect and defend themselves, but also to find a husband.

Nancy is described as a “man-hunter” and “the store was her forest; and many times she raised her rifle at game that seemed broad-antlered and big…” (Henry, “Trimmed” 395). As stated earlier, Nancy is on the look-out for a rich husband, a millionaire. Her friend Lou tells her she aims too high, that ‘“millionaires don’t think about working girls like us”’ (397). Nancy snaps back with ‘“it might be better for them if they did…some of us could teach them how to take care of their money”’ (397). This exchange could read like social criticism, a suggestion that these women have value and something to contribute to society. They should not be

dismissed merely because they are of the working class. Of course, the irony of Nancy’s

comment is that she is dismissing the working class by refusing to consider marrying anyone

other than a millionaire.

Another level of irony in “The Trimmed Lamp” is that Nancy actually ends up happily

engaged to a working-class man, Lou’s friend Dan. As she tells Lou, “‘I’ve made my catch—the

biggest catch in the world’” (398). Though Dan, “an electrician earning $30 per week,” is not a

“catch” in terms of dollar signs, he is much more valuable because he is a good person (392).

Nancy starts to realize this when “her standard of values began to shift and change. Sometimes

the dollar-mark grew blurred in her mind’s eye and shaped itself into letters that spelled such

words as ‘truth,’ and ‘honor,’ and now and then just ‘kindness’” (398). As Nancy’s priorities start to shift, we see her pause in her “man hunt” more than once as “some deep unerring instinct—perhaps of the huntress, perhaps of the woman—made her hold her fire…” (395). The conflict between Nancy as “the huntress,” perhaps another allusion to Diana of the Tower, and

Nancy “the woman” is resolved when she agrees to marry Dan. Instead of “hunting” someone who is “valued” for his money, Nancy opens her eyes to what is more important: a man who possesses values of “truth,” “honor,” and “kindness” (398). We see these values emulated in other working-class men as well, like Mr. Ramsay, the head clerk of a department store in “The

Purple Dress” (1905).

In contrast to the massive department stores portrayed in “A Lickpenny Lover,” “The

Trimmed Lamp,” and “The Third Ingredient” is the Bee-Hive Store in “The Purple Dress.” This store “was not a fashionable department store, with escalators and pompadours. It was almost small enough to be called an emporium…” (“Purple” 8). If the Biggest Store is a model for city

life, the Bee Hive serves as a model for life in a small town. The name Bee Hive conjures

images of busy bees in an intimate space, much like the girls in the shop. Emile Zola describes a

Parisian department store as “a beehive” in his 1883 novel The Ladies’ Paradise (3). Having

read Zola, perhaps O. Henry shared his impressions of the department store. Unlike the French

naturalist author who believed that we are caught by our environment and cannot escape, O.

Henry offered a purely American solution to problems: be a better person and chase after your dreams. Although this might seem trite, it is in line with “The American Dream,” the idea that hard work will get you what you want in life and everyone deserves a chance to achieve his—or her—desires. This democratic ideal can be seen in “The Purple Dress,” where a girl saves up enough of her own money to buy the dress of her dreams. This girl, Maida, works at the Bee

Hive.

The Bee Hive in “The Purple Dress” is a more comforting place than the behemoth department stores found in other stories. The Bee Hive is also a place where, unlike the sleazy buyers in “A Lickpenny Lover” and “The Third Ingredient,” the head clerk, Mr. Ramsay, is a gentleman (Henry, “Purple” 8). It is also a place that celebrates traditions. The owner of the

store, Mr. Bachman, has an annual Thanksgiving dinner for the entire staff, something the

employees seem to anticipate (8). Two of the main characters, Maida and Grace, even get new

dresses for the occasion. These dresses are not only for a special occasion; they are also

supposed to help attract the attention of Mr. Ramsay (8). We are told that Maida specifically

“had saved $18 after eight months of economy; and this had bought the goods for the purple

dress and paid Schlegel [its maker] $4 on the making of it. On the day before Thanksgiving she

would have just enough to pay the remaining $4” (8). Specific monetary amounts, as well as the

amount of time it took Maida to save this money put the shop-girl’s struggle in perspective. It

also helps to have a narrator remind readers of the sharp contrast between rich and poor: “ladies

of the full purse and varied wardrobe. You do not know what it is to live with a perpetual

longing for pretty things—to starve eight months in order to bring a purple dress and a holiday

together” (8). At the turn of the century, it was not out of the ordinary for a girl to forgo a meal

so she could have a few extra cents, and some had to engage in this practice on a regular basis in

order to make ends meet (Peiss 52). Such practices makes items purchased with money scrimped and saved over long periods of time more valuable to these shop-girls not only because they purchased these items with money earned from their labor, but also because they were only able to save money with great effort.

Like Dulcie in “An Unfinished Story,” Maida has to take great pains in order to enjoy a little pleasure in life. This is yet another example where O. Henry is providing social critiques

via monetary details, this time not only to sharply display the discrepancies between social

classes, but also to remark on the inhumanity of paying shop-girls so little wages. Numbers do

not lie, and O. Henry uses them to his advantage many times in his stories. His figures are

accurate concerning the shop-girl, who earned around “five to six dollars a week” (Burrows and

Wallace 1177).

A shop-girl’s money and how she spends it are important in many O. Henry stories. O.

Henry is constantly itemizing expenditures. The list of details he provides, like the cost of rent,

salary, and food, helps to further explain how difficult things can be for the shop-girl. For

example, “Dulcie worked in a department store….of what she earned, Dulcie received six dollars

per week” (Henry, “Unfinished” 422). This contrast between what she earns versus what she

receives insinuates that shop-girls are not receiving fair wages for the work that they do, an idea that is historically accurate because, like most professions held by women at the time, “their average earnings were one-half of those received by men…” (Peiss 52). Even though they were doing the same job as a man, working women were not fairly compensated. Rather than being valued as people, they were cheap labor, and cheap labor meant more profits for the company.

Cheap labor also meant that shop-girls were disposable. In “The Third Ingredient,” Hetty was a shop-girl for four years before getting fired for slapping a boss who “pinched her arm kindly, three inches above the elbow” (Henry, “Third” 791). The narrator remarks on the indignity of being “discharged from the department store where you have been working four years, and with only fifteen cents in your purse…” (790). We are told twice in the story that

Hetty pays $3.50 in rent (790, 791). Like Dulcie, Hetty also lives on the third floor in a rear apartment (791). Unlike Dulcie, the older and more experienced shop-girl had an “eight-dollar- a-week salary” (791). The narrator insists “you shall not learn from me the salary that was paid her as a beginner. There is a sentiment growing about such things; and I want no millionaire store-proprietors climbing the fire-escape of my tenement-house to throw dynamite bombs into my skylight boudoir” (791). Though this side comment is O. Henry’s humorous way of insisting he is no reformer, mentioning that these millionaires would get upset if he stated a shop-girl’s original pay seems to suggest otherwise. This idea is even more compelling if we consider the year of publication for this tale, 1908, five years after the publication of “The Ferry of

Unfulfilment,” what I consider to be his first shop-girl story.1 The fact that O. Henry remarks on the issue of her salary and jokes about people complaining to him about doing so implies that his stories generated interest in their working conditions. People were starting to take notice of what he was saying. One of his biographers, David Stuart, notes the last lines of “An Unfinished

Story” were “about as near as social commentary as O. Henry ever got” (143). At the end of this

story, the narrator says he had a dream that a policeman asked if he was with “a crowd of

prosperous looking angels” (Henry, “Unfinished” 426). When the policeman explains this group

‘“are the men who hired working-girls, and paid ‘em five or six dollars a week to live on,’” the

narrator is adamant that he is not a part of this group, exclaiming ‘“I’m only the fellow that set

fire to an orphan asylum, and murdered a blind man for his pennies” (426).

This ending expresses a judgment passed against the men who underpay shop-girls.

Although setting fire to a building containing orphans and killing a blind man for a few cents are

both horrific acts, in this case it is worse to make a profit at the expense of others, especially

women. This ideology was probably something with which O. Henry could relate on a personal

level, given the fact that he went to prison for three years for a crime he said he did not commit.

Like these shop-girls, he was treated unfairly and had to “pay” for it.

6. Conclusion

O. Henry is especially attuned to the spaces women inhabit, and this awareness

determined how he constructed his narratives. It could be argued that he would have agreed with

1 C. Alphonso Smith claims O. Henry’s “first shop-girl story” is “A Lickpenny Lover” (1904), but “The Ferry of Unfulfillment” was published a year earlier in 1903 (Smith, O. Henry 217). Though “The Ferry of Unfulfillment” is not set in a department store, as “A Lickpenny Lover” begins, it is about a shop-girl, and the conclusion of the tale hinges on her response to problems she had during her workday in this environment.

Franco Moretti’s comment that “space is not the ‘outside’ of narrative…but an internal force,

that shapes it from within” (Atlas 70). When it comes to short story elements, space, or setting,

is a crucial element that drives the narrative: “what happens depends on where it happens” (70).

Although many of O. Henry’s stories are universal in the sense that his characters are relatable to

a vast number of people, the fact of the matter is that a large number of these stories are “period

pieces.” This makes them valuable from a historicist standpoint because these stories suggest the

spaces female characters inhabit and work in give them power to change their lives, a reflection

of what was occurring at the turn of the twentieth century for some women. New spaces like the

department store gave women economic freedom, and new living quarters gave them a larger range of movement in which to exercise this new freedom.

Most of the female characters who are continuously kept in tight spaces in the stories

previously analyzed manage to move away from these confining spaces to more open areas,

some of them public spaces also inhabited by men. These women have different stories than

men because the spaces that they frequent are oftentimes different. The urbanization of the City

at the turn of the twentieth century, the tremendous growth of new businesses, and the growth of

the skyline to provide space for these businesses all contributed not only to new job opportunities

for women, but also gave them a space of their own. Yet, at the same time, these women did not

own these spaces, for the most part. They rented, an action that suggests a transience that,

although freeing in its mobility, is also dangerous in its instability. Though many New Women

were no longer reliant on a father or a husband for survival, they became increasingly reliant on a

new man in their lives: their boss. A woman’s boss did the hiring and the firing. The New

Woman had the opportunity for a new life, but it was a life still in the hands of a man, and O.

Henry’s sympathy with this plight is expressed in his works.

O. Henry’s sympathy and respect for the New Woman is due in part to his overall sympathy and respect for humankind. Always a believer in giving to the needy, the writer was famous for his charity. As O. Henry once said, “anybody can have my money any time; they don’t have to lie to me to get it; just say they want it…” (qtd. in Williams 208). His friend Seth

Moyle reports that he once saw a woman praying at O. Henry’s funeral, “a woman whom he [O.

Henry] had uplifted and set on the right path. He was always doing silent good. That’s the reason he never had any money” (32).

The other part of O. Henry’s sympathy and respect for the New Woman has to do with his upbringing. As noted in the introduction to this dissertation, his mother died when he was three (Long 10). O. Henry’s father, although kind, took little care to finances (11). Were it not for his Aunt Lina and his grandmother, he would have surely starved as a child; were it not for his Aunt Lina’s school teachings, his mind would have starved (9, 11). Both women were resilient and independent, and I argue their influence helped to foster a strong respect for women, a respect we see reflected everywhere in his stories. Aunt Lina and Grandmother Porter constantly kept the wolf away from the door and put food on the table. They were able to overcome their struggles because of their strength and tenacity, much like Hetty in “The Third

Ingredient.”

Another struggle faced by the female characters in these stories is acclimating to a new environment. For some, this new environment was a way to “marry up,” as the saying goes.

Sometimes a happy ending for these shop-girls, as Eugene Current-Garcia noted, was indeed a

real possibility in which the public believed because O. Henry’s details and descriptions of these

girls’ lives were so vivid and true to life (108). But to get your happy ending you cannot be so

jaded that you lose faith in men, like Masie in “A Lickpenny Lover,” nor can you blink, like

Claribel in “The Ferry of Unfulfilment,” or it will pass you by. If you are lucky, a good man will

come along to love you and support you financially, like steady Dan in “The Trimmed Lamp,” or

John in “The Buyer from Cactus City,” or perhaps even Mr. Ramsay in “The Purple Dress.” But

others, like Blinker in “Brickdust Row” are too shallow and shrink from such an opportunity.

And then there are those who are worse, like Piggy in “An Unfinished Story,” the scum who

prey on a shop-girl’s hunger and exploit it. In order to survive, these shop-girls must be strong,

inventive, kind, honest, and open to the idea of love.

As for society, it needs to be kind and sympathetic to these “New Women.” Kindness

was a trait that was very important to O. Henry, especially given his constant struggles with

poverty, which his in-laws (the Roaches) graciously helped him with, like when they took him in

when he got out of jail; Langford reminds us that the Roaches were fiercely loyal to Porter (153).

Not only did the Roaches have faith in O. Henry, they gave Margaret a home, which must have

lifted a huge concern from his shoulders. He had enough worries in prison. Although more

comfortable than most because of his job first as the night druggist and then as a steward, prison

was a shocking exposure to how cruel man could be: “I never imagined human life was held as

cheaply as it is here. The men are regarded as animals without soul or feeling….They work

thirteen hours a day and each man must do a certain amount or be punished. Some few strong

ones stand the work, but it is simply slow death to the majority” (Porter, William Sydney, Letter to Mr. Roach 155). O. Henry knew life was harsh, and he knew that sometimes little acts of

kindness, like asking someone to join you for a meal, could mean all the difference in the world.

As Cecilia of “The Third Ingredient” poignantly states, ‘“when one is tired or unhappy or hopeless, kindness counts more than anything else’” (Henry, “Third” 794).

CHAPTER 2

MONEY MATTERS

O. Henry only “had twenty-three cents in his pockets” when he checked into the hospital before

he died in 1910 (Stuart 11). Though he made a substantial amount of money from the sales of

his stories during his lifetime, as David Stuart tells us in his fact-filled biography, “money meant nothing to him…” (11). Stuart emphasizes O. Henry’s philosophy on money by providing a chronology of his expenditures and constant requests for money, specifically from editors, in the form of advances for short stories (138, 145, 146, 195, 226, and 228). It bears noting that O.

Henry was always specific in the amount of money he requested. George MacAdam explains that when he asked for money, “the exactness of the amount and of the time [he needed it] did not surprise the hearer [of the request]; specifying sums to the penny (usually 14) and the hour of need to the minute were two habits of O. Henry” (“O. Henry’s Only” 5).

I would like to highlight from the start that O. Henry was just as specific about his handling of money in his short stories as he was in real life; in fact, he wrote the word “money,”

“dollar,” and/or a specific dollar amount in one hundred and fifteen of his one hundred and thirty-nine New York short stories, the bulk of which were written during the time he lived in the

City, between 1902 and 1910. A closer look at ten of these stories reveals how money creates a spatial pattern that not only serves to connect certain words and/or themes, but also reveals important social commentaries, some of which are in the same vein as those expressed by Georg

Simmel. The spatial pattern of money in O. Henry’s stories, or formula, is reflected in the actual

language present in the stories themselves, often through the repetition of syntactic patterns, key

terms, monetary details, alliteration, personification, and, of course, by the manner in which the theme of money is handled.

One of the signature spatial patterns in O. Henry’s stories can often be found in the opening line. I refer to a recurrent syntactic pattern that involves the positioning of the main subject of the story within the first sentence in order to call attention to that subject so that readers can track its evolution throughout the story. For instance, “The Tale of a Tainted

Tenner,” “Gifts of the Magi,” and “One Thousand Dollars” all begin with either the word

“money” or a specific dollar amount in the opening line. As each story develops, the movement of the word money or a specific dollar amount mimics the movement of currency in the narration so as to reinforce the significance of money. The spatial placement of money, which is always prevalent, highlights the concept that, though in some ways money is static (a “tenner” will always be a ten-dollar bill, for example), the feelings associated with money can and—in many of these stories—often do change. Georg Simmel explains this when he states “money brings about a continually increasing number of effects while it remains itself immobile,” for example,

“the powerful effects that money produces through the hope and fear, the desire and anxiety that are associated with it” (Philosophy 171). Therefore, it is not only money’s power to circulate in society that makes it significant, but also its power to “move,” or have an effect on the emotions of the people handling it.

In addition to placing the word “money” and words relating to money at the beginning of his stories, O. Henry plays with the double meaning of the word “worth.” Playing with the meanings of words creates a sort of antithesis in which a character’s humanistic worth is contrasted with his monetary worth. What I mean to say is that O. Henry seems to suggest that

money has value or “worth,” but how much money a character has should not be the equivalent

of his or her worth as a human being. To put it another way, just because a man possesses a

million dollars doesn’t mean he is worth a lot of money. The juxtaposition of these two

definitions helps to convey the idea that people should not be judged on the measure of their

wealth, but rather by the character traits they possess. Stories such as “The Discounters of

Money,” “One Thousand Dollars,” and “A Night in New Arabia” all deal with the issue of a

man’s worth as a person versus how much money he is worth. In this case, the contrast between

one’s human characteristics and his or her economic condition serve to highlight different

notions of what it means to be “worth” something. Shifting the meaning of “worth” from how much money a character has to the worth of a human being helps create a spatial pattern that proposes the answer to what is really important in life, namely being a kind person. At the end of the day it is not how much money a man has that determines his worth—it is how he treats others. To put what Cecilia said at the end of the last chapter another way, kindness is worth more than any coin or dollar (Henry, “Third” 794).

After differentiating between the different concepts of “worth,” we can begin to understand how the way money changes hands affects different social classes. For example, in order for characters of different social classes to exchange money on a more personal basis, sometimes one of them must move into the other’s social space, as in “Mammon and the

Archer.” There are other instances when the mobility of money allows cash to flow freely from the hands of one character to those of another, sometimes without their meeting. Some bills also

“move around” more than others. There are also some members of society who never see a certain bill due to their social status and perhaps, even, their gender. For example, the “fiver,” or

five-dollar bill, was a shop-girl’s to save or spend, whereas a “tenner,” or ten-dollar bill, might have a different mobility, as evinced in “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner” when the “tenner” admits he has never heard of shop-girls (“Tale” 14).

Besides the mobility of money between classes, there is also the issue of the mobility of money and women in O. Henry’s New York stories. As we have seen in prior chapters, new spaces in the City afforded new careers for women, which gave them more mobility within the

City. Women found themselves not only moving from home to work, but also to more public spaces where they could spend the money they made. The acquisition of money and how women handled it is a reflection of the changing times at the turn of the twentieth century. As more and more women started earning salaries cash flowed freely through their hands and into those of others. The mobility of money in the lives of women is therefore directly tied to their physical mobility, and New Women needed to go out of the house to both make and spend money, sometimes in new spaces, something detailed in “The Enchanted Profile” and “The Girl and the Habit.”

Though these stories represent progressive thinking at the turn of the century, other stories like “The Girl and the Graft” reflect traditional views of women and the difficulties New

Women may have had while navigating these new financial waters, like the wage gap between men and women (Peiss 52). The problem with the wage gap between the sexes is obvious: women work for less money than men, but they still have the same expenses, such as rent, food, and clothes. In order to survive, some women would skip a meal in order to have money for other necessities (52). In other words, navigating new financial waters did not always alleviate the issue of needing more money.

Oftentimes the main problem in O. Henry’s stories is a character’s lack of funds and the

inability to keep said funds (Furman 421). The conflict of many of O. Henry’s stories revolves around money, and money is also a central theme that sometimes plays a key role in his love stories as, for example, in “A Service of Love” and “Gifts of the Magi.” Characters in these

stories must decide how to obtain funds. In some cases, they must decide whether or not to make

a monetary sacrifice for the one they love. In order to establish the conflict of money, these

stories must first begin with an emphasis on money and its importance to the development and

movement of the plot. The narration begins with money so that we as readers can see its

significance diminish in favor of more important values, humanitarian values O. Henry

advocates in his works.

1. Beginnings

As every writer knows, the first line of a story, to be memorable, must “hook” readers

and make them want to continue reading. O. Henry was a master of the first line hook, as we

will see in this section.

Beginnings are also important because they set the mood for the rest of the story and,

many times, stress what is significant. As Edgar Allen Poe explains in his “Review of Twice-

Told Tales,” short story writers must create “a certain unique or single effect to be wrought

out…” (61). The focus of the story must be on achieving this effect, and “if his very initial

sentence tend not to the outbringing [sic] of this effect, then he has failed in his first step” (61).

The lack of money as a conflict is a means of getting this “effect,” an idea that can also be linked

to Simmel’s previous quote about money producing “effects” on the emotions of people who

handle money (Philosophy 171). Beginnings propel the plot forward by establishing what is

important. They also set the tone of the story and establish expectations. Expectations are

especially important in an O. Henry story because the surprise ending that he was so famous for

would not be possible without them. The surprise ending hinges, in fact, on thwarting

expectations. The stories discussed in this section all have one thing in common: they all start

with money, and they all end with the idea that money is not the most important thing in life.

The first line of “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner” (1905) is a two-word sentence: “Money talks” (Henry, “Tale” 14). Though a cliché, this brief sentence is effective for two reasons: it is catchy, and it is true. In fact, the cliché is as true today as it was during the twentieth century: when all else fails, money can motivate people to do things. Though this idea is important, and one that we see repeated in many of O. Henry’s tales, it is undercut by the second, more important meaning of the sentence: money can talk!

As in “The Lady Higher Up,” we will see how O. Henry uses the fantasy genre in “The

Tale of a Tainted Tenner” to make a comment on social issues through indirect means. Also like

“The Lady Higher Up,” he uses personification in a skillful and playful manner, this time to make a comment on socioeconomics and the human condition. The main character of “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner” is a “tenner,” or ten-dollar bill. O. Henry gives the “tenner” a voice, and the “tenner” in question suggests himself, right from the start, that different amounts of money have different ways of speaking. For example, he states, “you may think that the conversation of a little old ten-dollar bill in New York would be nothing more than a whisper” (14). At first glance, it appears that this “tenner” speaks quietly, as though what it has to say is not of much importance. Money may talk, but this bill is not flashy or loud. It is unlike “John D’s checkbook

[which will] roar at you through a megaphone as it passes by…” (14). John D refers of course to

John D. Rockefeller, the epitome of wealth and power at the turn of the twentieth century, “a billionaire several times over” (Morris 333). If the modest “tenner” speaks quietly, perhaps it is because he does not have as much value as other larger bills. Rockefeller’s checkbook, for example, has a loud voice because it contains a lot of money. As Thomas Wiseman reports of

Rockefeller, “from every part of his ever-growing empire the reports spoke of ‘wells roaring like

Niagara Falls,’ of fields producing ninety thousand barrels a day, of bursters [sic] and gushers [of oil]” (26). Everything about him, from the way he makes his money to the billions of dollars he has, is “large,” and this gives him a voice so loud that it “roars.” In other words, the way money

“talks” mimics the speech of the people who have it. Though it is suggested that large bills have a lot to say, the tenner hastens to add, “don’t forget that small change can say a word to the point now and then” (Henry, “Tale” 14). Sometimes even just a little bit of money matters.

Money matters are prominent in “Gifts of the Magi” (1905), one of O. Henry’s most popular tales. It is a Christmas story, a story of love, sacrifice, irony, and it has a surprise ending. The social commentary in “Gifts of the Magi” can be derived from its syntactic construction. For example, the first sentence has only one subject: “one dollar and eighty-seven

cents” (“Gifts” 1). A brief and short sentence to be sure, although “$1.87” would have been a

much shorter sentence. The effect, however, would not be the same. Spelling out this specific

amount of money instead of writing numbers and a dollar sign slows down the movement of the

sentence: the more words a sentence has, the more time a reader spends reading it. This

construction forces the reader to look at each and every amount, spelled out, in word form,

making the significance of this amount of money greater.

A case in point: “One dollar and eighty-seven cents” is a very specific amount of money.

It is not a round number, a fact that makes it stand out (1). This oh so exact amount of cash is a significant detail that makes the story more meaningful because it provides specific information about the characters’ lives, how little money they have, that makes them more believable to the readers. This monetary detail moves the story forward because it drives the plot by situating the conflict in specific terms. Details can also create suspense. Such a precise and minute sum of money can make the reader wonder why or how this amount is so relevant to the plot. In this case, readers learn this amount is so significant because the heroine, Della, needs money to buy a

Christmas present for her husband.

The amount becomes even more significant as the paragraph develops. After first stating

“one dollar and eighty-seven cents,” the narrator immediately continues with, “That was all.

And 60 cents of it was in pennies” (1). The movement of these sentences is from a specific amount of money ($1.87) to an even more specific amount of money, the “60 cents” in pennies

(1). Both the total amount of money and the even more specific amount are small, and readers are privy to just how paltry this amount is when the narrator states almost half the amount of money the protagonist has is in pennies. The penny is the smallest coin in the United States. It is also the poor man’s coin, a coin many people nowadays will not even bother to bend over and pick up off a dirty sidewalk. The penny is also predominantly constructed from copper, a metal worth less than silver or gold. Reducing the majority of Della’s funds to pennies emphasizes the fact that, not only is she short on funds, she is also in a lower social class, one who has to go through a lot of trouble to save pennies. Not only that, we are told “that was all,” meaning Della has no money beyond the $1.87 (1).

We see the struggle Della has in saving this money in the fourth sentence of the story’s opening: “pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one’s cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied” (1). At this point, it would be pertinent to revisit the last word of sentence three: “And 60 cents of it was in pennies” (1). The word “pennies” not only brings the third sentence to an end, it is also used as the opening for sentence four. This continuous movement of the word “pennies” from the end of one sentence to the beginning position of the next helps to reinforce the idea that this is a small quantity of cash not just because of the continuity created by the repetition of the words, but also because our focus as readers is on the first and the last word, just as Della’s focus is first on her meager funds, the last thing she wants on her mind (1).

Placement of the noun “pennies” in these sentences is also important because when a writer wants to emphasize a word that is important, he typically places it at either the end or the beginning of a sentence (Strunk and White 32, 33). The word “pennies” is emphasized not just once, but twice in the same paragraph, stressing the idea that money is a concern for Della during the Christmas season.

In addition to the placement of the noun “pennies,” there are no commas in the fourth sentence to slow down the action. Roy Peter Clark explains that an author’s handling of punctuation determines the movement of language, and the comma slows down the momentum of the sentence (46). In lieu of commas, the fourth sentence consists of a series of nouns connected with conjunctions: “and the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher,” suggesting a continuous task that Della undertakes when she goes grocery shopping (Henry,

“Gifts” 1). Saving money is not an easy task for her, and the difficulty of being able to save

when one has so little to begin with is evinced not just in what we are told as readers, but also in the language used to relay this information.

The necessity of saving money is repeated again in sentences five and six: “three times

Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents” (1). Della counts her money, recounts, and

then counts it yet again to be sure that the amount she has is correct. In her case, repeating an

action is an expression of concern. It is a concern with which many people who have been in her

situation can identify. For example, when counting money, one can almost imagine that the first

counting leads to a sinking feeling that the amount is not enough. So one recounts. Still not

enough. Then one recounts yet again as if to verify that a mistake was not made, as if in the

hope that one might find a penny or two that are really dirty dimes in disguise. Perhaps this is

what Della went through. In any event, she must be absolutely certain of how much money she

has. This money is important because she spent time and energy to save it. She counts the

money three times, and the narrator repeats the exact amount of money she has again, using the

exact same wording and sentence structure as before. As stated in the introduction, this

repetition is a formula, one O. Henry uses quite well in countless stories.

Finally, in the last sentence of the paragraph, we are told why this money is important:

“And the next day would be Christmas” (1). This sentence makes everything clear: Della needs

money to buy a present. On the one hand, $1.87 could be viewed as a significant amount of

money because, as pointed out earlier in “The Third Ingredient,” “you may have a room [in

Hetty’s apartment complex] for two dollars a week…” (790). However, Della’s husband Jim,

for whom she needs the money, is much more valuable to her than $1.87. She needs a more

significant amount of money in order to buy a present “worthy” of him (“Gifts” 1). Almost as

important as the lack of funds available to Della at this point is that she is running out of time.

She has one day to purchase a Christmas present for the man she loves, and only $1.87 to spend.

These facts add an urgency to Della’s situation, which increases her desperation to acquire more money to spend on Jim’s present. Besides mimicking the problems faced by the lower class,

Della’s financial woes were also a reality for many New Women who also had to scrimp and save in order to buy a “luxury” item.

$1.87 is a far cry from $1,000, the amount of money to be spent in “One Thousand

Dollars.” Like “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner” and “Gifts of the Magi,” the subject of the first sentence in “One Thousand Dollars” (1904) is money. The story’s first three words contain the exact amount of money in question: ‘“One thousand dollars,”’ repeated Lawyer Tolman, solemnly and severely, ‘“and here is the money”’ (“One” 4). Like in “Gifts of the Magi,” the amount of cash in this story is spelled out in order to focus on the importance of money in general. One thousand dollars, far beyond the value of a tenner and of $1.87, is not only the title of the story, but is also the first amount of money mentioned. It stands alone as the subject of an incomplete sentence, the three words that introduce us to the story, followed by a secondary character and the rest of his dialogue. The “one thousand dollars” is the impetus for movement throughout, as the protagonist, Gillian, devotes a lot of time and energy in trying to figure out how to spend it. Unlike Della in “Gifts of the Magi,” who knows what she needs to do with her money, Gillian does not. Della’s emotional anxiety stems from her lack of money and time, whereas Gillian’s stems from his uncertainty on how to spend his money, feelings heightened by the structure of the language in the story.

100

In the lead sentence alone, “one thousand dollars” determines the rhythmic movement of

the syntax. The first sentence, also the first paragraph of the story, may be divided into four

parts, each of similar length. Though not exact, the commas serve to divide the sections of the sentence. The first half of the sentence: ‘“One thousand dollars”’ consists of three words (4).

The second part, “repeated Lawyer Tolman” is also three words (4). Then there is the manner in which Tolman frames these words, the alliterative “solemnly and severely,” which is again three words (4). Finally, the end of the sentence, ‘“and here is the money,”’ is not three words, but five (4). Even if the word count is not perfectly symmetrical with the earlier sentence fragments, it is pretty close. Close to parallelism, this symmetry adds a smooth movement to the language that mimics the significance of the money by equating it with such terms as “solemnly and severely” (4). Constructing the language so as to make sections of these sentences parallel while keeping these words within such proximity insinuates that money is an important issue that must be taken seriously. In the beginning, money is a significant issue, but it is an issue that will change as the value of money and its worth changes.

2. Value and Worth

O. Henry doesn’t just stress the significance of money in opening lines. Sometimes the significance of dollars and pennies is stressed elsewhere when the narrator and/or characters refer to a person as having monetary “worth,” or its interchangeable word “value.” Simmel warns about society’s overreliance on money as a means to categorize value in “The Metropolis and Mental Life” when he explains, “money takes the place of all the manifolds of things and expresses all qualitative distinctions between them in the distinction of ‘how much’” (330). A society reliant too much on valuing things based on what they cost can begin to overlook other

101

things that are important, like the individual (330). O. Henry addresses the importance of the

individual and plays with the double meaning of what a character is worth in many of his tales.

For example, instead of being “worth” a lot of money, a character can have “value,” or “worth,” based on his or her behavior. Good characters, for example, are worthy because they have good values and they do good deeds. The stories discussed in this section all deal with characters and their worth in both monetary terms and as individuals, as well as what these characters value in their lives. This is an important concept to O. Henry, and we will see how the effect of money on the characters in his stories reveals their worth as human beings.

One character who struggles with the issue of worth is Gillian, the protagonist of “One

Thousand Dollars,” a story that addresses the issue of what money is worth to people. Gillian is given one thousand dollars following the death of his uncle. Upon spending the money, he must return to the lawyers’ office and explain how he got rid of it (Henry, “One” 4). Uncertain how to spend it, he repeats the question of what to do with $1,000 in some form or another six times to four different people (4). This repetition is just one example of spatial patterns that drive the

plot. It is a pattern that creates emphasis and expectation, that is, repeating the question of what

to do with the money emphasizes how important the answer must be. Gillian starts this pattern

when he asks his friend at the club ‘“what can a man possibly do with a thousand dollars?”’ (4).

Though his friend rattles off a list of various ways to spend the money, Gillian stops him and clarifies his initial question to: ‘“I asked you to tell me what I could do with a thousand dollars”’

(4). What anyone can do with the money and what Gillian can do with it appear to be two different things. Gillian wants things made simple. The fewer options he is given, the better.

His friend tells him he ‘“can go buy Miss Lotta Lauriere a diamond pendant with the money, and

102

then take yourself off to Idaho and inflict your presence upon a ranch”’ (4). Though Gillian does not take the advice to go to a ranch seriously, he does visit Lotta.

When Gillian visits Lotta, presumably his mistress, he asks ‘“what do you say to a little thing in the pendant line. I can stand three ciphers with a figure in front of ‘em”’ (4). In all of

his interactions with men, Gillian specifically tells them he has $1,000 to spend. With Lotta,

however, he does not specifically state the amount of money he has; he just states that he has a

couple of thousand dollars. Perhaps this omission of specific detail suggests that Gillian doesn’t

want to spend this money on Lotta. Maybe he doesn’t trust her judgment. If he does not share

the details of his finances with her, maybe it is because he is uncomfortable at the thought of her

knowing how much money he has. Yet again, maybe this is a test to see if she wants him to

spend that much money on her. Lotta supports Gillian’s suggestion to buy her jewelry, and even

goes so far as to give him a specific necklace to purchase at Tiffany’s, one worth much more

than one thousand dollars (4). Lotta values money because it can be used to buy her expensive

jewelry; to her, money is a way to get a physical object that she wants, to satisfy a selfish need

for material possessions. But Gillian does not buy her the pendant (4). Instead, he asks for more

advice.

Gillian then asks his cab driver ‘“what would you do with a thousand dollars if you had

it?’” (4). The cab driver has a quick and ready answer. He has a dream to ‘“open a s’loon,”’ and

regales Gillian with the specifics of how he would spend the money to get his saloon (4). The

cab driver’s solution is a practical one, a business decision that could reap rewards later in life.

Gillian is not interested in this solution, however, and gets out of the cab to ask a blind man what

he would do with the money (4). He soon learns that the blind man is not really blind; he has

103

over a thousand dollars in the bank (4). Yet another practical thing to do with the money would be to save it, put it in the bank for a rainy day.

As we consider the list of people involved in Gillian’s quest for what to do with this money, which includes a friend at the club of equal social stature, an actress (Lotta), a cab driver who needs a sponsor for his dreams, and a “blind” man, I am struck by their differences. That

Gillian goes to so much trouble to ask so many people, each within a different socioeconomic status what to do with the money suggests that though he clearly has no idea what to do with it, he is genuinely trying to figure out the right solution. The acquisition of this money has forced a new responsibility on him, something for which he is not prepared, yet nevertheless recognizes as important. Gillian values this money and his persistent questions concerning what to do with it make this evident, as in the case of Della and the counting of her pennies.

Repetitive actions are important because they can exhibit concern. The repetition of the questions about what to do with the one thousand dollars, and even the repetition of the amount itself, helps to propel the plot because this becomes not just a story about one thousand dollars, but a story about what to do with one thousand dollars, a story about what one thousand dollars is worth not in monetary terms, but in terms of what is the best way to handle the cash. It becomes an issue of what is right—not necessarily what is right for Gillian, but the right thing in general. This thought process takes matters to a different level, a humanitarian one that is an attempt to call our attention to social issues of the importance of money and how we choose to spend it. Gillian finds he cannot use the money to buy something that benefits him in any way.

He does not want to waste it on something trivial. The expenditure of this money must have

104

meaning outside of him. It must be an act that is selfless, an act that will benefit someone for whom he cares.

Eventually, Gillian gives his inheritance to someone he values more than the money—

Miss Hayden. His gift is anonymous, however. Gillian explains that upon his uncle’s death

‘“Miss Hayden, a ward of my uncle, who lived in his house’” only received ‘“a seal ring and

$10…”’ (4). While explaining this, he “frowned at his cigarette and kicked the upholstered leather of a divan uneasily” (4). Gillian’s body language suggests he’s not satisfied about her

“inheritance,” as evinced by actions such as “frowned” and “kicked…uneasily” (4). After going back to the lawyer’s office to confirm that she didn’t receive anything else in the inheritance, he goes to Miss Hayden and gives her the one thousand dollars, telling her that his uncle left her the money (4). Gillian then tells Miss Hayden that he loves her, but the sentiment is not reciprocated

(4). His actions as her anonymous benefactor exhibit what Gillian really values. For Gillian,

Miss Hayden is “worth” more than the one thousand dollars. Money in this case is now a metaphor for worth, and how a character spends his or her money is an expression of what (or whom) they find to be worthy.

Gillian gives the money to Miss Hayden because she is worth it. But he gives her the money without her knowing that it was his to give. It is a trick, but a trick for the greater good.

She needs this money to survive, and he wants to help her. The fact that the gift is anonymous adds gravitas to the story. Gillian does not want recognition for his act. Perhaps Gillian suspects

Miss Hayden would not accept the money if he were to give it to her himself. Maybe a gift in that manner would seem to have strings attached to it. The act of giving, especially giving something worth a lot of money to someone a character values is a humanistic act. Gillian does

105

not expect anything in return, not even thanks for his deed. His transaction was not completed in

hope of receiving one thing in return for another, but done out of genuine regard for another

person. It was a sacrifice he was willing to make, not just a good deed, but pure in its selfless

intent.

When he writes down how he spent his one thousand dollars, Gillian explains it was

‘“paid by the black sheep, Robert Gillian, $1,000 on the account of eternal happiness, owed by

Heaven to the best and dearest woman on earth”’ (4). He must turn this account into the lawyers.

Though he doesn’t say it directly, Gillian gives Miss Hayden the money because he loves her.

He thinks she deserved more from his uncle, and he intends to give it to her. The expression of these sentiments is couched in playful language. Words referring to money, monetary details, turn up everywhere in Gillian’s sentence. First, in the case of the word “paid,” a word that connotes something was owed (4). Typically when we refer to something being “paid,” we mean that thing was purchased with money. Miss Hayden was “owed by Heaven,” meaning she had earned this ‘currency,’ probably by being a good person (4). She is worth this money, and far more than that to Gillian, who loves her. There is also the use of the word “account” (4).

The word “account” also brings money to mind because it often refers to a bank account. This sentence, coupled with the questions about the one thousand dollars serves to remind readers that this is a story about finances. Monetary details are consistently used to reinforce this throughout, and readers are constantly reminded of issues of value and worth as they pertain to money, man, and woman. It calls to question what it really means to give to someone. To give is not to expect something in return. A gift should not come with conditions, nor should one expect a gift

106

(or anything else for that matter, including a thank you) in return for giving something to

another. True giving is a selfless act born from kindness to help someone in need.

At the end of the story, Gillian once again returns to the lawyers to give his account of

how his $1,000 was spent. After placing the envelope containing the explanation of his

expenditures on the table, he is told of a codicil to his uncle’s will that stipulates if he spent the

money in a way that was ‘“prudent, wise, or unselfish, it is in our power to hand you over bonds

to the value of $50,000…”’ (4). Gillian had to prove himself worthy of his uncle’s fortune in

order to receive it. His worth is not contingent on the amount of money he has, but rather on

what he chose to do with this money. One value determines another in this case. The lawyers

also stipulate that if Gillian had spent his $1,000 unwisely, the $50,000 would have gone to Miss

Hayden (4). Upon learning this, Gillian promptly takes back his envelope and rips it up (4). He

lies to the lawyers that he ‘“lost the thousand dollars on the races”’ to deliberately help Miss

Hayden (4). No one but himself knows what Gillian really did with the money, and he makes

sure Miss Hayden gets the full inheritance—his is a purely altruistic deed, as was granting the

$1,000 to Miss Hayden earlier in the story.

Gillian’s actions express the idea that, though he is not “worth” much money, he is a

worthy person because he does a good deed in order to help someone he loves. Gillian is getting

nothing out of this exchange except for the satisfaction of providing for the woman he loves.

Because of him, she will never have to worry about money. Readers are told that Miss Hayden

doesn’t love him, and that she will never consider him as a suitor (4). Although he knows this,

Gillian still gives her the money. Perhaps giving away his inheritance to someone he values more than money even increases Gillian’s value as a person. O. Henry preformed selfless acts

107

himself quite frequently, and he did not like to be thanked for the money he gave away (Williams

214-215). To O. Henry, it was the act of giving and helping to others that mattered, not the acknowledgement for what he gave.

Issues of worth are handled a little differently in “The Discounters of Money” (1908).

First, there is the title itself, a suggestion to “discount,” or disregard money (Henry,

“Discounters” 540). Then there is the heroine, Alice von der Ruysling, who tells Howard

Pilkins, a wealthy suitor, that she will return an old present he gave her and continue to refuse his marriage proposals until ‘“either you or I have learned something new about the purchasing power of money”’ (542). Pilkins, “who implicitly believed that money could buy anything that the world had to offer,” will be given a rose when Alice’s lesson is learned (542).

When he meets a destitute couple in the park, Pilkins boasts he is ‘“worth several million dollars. I happen to have in my pockets about $800 or $900 in cash’” (543). Pilkins offers to get them hotel rooms, but the gentleman politely declines (543). Not to be refused, he offers to put the woman up in Alice’s house. They accept his offer, and Pilkins tells Alice the couple ‘“made

Wall Street and the Bank of England look like penny arcades’” (544). It is not until he is able to help a poor couple in the park through means other than money that Pilkins understands the value of helping other people without having to rely on his money to do it. At the end of the story he seems despondent that Alice returns his gift, but at the bottom of the box containing it is the rose, a sign that he learned his lesson and Alice will marry him (544). Sometimes the easiest way to solve a problem is with money, but in this case dignity won’t allow it. It’s the money that must be disregarded, or discounted. Pilkins is worthy of Alice and her affections when he

108

“discounts” his money. The act of not acting, of “discounting,” is still an action, in this case, because Pilkins is moving or behaving in a way that is counter to his usual norm.

In many respects, money is counted, and counted frequently in “A Night in New Arabia”

(1908). Monetary details are everywhere. Not only is the word “money” mentioned twelve times in this story, there are also a total of ninety different terms referring to finances, out of which sixty-one refer to different monetary amounts. Such high word frequencies suggest that money is an important factor in the movement of plot in this story. Money is mentioned in general with such lines as “that was better, he thought, than a check” (“Night” 308). It is mentioned in specific monetary amounts, like when the narrator states “Jacob built a three- million dollar palace…” (303). Such amounts are significant in establishing worth because, as

Thorstein Veblen states in The Theory of the Leisure Class, “without reflection or analysis, we feel that what is inexpensive is unworthy” (119). When we are told something costs a lot of money, without even thinking about it, we assume that it is worth having.

In addition to items, people are sometimes “worth” a lot of money. For example, there is constant mention of how much characters are worth in “A Night in New Arabia.” The character

Jacob “at forty-five was worth $20,000,000” (Henry, “Night” 303). Readers are told he is worth this obscene amount of money during the frame story entitled “The Story of the Caliph who

Alleviated his Conscience” (302). Jacob feels ill at ease with having a fortune, so he tries to, as he says, ‘“blow the taint off some of this money…”’ by donating it to charities (304). Such means of getting rid of the money do not satisfy him, however. Later in the story he figures out why. Many years ago “he bought…land from [a] miner for $125 and sold it a month afterward for $10,000” (308). Jacob figures “he could make restitution of this sum of money to the heirs or

109

assigns of the unlucky miner…” (308). His guilt comes from the fact that he sold land that was worth far more than what he paid the miner for it. This disparity of worth is a conflict for Jacob.

In his mind, it creates a monetary imbalance that must be corrected.

Jacob is able to “alleviate his conscience” when he finds the miner’s heir and gives the

$10,000 to him, the exact amount of money that he made off the land (308). The heir turns out to be Thomas, a grocer’s boy who has been courting his daughter Celia (308). Unbeknownst to both men, Celia has been masquerading as a maid in order to get the grocer’s attention. Celia confesses her true identity to Thomas, stating ‘“the newspapers say I’ll be worth forty million dollars some day”’ (309). This second statement of how much a person is worth is different from Jacob’s for several reasons. First of all, Celia is not worth that amount of money until her father dies and she inherits his fortune. Earlier on, we are told that her father was worth half that amount, implying that he is not only a millionaire, but also a successful and shrewd businessman who continues to make more and more money. Celia’s father is the one who makes the money, and her worth is contingent on what he earns. This does not matter to her, however. She is willing to marry Thomas without the money, and explains to him that ‘“my father would never let me marry a grocer’s clerk. But I’ll marry you to-night, Tommy, if you say so”’ (309).

Clearly, Thomas is worth more to Celia than money, which is why she is willing to give up her father’s inheritance to be with him, a reflection of the New Woman who is willing to leave a comfortable lifestyle in order to be happy.

Such sentiments are also expressed by another New Woman text, Laurence Housman’s

“The Rooted Lover” (1894). Progressive for its time, Housman’s inverted fairy tale is the story of a princess who must give up her comfortable and rich lifestyle in order to be with her beloved

110

(170-177). This idea of choosing love over money is one we see repeated over and over in O.

Henry’s stories, a concept that may seem trite, but I argue that it is linked to the New Woman

movement because it is one that gives women a choice. Options were tantamount to the New

Woman movement, and choices concerning marriage, employment, and what women do in their

spare time were also reflected in many short stories at the turn of the century. Housman’s use of the fantasy genre only serves to heighten his own social commentary on gender equity, proof that it was a technique used by other New Woman writers during this time.

Unlike Housman’s princess, Celia doesn’t need to worry about giving anything up. It turns out that her father likes Thomas and approves of the match. We learn this at the end of the

story when Jacob says that Jaky, Celia and Thomas’s child, will ‘“be worth a hundred millions

by the time he’s twenty-one if I can pile it up for him’” (Henry, “Night” 310). The millions of

dollars that these characters are worth keeps increasing throughout the story. First it was

$20,000,000, then $40,000,000, and last of all, more than double that amount. It is presumed

that Jaky will be worth so much money because his grandfather values him. Celia and Thomas,

on the other hand, can be said to value Grandfather Jacob because they name their child after him

(“Jaky” for Jacob). The value of these characters in monetary terms versus their worth as human

beings suggests that, while individuals might be worth a certain amount in monetary terms, a

character’s true value is revealed by his or her actions. In other words, it is not the money in

one’s pockets that increases one’s value as a person. It is how people treat others, their actions

towards their fellow man, which determines their worth.

111

3. Money and Mobility Between Classes

Actions can be sometimes be described as an exchange. For example, this is true when

we talk about people discussing matters to “exchange” ideas; it is also true when two people get

married and “exchange” wedding vows, and it is especially true in the case of these stories where people exchange money for something they value in return. According to Georg Simmel, money takes on a greater importance in an urban society than in a rural one because the “money economy” in a large city requires the exchange of money (“Metropolis” 326). Exchange also means movement: an exchange of money means that money translates as currency changing hands. Taking this idea to task, let us look at how the following stories showcase spatial patterns that illustrate the flow of money.

One example of the exchange of money can be found in “Mammon and the Archer”

(1905). In this story, Anthony Rockwall, much like Pilkins in “The Discounters of Money,” believes that money can make anything happen (Henry, “Mammon” 9). As the story begins, his son Richard bemoans the fact that Miss Lantry, his beloved, is so busy with social activities that the only time he has alone with her is a “six or eight minute” cab ride to the theatre (9). He complains to Anthony, who suggests that the solution to his problem is money (9). Richard, however, is adamant that his problem with Miss Lantry can’t be fixed when he argues, ‘“we can’t buy one minute of time with cash…’” (9). Though his father admits that ‘“you can’t order eternity wrapped up and delivered at your residence for a price,”’ he ends his conversation with

Richard with the cryptic remark, ‘“I’ve seen Father Time get pretty bad stone bruises on his heels when he walked through the gold diggings”’ (9). There is an insinuation in this verbal exchange that money can indeed buy time, something Richard’s father proves when he engineers

112

a traffic jam that turns Richard’s “six or eight minute” cab ride to the theatre with Miss Lantry

into two hours (9). This time is exactly what Richard needed, and the two become engaged by

the end of the ride (9). Time had to be stopped for their relationship to move forward, a

movement that refers to the relative difficulty of money changing hands that Anthony instigated

when he hired a man of a lower class than him to orchestrate the traffic jam, Kelly, identified as

a working man by his “red hands,” probably made so by some labor intensive job (9). It is through Kelly’s diatribe that we discover the extravagances Richard’s father went through to arrange the traffic jam.

Before Kelly explains the logistics of what he did to engineer the traffic jam, Anthony reaches for his checkbook, confirming that he already gave Kelly $5,000 to pay people off in order to engineer the traffic jam (9). Kelly then recounts who had to be bought off in order for the scheme to work, along with a litany of expenses: ‘“I paid out $300 more of my own

[money].’ said Kelly ‘I had to go a little above the estimate. I got the express wagons and cabs mostly for $5; but the trucks and two-horse teams mostly raised me to $10. The motormen wanted $10, and some of the loaded teams $20. The cops struck me hardest—$50 I paid two, and the rest $20 and $25’” (9). The monetary details in this exchange move the plot forward. A spatial pattern is created when Kelly explains that each different mode of transportation received a different amount of money, and each amount increases with the importance of the receiver in the grand orchestration of the traffic jam.

There is a hierarchy expressed in this list of transports, one conveyed not merely by the different dollar amounts each transport receives, but also by the fact that these amounts are allocated in ascending order, from the least amount of bribery money to the greatest. These

113

transports are separated from each other by amounts, and these amounts, for the most part, are

separated by punctuation, which is what makes this exchange an example of a spatial pattern.

Kelly mentions specific monetary amounts eight times in his list of expenses, ranging from $5 to

$50, and the focus of this exchange is on the money spent. That so many people were involved

in this scheme for such high prices serves to emphasize to what lengths rich people can go to see

that those they love are happy. Richard’s father had to buy him time to spend with the girl he

loves, and so in this story money is exchanged for time. Money is valuable to Anthony, and time

is worth a great deal to Richard. In their case, it was not really the money that had value, but

rather what could be bought with it.

Another obvious example of a pattern of exchange illustrating the movement of money

across spaces can be found in the story “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner.” The alliterative title of

the story itself, besides being playful, establishes the smooth and continuous movement of

money in the story. Four of the six words in the title begin with the same consonant, making it

difficult to say it aloud. But the title is catchy and entertaining to read, suggesting the story to

follow will be as well. A story told from the point of view of a ten-dollar bill might be hard for

some readers to believe, but one can overlook a number of things when they are hidden in the

guise of humor, something O. Henry often relied upon to voice subtle social critiques.

Alliterative titles also serve to highlight the subjects of his stories, and these titles were a favorite of O. Henry’s. Just a few include: “Psyche and the Pskyscraper,” “A Bird of Bagdad,” “The

Romance of the Busy Broker,” “A Night in New Arabia,” and “The Girl and the Graft.”

“The Tale of a Tainted Tenner,” though playful in tone, presents a sobering criticism on

New York society at the turn of the twentieth century. As David Stuart explains, O. Henry

114

“seldom…put his hand to matters even slightly political or topical,” a notice with which I

disagree for reasons that will come to light later in this chapter (173). Yet he did write about

what he saw of the City. O. Henry explained when he had writer’s block that he would “quit

trying to work and go out and see something of life. You can’t write a story that’s got any life in

it by sitting at a writing table and thinking. You’ve got to get out into the streets, into the

crowds, talk with people, and feel the rush and throb of real life—that’s the stimulant for a short

story writer” (qtd. in MacAdam, “ ‘O. Henry’ On” 9). Flesh and blood people were O. Henry’s muses, and their problems nurtured his plots. Any writer, when writing about humanity, is making a social criticism, regardless of whether or not he or she intends to do so. As E. Hudson

Long put it, “because of his interest in the unfortunate, especially the victims of environment, the stories of O. Henry take on a sociological import” (121).

Arguably, the short story that serves as the best example of a social critique on the

discrepancies of wealth between classes is “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner.” O. Henry is able to

lighten this criticism with personification, a technique that adds levity to serious issues of

poverty and the division between economic classes because it places the story in the realm of the

fantastic and improbable. O. Henry uses money as his “voice” for social commentary, an

important choice. This is because, as Simmel explains, “money…makes comprehensible the

most abstract concept; it is an individual thing whose essential significance is to reach beyond

individualities. Thus, money is the adequate expression of the relationship of man to the

world…” (Philosophy 129). As a concrete thing, money can help us understand our place in the

world.

115

Perhaps one of the reasons O. Henry chose to structure a story about social class by

means of personification is because sometimes matters of class can be difficult for a writer to

convey without coming across as judgmental or moralistic. This technique could also be one of

O. Henry’s ways of circumventing and denying the role of reformer. The fantasy of having

money speak, as well as the playful banter in its dialogue, help to convey a social critique about

the serious issue of poverty without coming off as “heavy handed.” There was a great dissent amongst the American public in the Progressive Era, and various authors such as Upton Sinclair,

Jack London, and Theodore Dreiser picked up their pens to write about different social issues that were at the core of their fury (Zinn 322). Although O. Henry may not at first seem to fit in with these well-known writers who produced important pieces of social-problem fiction, a closer

look at his stories reveals that he not only did address social issues in his works, many times he

even suggested a means of reform.

As stated in the prior chapter, O. Henry was an avid reader of the papers, and

undoubtedly knew about all of the social unrest occurring at the turn of the twentieth century

(Smith, O. Henry 76). In addition, as also previously stated in Chapter 1, one of his closest friends, Anne Partlan, was a “muckraker,” one of the countless writers rising up in outrage and clamoring for change (Stuart 136, 142). Partlan “worked in an advertising agency and wrote short stories about working-class life as an avocation,” and her first hand experiences as a working woman, as well as those of her friends, made an impression on O. Henry (O’ Connor

122). As for the term “muckraker,” it is important to revisit this word because it helps explain some people’s perceptions of reformers at the turn of the twentieth century, particularly those who could instigate these changes.

116

Theodore Roosevelt, President of the United States from 1901 to 1909, coined the term

“muckraker” when referring to contemporary writers who demanded social reform (Stuart 136).

The word derives from “the character in Pilgrim’s Progress who raked muck forever and could

see nothing in the world but muck” (136). “Muckraker” thus connotes an irritation at people

constantly demanding a change in the status quo by dredging up mud and muck, or grime and

feces. Perhaps Roosevelt’s irritation at these “muckrakers” is why Howard Zinn suggests reform

during Progressive America was probably not intended to implement real change (349).

Although it could be said that O. Henry saw too much good in the world, and also possessed too

great of a finesse and subtly as a writer, to be a “muckracker,” he was a reformer in his own way.

No one who wrote hundreds of stories filled with compassion and empathy could be a muckracker, and no writer who told these tales could be anyone other than a reformer—a quiet reformer, but a reformer nonetheless who took a humanitarian stance in his advocacy for social change.

O. Henry was probably quiet in his reforms because it was well-known that he valued his privacy; he was cautious when it came not just to letting people into his home, but also into his confidence, a topic that comes up in many of his biographies (Davis and Maurice 207; Langford

200; Stuart 150). This could also be why, despite being so popular, O. Henry only gave one interview in his lifetime—with great reluctance—two months before his death in 1910. Even then, it took his interviewer George MacAdam more than four weeks to hunt him down, and when he did O. Henry asked him ‘“what is it you want me to talk about?’” (qtd. in MacAdam,

“‘O. Henry’ On” 9). MacAdam replied with one word: “yourself” (“‘O. Henry’ On” 9). O.

Henry’s response when told to talk about himself was “no, no. It’s got to be something more

117

stimulating than that. Ask me what I think about Shakespeare. Go on. I’m in the attitude” (qtd.

in MacAdam, “‘O. Henry’ On” 9). The writer still skirted the topic of himself, perhaps stalling

for time so he could come up with a plausible lie to cover up his three years in prison—which he

did (9). O. Henry’s reticence to speak of himself attest to a man who would go to any lengths to

keep his secrets private, like his stay in prison (Stuart 198).

His three years in prison were his greatest shame. As Dr. John M. Thomas, one of the

prison doctors O. Henry worked with, expresses, “in my experience of handling over ten

thousand prisoners in the eight years I was physician at the prison, I have never known a man

who was so deeply humiliated by his prison experience as O. Henry” (qtd. in Smith, O. Henry

148). Although he wrote letters to his daughter and in-laws while in jail, Smith tells us “the old life was to be shut out. He had written to none of his earlier friends while in prison and he hoped they would never know” (O. Henry 167).

I point out all of this history about reform and O. Henry’s obsession to hide his past because, as we have seen, there are layers in his stories that hide critiques about society at the turn of the twentieth century. In “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner” in particular, the changes taking place at the time O. Henry is writing are reflected in the change, or monetary figures, in the story, and the social critiques in the story are supposed to “change” our perceptions about various social issues like class distinctions, women’s rights, and poverty. But O. Henry is very subtle about addressing these social issues, and decides to tackle them in a playful manner, first of all by personifying all of the bills in the story.

In addition to personifying the bills, he gives each bill its own unique personality. Their personalities are exhibited in the way they “communicate.” As stated in the first part of this

118

chapter, each bill mimics the specific patterns of ‘language’ of the class of its people, or their

dialect. For example, the ten-dollar bill speaks in more cultured tones than some of the lower

bills, such as the two-dollar bill who says, ‘“aw, cut out yer kicks. Ain’t lisle thread good

enough for yer?”’ (Henry, “Tale” 14). The linguistic register of this bill is very different from that of other bills in the story. Use of words such as “yer” in lieu of “your,” as well as the informal “ain’t” suggests that this is the language of an uneducated, and probably lower class person, which suggests this particular two-dollar bill finds itself more often in poor hands than in those of the rich.

In contrast, while speaking to the other bills, the “tenner” tells a five-dollar bill, ‘“don’t

scrouge so. Anyhow, don’t you think it’s about time you went in on a customs payment and got

reissued? For a series of 1899 you’re a sight”’ (14). Though he still uses slang, the ten-dollar

bill does not use it as often as the lesser bills, and his use of informal language is much less

frequent. The “tenner” moves in a social circle unknown to some of these other bills (14). He

explains “I saw the inside of every business; I fought for my owner’s every pleasure” (14). This

bill “kept on the move,” spending most of his time on Broadway (14). As Francis Hackett once

expressed, “Broadway is the spinal column of [O. Henry’s] art, and the nerve branches cover all

Manhattan” (qtd. in Smith, Selected 125).

To put Hackett’s quote in perspective, fifty-nine of O. Henry’s one hundred thirty-nine

New York City short stories are either set on Broadway or mention that location. This location is a special people-watching place for O. Henry, who explained “if you have the right kind of an eye—the kind that can disregard high hats, cutaway coats and trolley cars—you can see all the characters in the ‘Arabian Nights’ parading up and down Broadway at midday” (qtd. in

119

MacAdam, ‘“O. Henry’ On” 9). Broadway was not only important geographically as a main street that runs from the very north tip of Manhattan to the south, but also because many people with different socioeconomic and cultural backgrounds travel along this street. Some of these people O. Henry turned into characters, or humanized, including the money they handled.

While personified, the bills speak of their owners and their pocketbooks, another

indication of the class to which they belong. As Veblen explains, “our apparel is always in

evidence and affords an indication of our pecuniary standing to all observers at the first glance”

(119). The money in this story uses the material of a character’s pocketbook as an indicator of

his or her social status. For example, the five-dollar bill complains ‘“you’d be limp, too, if you’d been stuffed down in a thick cotton-and-lisle thread under an elastic all day, and the thermometer not a degree under 85 in the store”’ (Henry, “Tale” 14). The “cotton and lisle” suggests the

“fiver” was in between a shop-girl’s garter and hose. Readers know she is a shop-girl because she works “in the store,” and we know the location of the bill because she wears “a thick cotton- and-lisle thread under an elastic all day” (14). Cotton and lisle, being inexpensive materials, would undoubtedly belong to a woman of lower class, a woman who has to work for a living as, for example, a shop-girl. The “fiver’s” explanation of his last location puzzles the “tenner.” He

‘“never heard of a pocketbook like that’” (14). The larger bill’s lack of knowledge of what a shop-girl is and what her purse looks like suggests that shop-girls don’t see many ten-dollar bills.

The “tenner” seems to be a bill that circulates more frequently among men, and typically among the higher classes. The pocketbooks he frequents are usually expensive, as evinced when he describes them as a costly fabric that is typically used and worn by the rich: “silk for mine, every time” (14).

120

In addition to nice pocketbooks and the fact that the “tenner” also frequents men’s wallets

and pockets more often than women’s, we are told he is exchanged between the following

characters: “a butcher,” “a pushcart peddler,” “a policeman,” “a Captain of the precinct,” “a

gambling gentleman,” and “Old Jack, who is the owner of a gaming hall” (14). In order to keep

this bill in circulation and “on the move,” it must be spent (14). Though unclear what the

butcher spent the “tenner” on, we are later told that the pushcart peddler used him as a bribe to

keep a cop from fining him (14). The ten-dollar bill explains that the cop then “changed me at a cigar store near the Bowery that was running a crap game in the back room” (14). The term

“change” in this case has a double meaning, perhaps. Before this exchange, the “tenner” was

used in bars to buy drinks, as a bribe to prevent a fine for a minor infraction, and for various

sundry purchases that are not mentioned. At this point in the story, however, we can assume the

ten-dollar bill was spent at the crap game because he was then picked up by the Captain of the

precinct, who “blew me for wine the next evening in a Broadway restaurant; and I really felt as

glad to get back again as an Astor does when he sees the lights of Charing Cross” (14). Readers

discover that the “tenner’s” purpose is changing. It is not just a bill to purchase items, food, or

drink, but can also support a hobby, a habit perhaps for some: gambling. Though the ten-dollar

bill moves in many circles, it is most at home here, boasting “a tainted ten certainly does get

action on Broadway” (14). Perhaps it is most at home on Broadway because Broadway, as the

life and pulse of New York City, ensures its movement. There are many people and many places

of business on that avenue that necessitate the exchange of bills, ensuring that the “tenner” will

remain in circulation.

121

A character’s socioeconomic class can also be determined by where the bills are

exchanged in the City. The “tenner” brags, “I was lucky money. I kept on the move.

Sometimes I changed hands twenty times a day…,” but even “he” has “his” limits (14). Just as the bill is too high-class to remain in the company of lower bills for very long, paradoxically it is also too low-class to be in the same vicinity as higher currency for too long. To take a case in

point, later in the story a twenty-dollar bill explains that the “tenner” doesn’t know what a church

is because ‘“you’re too much to put into the contribution basket, and not enough to buy anything

at a bazaar”’ (14). The description of how people use their money at religious activities seems to

suggest that the rich spend it at “bazaars” where they can buy overpriced items for charity,

whereas the poor actually go to church and put what little they can in the collection basket. In

contrast to church, the ten-dollar bill seems to be more impressive when “slapped down on a bar.

Tens were always slapped down, while ones and twos were slid over to the bartenders folded”

(14). In a bar, the exchange of “tenners” is usually loud and noticeable. At a church bazaar,

however, they do not amount to much because they cannot buy much. This exchange suggests

that some bills only have mobility between certain classes, a theory supported by the comment at

the end of the story when the one-dollar bill wistfully exclaims to the ten-dollar bill, ‘“I wish I

was big enough to move in society with you tainted bills”’ (14). The expression “big enough” can be taken on two levels: first of all, as a large amount of money, and second, as an amount of money worthy of being exchanged.

Old Jack’s money is not considered worthy of exchange by the church. One of the twenties explains to the ten-dollar bill that Old Jack ‘“offered $50,000 to a church and it refused to accept it because they said his money was tainted”’ (14). It seems some money is deemed

122

unworthy because of the way it was acquired. Old Jack probably got his money gambling, a

pastime the church frowns upon. He wants to do a good thing and donate the money, yet his

intentions are snubbed (14). While out on the town, a woman enters the restaurant where Jack is

drinking (14). The “tenner” describes her in the following manner: “black shawl, creepy hair,

ragged skirt, white face, eyes a cross between Gabriel’s and a sick kitten’s…” (14). Given her appearance, the woman is obviously poor. She does not ask for anything, however, but just

“stands there without a word and looks at the money” (14). Poor she may be, but clearly she has

some pride as well.

Jack politely offers her the “tenner,” admitting ‘“here is a tainted bill. I am a gambler.

This bill came to me to-night from a gentleman’s son. Where he got it I do not know. If you

will do me the favor to accept it, it is yours”’ (14). The history of the “tenner’s” movements

highlights the importance of exchanging money in an urban environment as expressed by Georg

Simmel (“Metropolis” 326). But O. Henry takes this idea to a different level by suggesting that

money has real “value” when given to help people in need. Jack laments the questioned value of

his money by remarking that it “is a tainted bill,” implying that there is something wrong with it

(Henry, “Tale” 14). He also admits to his employment, a gambler, but explains that this bill

came from (presumably) someone with a good name, “a gentleman’s son” (14). Jack makes no

pretenses about his money. He is honest about its source, probably still hurt from the church’s

rejection of his donation.

The woman responds to Jack’s offer with honesty in kind. She takes the money,

explaining ‘“I counted thousands of this issue of bills into packages when they were virgin from

the presses”’ (14). Her choice of words in this description is interesting. The bills were “virgin,”

123

or clean, when they were first created. Now the “tenner” is “tainted,” presumably because of

how people, men in particular, have used and handled it. The lady continues with ‘“I was a clerk

in the Treasury Department. There was an official to whom I owed my position. You say they

are tainted now. If you only knew—”’ (14). The woman’s somewhat cryptic statement about owing a man something because he got her a job seems to suggest that she had to do something for him (or maybe with him) in order to get her position. Referring to “virgin” bills that are

“tainted” by man’s hands makes one even wonder if her boss took her innocence. She does not finish her story, but stops midsentence, suggesting that her history is much too sordid to continue. Also of note in this exchange is that, unlike Jack, this woman has no name, which gives her a universal identity: she could be anyone, and thus her problems could be anyone’s problems.

The interaction between Jack and the woman suggests that it is not money itself that is good or bad; it is the characters who handle it that are. The value of these characters depends on what they do with money. For example, the woman takes the “tenner” and buys food and medicine for her sick child (14). Then she prays, an act not frequent enough in O. Henry’s stories as to be common, yet not so rare as to be odd (14). The one-dollar bill who witnesses this prayer tells the ten dollar bill, ‘“she said something about ‘who giveth to the poor,’” and he responds, ‘“I know the rest of it. There’s a ‘lendeth to the Lord’ somewhere”’ (14). The implications of the prayer are also interesting: first, there is the poor man’s dollar discussing

“giveth to the poor.” Many people in need express gratitude in prayer, as well as pray to be given something. Then there is the “tenner,” the bill that moves in larger social classes, remarking “lendeth to the Lord.” Though he is a bill who has never been to church, he obviously

124

heard this prayer somewhere. It could be said that both bills find themselves on equal ground by

means of this prayer. Though owned by different classes, they both have the ability to help those

in need. In other words, the bottom line is that it does not matter how much a person gives—it is

the act of giving itself that is of value.

This philosophy of helping the destitute was one O. Henry personally ascribed to, and he always gave money to the homeless when he saw them on the street (Stuart 133). For O. Henry, giving money was personal. To really make a difference in the lives of the needy, a person must go, he felt, into their personal space and offer them money. Giving money to people was something he did frequently; “he was always generously helping others, and he never stopped to count the cost” (Long 130). He paid shop-girls for their time when he sat with them and listened to their stories because “each girl’s time was worth money to her and he was willing to meet her on that ground and pay her for such time as she gave him…” (Williams 138). David Stuart

explains O. Henry also “was as likely to give the waiter a tip that matched the size of the check”

(133). This act of giving helped ensure the mobility of money. I will argue that giving money

was akin to spreading hope and life to people, since people could buy necessities with this

money that could sustain life, like food and drink.

4. Women and the Mobility of Money

Money did not just move between classes in society at the turn of the century. As new jobs opened up, particularly those in retail and restaurants, women played a key role in its mobility as well. One problem caused by a traditional sentiment of women and the difficulty they have acquiring money at the turn of the century is expressed in “The Girl and the Graft”

(1905). In this story, one of the main characters, Pogue, points out the unfairness of a woman’s

125

situation when he states ‘“who’s got the money in the world? The men’” (Henry, “Graft” 8).

This sentiment is a sobering comment on a woman’s restricted place in society. Even with the various new opportunities available to women during this time, the bottom line is that many were still reliant on men. According to Veblen, in the late nineteen hundreds, “in the modern civilized scheme of life the woman is still, in theory, the economic dependent of the man…” (127). After all, who gives women their jobs? Who signs their paychecks? Who has the power to fire them?

As Pogue further explains in the story, ‘“man is the hardest proposition a woman has to go up against. He’s a low-grade one, and she has to work overtime to make him pay’” (Henry, “Graft”

8). Pogue’s statement expresses the idea that, though at this point in history women in America had more economic freedom, some were unable to take advantage of this freedom and had to rely on other methods to get what they wanted.

One method that women in O. Henry’s stories need to rely on in order to survive is their feminine wiles. In other words, they have to manipulate men to get what they need. Probably the easiest way to do this is by crying, but there are some women who can’t cry at will. Pogue explains for these women, ‘“the dry-eyed ones have to depend on signed letters, false hair, sympathy, the kangaroo walk, cowhide whips, ability to cook, sentimental juries, conversational powers, silk underskirts, ancestry, rouge, anonymous letters, violet sachet powder, witnesses, revolvers, pneumatic forms, carbolic acid, moonlight, cold cream and the evening newspapers’”

(8). Though this long and varied explanation seems random in its list of items, there are a few things that ring true.

For example, some women are able to get a husband because of their “ability to cook,” or their “conversational powers,” practical qualities that many men wish for in a mate. Other

126

women may have to rely on enhancing their appearance to attract a man through the use of “false hair,” “rouge,” “moonlight,” and/or “cold cream.” Still others may need to force a man to marry them, as evinced by the “letters,” “witnesses,” “sentimental juries,” and “revolvers.” The list goes on and on and on, its power deriving from its length, suggesting desperation on the part of women to get a man. Pogue uses this list to try and convince his listener how hard women have it. The sentence contains twenty ways a woman can get a man. He mixes up the locations of some of these items in the sentence, varying reasonable lighthearted methods with more serious ones. Women are allowed some freedom in their choice of getting a man to marry them, but these choices are limited to superficial, and sometimes deceptive, means. The conglomeration of the two different methods used to get a man serve to place them on equal levels and seems to suggest that it doesn’t matter how you “get your man,” just as long as you get one. Perhaps this way of life comes from habit. One could say that traditions are habits, and habits are hard to break. The main character in “The Girl and the Habit” certainly has a hard time breaking hers.

“The Girl and the Habit” (1905) is a lighthearted story about a girl who is a cashier in a restaurant. Her name is Miss Merriam, perhaps a gentle nod to the variation of the Webster’s dictionary O. Henry was so fond of reading during his Texas days (Current-Garcia 23). Miss

Merriam is described by the narrator as “the queen of the court of commerce…” (Henry, “Habit”

2). Midway through the story is a litany of her typical daily dialogue, a list that consists of monetary change, compliments, and questions, usually in the form of marriage proposals and offers for dates. The list begins with ‘“Good morning, Mr. Haskins—sir?—it’s natural, thank you—don’t be quite so fresh…Hello, Johnny—ten, fifteen, twenty—chase along now or they’ll take the letters off your cap…Beg pardon—count it again, please—oh, don’t mention

127

it…Vaudville?—thanks…”’ (2). The entirety of the paragraph continues in this vein,

punctuated with twenty-five ellipses and fifty-four dashes. O. Henry typically uses the ellipsis

in this exchange to indicate the introduction of a new person with whom Miss Merriam is

speaking, while the dashes occur as a pause while they are presumably saying something to her.

Though readers are only privy to her end of the conversation, we may infer what Miss Merriam’s

customers say to her based on context. In this instance, O. Henry uses punctuation to indicate an

exchange that, though not one-sided, is dominated by a woman since hers is the only voice we

hear. She is in charge of the dialogue in this exchange, and what is revealed about the men to

whom she speaks is through speech controlled by her. Just as she controls the conversation, she

also controls the money, to a certain extent. People get their change from Miss Merriam, and she

has the power to handle their money. This literary device helps to convey the newfound

independence and freedom some women have at the turn of the century. Miss Merriam’s ability to have a job as a cashier in a restaurant gives her a certain amount of freedom. Though she now has the freedom to make her own money, “what we regard as freedom is often in fact only a change of obligations…” (Simmel, Philosophy 283). Whereas previously women had an

obligation to their family and their home, now many have an obligation as employees.

Part of the ease Miss Merriam has with doing her job and fulfilling this obligation is due

to her disposition. She is a sweet girl, friendly and kind to her customers. She knows most of

them by name, and though she accepts compliments, she does not hesitate to put a man in his

place if he is too forward with his advances: ‘“…Please don’t get fresh—your check was

fifteen cents, I believe—…”’ (Henry, “Habit” 2). In addition, Miss Merriam not only

remembers her customers’ names, but also details about them, as evinced with comments like:

128

‘“…Sixty-five?—must have had your salary raised, Mr. Wilson…’” (2). Throughout Miss

Merriam’s day on the job we witness an exchange in the form of conversations with her

customers, as well as the exchange of money. Though she is actively handling currency, she is

not completely controlling it, however. Miss Merriam is a sort of mediary between the

customer and his change. There is only so much in her control. Just because a bill passes

through her hands does not mean she can keep it. It is a transient commodity and moves on to

the next paying customer. As she works the cashier, the conversations take place first, and then

she attends to money matters. The conversations occurring before the money matters suggests

that people matter more than money, and that they come second to paying one’s tab and getting

change. This is not a surprising notion when we consider O. Henry’s philosophy that money

“was only good for what it would buy…” (Williams 206). O. Henry used money to pay for his

habits: eating good food and drinking (Stuart 141). He liked to enjoy himself and take

advantage of what city life had to offer. For example, he frequently visited “all-night cafes, the

saloons, the vaudeville theatres, the dance halls and dives…” (O’ Connor 143). Although these

visits were no doubt entertaining, they were also where he acquired his story material.

Though she is used to handling change, Miss Merriam has a hard time changing herself when a wealthy couple adopts her (Henry, “Habit” 2). This theme of change is reinforced by the introduction of the definition of habit at the beginning of the story. Habits are often hard to break, or change, a more apt word because the story is one of a girl who handles change at her job on a daily basis (2). O. Henry himself had issues with change and had habits that were hard to break, which is why he left his place at 55 Irving to follow his old housekeeper, Mrs. Jaffe, when she moved because she “knew his habits and his ways…” (Williams 229).

129

Miss Merriam has a new life to adjust to, and she admits to her old boss that she will

probably have a hard time doing so: ‘“I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I’ve been

cashiering so long I feel funny doing anything else” (Henry, “Habit” 2). Cashiering was such an

old obligation for Miss Merriam that it became a habit, as did the mannerisms that came along

with the job. We see evidence of this habit at the end of the story when she works a booth at a bazaar (2). When she is in an old familiar role, as a woman who exchanges money, in an old familiar space, a “booth,” probably small like “the old cage” where she worked as a cashier,

Miss Merriam reverts back to old habits (2). Having moved from one place to another, her

environment determines her behavior. An earl flatters her and she quickly responds with ‘“cut

that joshing out….Who do you think you are talking to? Your check, please’” (2). Used to

fending off men at the same time as taking their money, she can’t help but resort to this type of

behavior. Her behavior is a defense mechanism for handling this situation in society. Miss

Merriam is unable to change as easily as the money that changes hands between her and

customers. The fact that she treats the rich and royalty at a church bazaar the same way as her

former restaurant customers may also imply that the exchange of money is a movement shared

between all classes, an idea noted earlier in “Mammon and the Archer.”

As opposed to the two stories previously mentioned, in “The Enchanted Profile” (1908)

one of the main characters is a wealthy woman. None of O. Henry’s New York City tales have a

female character with as much economic freedom and control over such a vast fortune as Mrs.

Maggie Brown. O. Henry remarks on the rarity of her millions with the first line “there are few

Caliphesses” (Henry, “Enchanted” 88). All the other Caliphs in his stories, such as “The

Discounters of Money” and “A Night in New Arabia,” are men with obscene amounts of money,

130

whereas “The Enchanted Profile” features the “the third richest woman in the world…” (89).

Mrs. Maggie Brown is a thrifty woman who becomes fascinated with Miss Ida Bates, “the

stenographer and typewriter of the Acropolis Hotel…” (89). Mrs. Brown tells Ida ‘“you’re the

most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life. I want you to quit your work and come and live

with me’” (90). She explains she has ‘“a husband and a son or two, and I hold no

communication with any of ‘em. They’re extravagant burdens on a hard-working woman. I

want you to be a daughter to me”’ (90). Mrs. Brown’s descriptions of the men in her life are an

inversion of gender roles. In most of O. Henry’s other stories where the lead character is

wealthy, it is the male character who holds the purse strings and the women in his life are

sometimes cast as “burdens.” In this case, however, a woman has complete control over millions of dollars, a woman who has “the city’s wealthiest brokers and business men seeking trifling loans of half a dozen millions or so from the dingy old lady with the prehistoric handbag” (89).

Mrs. Brown may be “worth $40,000,000,” but she doesn’t look the part, and she lives very conservatively “in Jersey in a ten-dollar flat” (90). Ida takes her up on her offer to move in, and the two move to larger quarters in a more extravagant hotel (90).

At first things are wonderful. Ida enjoys being doted upon, and she admits that it was nice to have someone to talk to when she was lonely (90). When Ida catches Mrs. Brown staring at her from time to time, Mrs. Brown would remark ‘“you have a face…exactly like a dear friend of mine—the best friend I ever had”’ (90). She plans a coming-out dinner for Ida, sparing no expense and assuaging Ida’s concern at a lack of guests by telling her “‘I don’t send out invitations—I issue orders. I’ll have fifty guests here that couldn’t be brought together again at any reception unless it were given by King Edward or William Travers Jerome. They are men,

131

of course, and all of ‘em owe me money or intend to”’ (91). It appears that Mrs. Brown understands the “purchasing power of money” referred to in “The Discounters of Money” (542).

Money is power because money can be a means of procuring what you want, and it can move

people into obeying when a wealthy person gives a command.

Later in the story it becomes apparent that Mrs. Brown hates losing money to the point of

being miserly. She tries to compensate for the hundreds of dollars she spent on Ida, her dinner,

and their expensive apartment by moving them into a smaller, cheaper living space (“Enchanted”

92). In addition, she cuts back on their lifestyle to the extreme: ‘“seventy-five cents a day was

the limit she set. We cooked our own meals in the room. There I was, with a thousand dollars’

worth of the latest things in clothes, doing stunts over a one-burner gas-stove”’ (92). Ida, only

able to take so much of this, finally leaves her and gets her old job back at the Acropolis (92-93).

At the Acropolis Ida tells her story to a male short story writer. Interspersed with her story of

Mrs. Brown and specific amounts of money spent on clothing and lodging is her preoccupation

with ‘“a newspaper artist named Lathrop”’ (92). Ida mentions this man four times during her

story; three of these four times in the form of questions where she asks if the short story writer

has ever heard of him (92-93). Her constant questions express her interest, though she first

worries, ‘“I guess he must have thought I was to inherit some of Aunt Maggie’s money”’ (92).

Toward the end of her story Ida confesses, ‘“it’s funny, but I couldn’t help thinking that he

wasn’t thinking about the money he might have been thinking I was thinking I’d get from old

Maggie Brown”’ (93). Though most of the time Ida is straightforward, in this instance she

rambles in her speech almost to the point of nonsense. In one sentence she says “thinking” four

132

times, and both times uses the word in reference to both Lathrop and her. This repetition is

probably due to her anxiousness at not being able to see him again.

Luckily, Lathrop and Ida end up getting married on account of who she is and not

because of how much money she may inherit from Mrs. Brown. At the ceremony the short story

writer who heard her tale figures out why Mrs. Brown was so interested in Ida: ‘“Isn’t Ida’s

[head] a dead ringer for the lady’s head on the silver dollar?”’ (93). Mrs. Brown likes Ida because she looks like money, and money means everything to the older woman. We see this when we remember that earlier in the story Mrs. Brown told Ida she looked ‘“exactly like a dear friend of mine—the best friend I ever had”’ (90). Money matters more to Mrs. Brown than anything, but Ida doesn’t feel the same way, which is why Mrs. Brown ends up losing her. This issue of love versus money shows up in many of O. Henry’s stories, two of which we will take a closer look at in the next section.

5. For Love or Money

“Gifts of the Magi” and “A Service of Love” are love stories. Love stories are not new to

O. Henry, and Stuart explains the writer handled “most successfully…the problems of love in its

many aspects” (174). The issue of money plays very prominently in both “Gifts of the Magi”

and “A Service of Love.” In both stories the main characters have to choose whether or not to

make a monetary sacrifice for the one they love.

As has already been discussed, the conflict for Della in “Gifts of the Magi” is that she

does not have enough money to buy her husband Jim a Christmas present. Della has a plan,

however. She sells her beautiful hair so she can have enough money to purchase “something

fine and rare and sterling—something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being

133

owned by Jim” (Henry, “Gifts” 1). Again in this story, as in others, we encounter the issue of

worth, but in this case it is the object that must be worthy and not the character. There is an

emphasis in this story on value as well, and the narrator spends quite a bit of time describing the

two most valuable things Jim and Della own: Jim’s heirloom watch and Della’s beautiful hair

(1). It is important to establish what is valuable in this household so as to convey what is important to these two people.

Della must find a good present for Jim because he means so much to her. Whatever she buys must be an object worthy of Jim. This object is described in vague terms, two times as

“something,” not a specific item, but a thing “fine and rare and sterling,” of good quality (1).

The thing, or present, Della is looking for has value only in relation to Jim. She finally finds it:

“it was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone….It was even worthy of The Watch” (1). The chain Della procures is good enough for the watch Jim has because “it was like him. Quietness and value—the description applied to both” (1). Now Della has a present worthy of Jim, but she is worried he will not find her attractive without her hair, so she pleads, as “she had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: ‘Please, God, make him think I am still pretty’” (1). This detail is important because, as E. Hudson Long explains, “the description of Della in “The Gift of the Magi” is derived from O. Henry’s memories of Athol. Small and slender, she possessed many of Della’s characteristics” (58).

Choosing to mold Della’s character after his own wife makes this story more personal and touching, perhaps one that goes beyond a general humanitarian belief to encompass a personal belief that love is more important than money. This is one of the main themes of O.

134

Henry’s writing because it is revisited time and again in many of his stories. “Gifts of the Magi” was written as a Christmas story in 1905, supposedly in the span of two hours (Stuart 185). E.

Hudson Long makes comparisons between the story and O. Henry’s life when he explains that when O. Henry was in Honduras, “[Athol] made a point-lace handkerchief, which she sold for twenty-five dollars, and then, like Della in ‘The Gift of the Magi,’ spent the money for her husband’s Christmas box” (87). Selfless acts such as this surely made an impression on O.

Henry, and during Christmastime, a time of giving and love, perhaps he was reminded of his wife’s touching gesture.

In the story, Jim, Della’s husband, comes home and looks at her oddly, wondering about where her hair had gone (Henry, “Gifts” 1). Della urges him to forget about it and tells him she sold it for him, then expresses her love for him with the statement ‘“maybe the hairs on my head were numbered…but nobody could ever count my love for you”’ (1). The couple embraces, and the narrator interjects with “eight dollars a week or a million a year—what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer” (1). Then, since this is a Christmas story, he continues with a reference to the magi and gifts, which he states he will explain later

(1). This interjection of the narrator when he speaks of value and how much we value money as a society is meant to continue the movement of the themes of love, money, and sacrifice that we see in the story. We already know Della sacrificed her hair for Jim. In fact, he made a sacrifice of equal magnitude for her.

Jim’s present to Della is “The Combs…that Della had worshipped for long in a

Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims…” (1). “The

Combs” are not proper nouns, but in this instance are capitalized to denote their importance in

135

Jim’s eyes to Della. Equally relevant is that Jim’s watch, “The Watch” is also capitalized (1).

Just as Della’s gift of a chain for the watch is “worthy of The Watch,” so too is his watch a worthy sacrifice for “The Combs” (1). The two objects must be of equal value, for an exchange was made to procure them. Their sacrifice was matched, a symbol of the love they have for one another.

At the end of “Gifts of the Magi,” the narrator reminds the reader of the magi he mentioned earlier, stressing, “being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication” (1). Gifts can have value not just because they are wisely given, but also because they can be exchanged for other things. At first it seems as though the narrator may disapprove of the decisions of Della and Jim, “two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house” (1). But the narrator does not deprecate Della’s and Jim’s gifts. Instead, he ends with: “let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the wisest. Everywhere they are the wisest. They are the magi” (1). For the narrator, the greatest gift Della and Jim gave was not material: it was love. Both loved each other so much that they sacrificed a prized possession in order to make their beloved happy. This idea was so important to O. Henry that we see it in other stories as well, like “A Service of Love.”

“A Service of Love” (1905) is the story of two artistic lovers, Joe and Delia. As the story unfolds we learn they love their art: for Joe it is painting and for Delia singing. The beginning of the story focuses on the theme of Art with the quote “when one loves one’s Art no service seems too hard” (Henry, “Service” 8). This sentiment is repeated four times in the story, almost as a mantra. It is a belief shared by both characters, often repeated as a reminder of the

136

motivation behind their actions. Joe sells paintings and Delia gives music lessons in order to

make ends meet (8). In their own way, they are still in service to their Art. Later in the story,

however, it is revealed that in reality Delia is not giving music lessons; she is laundering shirts to

earn money (8).

Once a week Delia and Joe pool together their hard earned money in a flourish of cash.

Though this may seem to be a minor act, it is significant for two reasons. Both spouses are equally contributing to the household funds, but although they are both members of the working class, their contributions to the household funds are not equal in monetary terms, in part due to

their gender differences. The tradition of showcasing one’s earnings begins when “at the end of

the week Delia, sweetly proud but languid, triumphantly tossed three five-dollar bills on the 8x10

(inches) centre [sic] table of the 8x10 (feet) flat parlour [sic]” (8). Delia is tired from her work, but pleased with what she can contribute to the household funds. She has worked hard, and she has something to show for it, just like many of the other New Woman female characters previously discussed. Joe, on the other hand, “with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth a ten, a five, a two and a one—all legal tender notes—and laid them beside Delia’s earnings” (8).

Though Joe’s “air of a Monte Cristo” may suggest snobbery, he does not throw his money down

in a flourish. Instead, he places his money “beside” his wife’s earnings. Perhaps we could view

these bills, “legal tender notes,” as not just cash, but money earned for a person he loves. They

are tenderly placed on the table, suggesting a play on the description of the legitimate value of

money and the legitimate value of caring for someone.

Joe placing his money next to Delia’s could also suggest that he views both of their

earnings on equal terms. He does not place his money on top of hers, which would overshadow

137

her work and imply that his is more important. Instead, it is “beside” hers (8). On the other hand, placing his money beside Delia’s serves to highlight the difference in pay between the two.

Joe has more bills to place on the table, one of which (the ten-dollar bill) is an amount higher than any of Delia’s bills. This monetary detail reinforces the discussion of the “fiver” with the

“tenner” about the shop-girl in “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner” because the reader is reminded that Delia is a working girl who will probably never have a ten-dollar bill in her pocket. Her money makes the same rounds as a shop-girl’s. A woman’s earnings at the turn of the twentieth century was always less than a man’s, something highlighted in the visual production of the money each character earned that week in “A Service for Love.”

Another comparison between Delia’s and Joe’s finances is made when the narrator describes details of the table and the parlor in the same scene as the money. As previously mentioned, the narrator explains that Delia put her money on the “8x10 (inches) centre [sic] table

of the 8x10 (feet) flat parlour [sic]” (8). Though both the table and the parlor are described as

having the same numerals (“8x10”), they differ in length and width, or size. Perhaps the table and parlor could serve as a metonym for the characters in the house. Delia could be like the table, and Joe could be like the parlor. Though both Delia and Joe have jobs, her monetary contribution to the household income is always less than his, just like the table is—and always will be—smaller than the room. Even though her earning power is less, she maximizes it by contributing to the household funds as much as she can. Though not an equal contribution, it is equitable to Joe’s.

In addition to money, the space taken up by the table and the parlor is different, just like the space where each of them works. The table is a smaller, more intimate space, like where

138

Delia works. In contrast, the parlor is more open and larger, just like Central Park where Joe

“works” on his paintings (8). Such a comparison would suggest that in the City men have more

mobility than women due to their range of job opportunities. Women may have had more job

opportunities at the turn of the century, but these opportunities were almost all indoors, whereas men had not only the freedom to have jobs indoors, but out of doors as well. As for what jobs

Delia and Joe have, these characters soon admit to each other that they have been lying about their respective professions (8).

At the end of the story Delia comes home with a bandaged hand, which seems odd to her

husband (8). He gently asks her what she has been doing, and she finally admits that she doesn’t

teach music lessons: she irons shirts (8). When she tells Joe she lied to him about her real job so

he wouldn’t have to give up his art lessons, Joe has a confession of his own: he never sold any

sketches; his money comes from working in an engine room at a laundry mat (8). Both Joe and

Delia gave up their art for each other. They both get a laugh out of the situation, but when Joe begins their old mantra ‘“when one loves one’s art no service seems—”” Delia interrupts him to say: “‘just ‘when one loves’ ”’ (8). That is, the “service,” or work in the story was not for art, but for love. As Simmel explains, “one not only makes sacrifices for what one loves, but also one loves that for which one has made sacrifices” (Philosophy 372). In order for an act to be a sacrifice, one has to value what is being sacrificed. Like “Gifts of the Magi,” both characters

sacrificed something they valued for someone they valued even more.

6. Conclusion

Many of O. Henry’s stories reveal a pattern about how money and people are connected,

a pattern expressed in literary techniques that convey social criticisms. Let us begin by

139

examining figures to see how this formula works. Although not used as often as the terms

“worth,” “value,” or “money,” the term “figure” does play a significant role in understanding the connection between people and money in O. Henry’s stories. The characters in these stories are figures. Numbers are figures as well. Finally, the term figure can also refer to money. Though these “figures” are all connected, for example through emotional ties or exchanges of money, because they all interact with each other and participate in various modes of exchange, money can be a great divider. It divides the rich from the poor, for example, something we see in stories such as “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner” and “A Night in New Arabia.” It can be a barrier between men and women, something pointed out in “The Girl and the Graft.” Yet money can also be the greatest of equalizers. We all need it to buy things in order to survive. We all spend it, and the same bill can pass through the hands of any man or woman, regardless of social class, religion, race, or creed. Stories such as “Mammon and the Archer” and “The Girl and the Habit” are good examples of stories where money is exchanged between different classes.

Sometimes money is not the solution to a problem, and every now and then O. Henry highlights this in his stories. One of the ways he used to help people was through indirect means.

He used to send people who needed, but could not afford, medical assistance to a doctor friend,

Dr. Collin Luke Begg, along with a note requesting aid on his calling card, telling the doctor to send the bill to him (Williams 211). We see this same selfless mentality in O. Henry’s story

“The Discounters of Money,” where a rich man discovers sometimes it is more worthwhile to help people by providing a safe place for them to stay the night instead of throwing money at a problem.

140

Other times money is referred to as being tainted in O. Henry’s stories. The taint of money in “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner” and “A Night in New Arabia” is a means of explaining that it is not where money comes from that corrupts currency, it is what a character chooses to do with the money that determines its purity. It is the movement—or lack thereof—of most money that matters. This movement determines what he or she is worth as a character as opposed to how much money one has, something seen in “One Thousand Dollars” and “The Discounters of

Money.” Issues of worth and money were constantly on O. Henry’s mind, as evinced not only by his stories, but also in the last days of his life.

On the day O. Henry entered the hospital in which he would soon die, “from his trouser pockets he took some coins, counted them, and handed them to Anne [Partlan]. ‘I’ve heard,’ he said, ‘that people are worth thirty cents when they’re dead. Here are twenty-three’” (Kramer

307-308). Although one can view this remark as a joke on O. Henry’s part, there may be more gravity to this statement. Even before death, O. Henry makes a comment deprecating his worth by not only by associating his value as a person with money, but also insinuating that he is

“worthless” because he cannot pay what people are worth when they are dead, “thirty cents.”

Thomas Wiseman explains “money, it is said, is a measure of value, a medium of exchange, and a store of wealth” (3). In all of these stories we have seen money treated as one, and sometimes two or three, of these definitions. Though money matters in all of these stories,

O. Henry makes it clear that what matters more than money is the characters and their bonds with each other. Some of O. Henry’s most powerful stories are of poor characters who either make a great sacrifice in order to purchase something that will make their beloved happy, or who work hard in order to provide for their family. “Gifts of the Magi” is an excellent example of

141

this, as well as “A Service of Love.” Both stories exhibit acts of sacrifice similar to those O.

Henry experienced in his own life.

A comparison was made earlier in this chapter between Della in “Gifts of the Magi” and

O. Henry’s deceased wife Athol. Athol made another sacrifice for her husband in the summer of

1893. Her husband saved some money for her to go with some friends to the Chicago World’s

Fair, but Athol chose to take that money and buy new curtains and “two new wicker [rocking] chairs” (Davis and Maurice 66). She explained “since Will had given her the money for the trip, she preferred to spend it on something he could enjoy too” (Long 68). Though their owners are no longer sitting on the porch in these rockers and enjoying the warm Texas air, these two rockers (with marginal repairs) are still in the original O. Henry house in Austin, objects that seem to serve as a symbol for the love Athol and Will shared. Perhaps even more telling is the sweet construction of the rockers themselves, for the back of each wooden rocker is shaped like a swirling heart (Chair, ID 1936.22.01; ID 1936.22.02).

Of the ten stories discussed in this chapter, all of them contain at least one character faced with the dilemma to choose between love and money. In every single instance O. Henry makes clear that love matters more than money. It makes sense that this would be a humanitarian ideal, unconscious or no, that O. Henry would propagate. His own life, at least life as he knew it as

Will Porter, was destroyed by money when he was accused and convicted of embezzling funds during his Austin days (Stuart 85). He grew up poor, and eloped with his first wife Athol because her parents didn’t consider him to be worthy of being a suitor as his competitor, a man with more money (Stuart 46-47). He depended highly on the Roaches for financial assistance when he could not make enough money to support his family in Austin in 1895, and even his

142

bond was partly paid for by Mr. Roach in 1896 (Langford 82, 90). O. Henry constantly needed money, and were it not for a $100 advance from Ainslee’s in 1902—which he asked for twice and which they twice gave—he may never have made it to New York City (O’ Connor 86).

Money never mattered that much to O. Henry, but love certainly did. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that the vast majority of the characters in his stories felt the same way.

143

CHAPTER 3

TRAVEL AND TRANSIENTS

The plot of a good short story hinges on movement; without it, stories are just vignettes, frozen

in time. Characters in a story perform actions necessary to drive plots forward, and when they

move across narrative space, the story develops. Franco Moretti expresses the importance of

movement and space to plot in a narrative: “space is correlated to plot…the crossing of a spatial

border is usually also the decisive event of the narrative structure” (Atlas 46). These theories

highlight the idea that formula is crucial to the development of the short story.

As discussed in the introduction, many critics often complain of O. Henry’s overreliance on formula, but I argue that their understanding of the form is colored by their bias against

popular writers. The truth of the matter is that all writing is formulaic—haikus, limericks,

sonnets, plays, novels, folktales, short stories, and essays all subscribe to a formula. If we look

to examples of what these formulas are, one of the most obvious is Aristotle’s Poetics, which contains the definitive means by which we categorize the nature of Tragedy (61-64). Edgar

Allen Poe outlines the requirements needed to categorize the short story as a genre in “Review of

Twice-Told Tales” (60-62). Freytag’s Pyramid, or a modified version of it, is often drilled into the heads of many a high school student who is reading short stories for the purpose of discussing plot (Prentice 29; Holt McDougal Literature 30). Formulas are necessary for movement in literature, almost like dance steps are needed for choreography.

As explained in the introduction, O. Henry uses formulas to make social critiques. One of these formulas entails ceasing a character’s movement in a story. When a character stops from moving in an O. Henry story, they typically reach a revelation, one that usually coincides

144

with, or at least compliments, his social criticisms. Sometimes movements and revelations

coincide with heights, by which I mean that wisdom is gained when one ascends to a higher

level, like Daisy in “Psyche and the Pskyscraper,” and Helen in “The Thing’s the Play.” Heights

lead to illumination for these two heroines because rising to new levels gives them a new

perspective that leads to an epiphany. We could call this sort of epiphany the climax of the story

because it is not only a turning point in the action, but also in the lives of the characters.

Sometimes the connection between movements and revelations is subtler, as when revelations are achieved, let us say, through sensory input. The dual meaning of the word

“vision” as both ‘sight’ and ‘discovery’ lends itself nicely to the correlative relationship between the senses and revelation. Sometimes we need to see something from a different vantage point in order to comprehend, or “see,” what is right in front of us. Such is the case in “Psyche and the

Pskyscraper” when Daisy has to see her world from the summit of a skyscraper in order to comprehend the significance of Joe, hundreds of feet below her. The movement of vision in

Daisy’s case is what leads to the revelation. Sensing something is an active process that involves both the mind and the space described in the story. Seeing, tasting, smelling, touching, and hearing are not passive exercises. As Descartes explains, “all the management of our lives depends on the senses…” (65). To sense is a physical activity performed by characters, and anything physical requires movement. Because of this, a character can also make connections and reach a revelation through his or her sense of smell, like in “The Furnished Room” and “The

Romance of a Busy Broker;” through hearing, as in “The Thing’s the Play;” or even through touch, as in “A Bird of Bagdad.” In these stories sensory input, much like vertical distance,

145

guides characters to new knowledge. Characters in these works just mentioned use their senses

to discover new insights, and these new insights lead to life changing events.

Movements in an O. Henry story also occur via the well-known plot device commonly

referred to as a frame story. Of particular relevance to my topic is that this type of story allows

for movements within movement. Movements occur in the actual narration of a frame story that

are suggestive of space. The inner core of a story is wrapped by an outer space, suggesting that frame stories have layers of narrative that must be peeled away in order to get to the social

commentary underneath them. “The Thing’s the Play” and “A Bird of Bagdad” serve as good

examples of frame stories where revealing these layers of narrative helps to propel the plot,

because both stories contain various social criticisms, making layers necessary.

Series of triads reveal other examples of movement in O. Henry’s stories. Triads in O.

Henry’s stories most often occur via the use of the tricolon and/or the love triangle plot device.

Though the number three is typically considered symmetrical and harmonious, I have noticed that usually a couple must break away from a group of three in order to achieve a happy ending in an O. Henry story. The breaking of a love triangle is thus a movement in search of balance, and this theme is prevalent in many O. Henry stories, such as “The Venturers,” “The Thing’s the

Play,” and “Psyche and the Pskyscraper,” all stories where two men are vying for the attention of one woman, who has a choice to make. This scenario mirrors Henry’s courtship of Athol, as explained in the introduction.

The leitmotif used as a device to further movement is frequently used in stories discussed not just in this chapter, but in other chapters as well. The repetition of leitmotifs helps to further the movement of the plot in such stories as “Squaring the Circle” and “The Thing’s the Play”

146

because this repetition is an impetus for movement. For example, the leitmotif in “The Thing’s the Play” is achieved with constant references to the theatre and theatrical language, something

O. Henry could write about with skill and ease because “he always had a fondness for the stage

and for theatrical people” (Long 50). The repetition of O. Henry’s theatrical language not only

reminds the reader that the theatre is a leitmotif, but also helps to support the idea that there is a

social commentary underneath the leitmotif.

Finally, there is the issue of transients, like residents of furnished rooms, boardinghouses, and other temporary homes like tenements. Tenements, or “tenant-houses” were wooden buildings, “often erected on the back portion of city lots, increasing the density of population without greatly altering the city’s appearance” (Homberger, Historical 110). People were packed into tenements in alarming numbers, but housing had to increase and increase quickly in order to accommodate the influx of immigrants arriving in the City at the turn of the twentieth century, and tenements were the solution to that problem (Hall 751). As Sir Peter Hall further explains, poor housing conditions were a serious issue in the City, and though conditions improved somewhat, “by 1900, there were more than 80,000 tenements in Greater New York

City; they housed 2.3 million people out of 3.4 million…” (752). Although we do not read about many tenements in O. Henry’s stories, their existence in real life is a sobering reality of poverty in New York City at the time, and it also helps to explain people’s transience—they were renters, and renters often move.

O. Henry uses the word “transients” in seven different New York stories, four of which will be discussed in this chapter. Unlike other forms of movement revealed in the form of plot and literary devices, transients are characters in the stories, the “human” element in the story. As

147

we will see, their movements (or lack of movement) further the plot in a different way.

Regardless of how the plot evolves, however, there is always a type of revelation achieved as a

result of movement, and these revelations take many forms. The first type of revelation we will

review is drawn from an old theme, that of achieving insights from great heights.

1. Vertical Movements and Revelations

In “Psyche and the Pskyscraper” (1905), the heroine Daisy, must travel to the top of a

skyscraper in order to realize what is truly significant in her life. At street level, Daisy doesn’t

realize her admirer Joe’s importance, nor does she realize how significantly her surroundings

affect her. Before embarking on her upward journey, she is a silly girl concerned with frivolous

matters, like showing off a rival suitor’s silk hat to Joe (Henry, “Psyche” 2). Then she travels to

the top of the skyscraper with Dabster, Joe’s rival suitor. When they reach the top, Dabster

“showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far below, starred here and there,

early as it was, by the first beacon lights of the winter afternoon” (2). Daisy is privy to a new view of her neighborhood, one in which she sees how small everything really is in relation to the rest of the City. This view is a far cry from anything and everything she has ever known because

“Daisy’s existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways between the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall bedroom coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness” (2). At this turning point in her life, she sees the world around her differently. As

Descartes explains, “as to the manner in which we see the size and shape of objects…it is all included in the manner in which we see the distance and the position of their parts. Thus, their size is estimated according to the knowledge, or the opinion, that we have of their distance…”

(107). Instead of being small and familiar, like the space Daisy currently inhabits, this new

148

world atop the skyscraper is full of a vast, overwhelming space that scares her. The familiar boy

Joe is too far away from her, and she does not like this fact. Sometimes it takes distance for

someone to realize the significance of another person; in Daisy’s case, this distance is achieved

by being on top of the skyscraper.

In addition to showing Daisy this new view from the skyscraper, Dabster attempts to

impress her with his intelligence “the grandeur of this mind, the half-nelson he had on the infinite, and the memory he had for statistics” (Henry, “Psyche” 2). But Daisy is not impressed with her philosopher’s statistics and numbers. As the narrator reminds us, philosophers can look down at the world from atop a skyscraper and see mankind as insignificant (2). Daisy does the opposite; she sees what is significant when she is up at such a great distance. She doesn’t like being up so high and far away from her reality and the comfort of what she knows. She tells

Dabster to take her back down three times. The first time it is merely a suggestion: ‘“I don’t like it,’ declared Daisy, with troubled blue eyes. ‘Say we go down”’ (2). Daisy’s protestations increase in volume and insistence the more the philosopher tries to keep her from going down.

In her second protestation, she refuses to believe what Dabster is telling her about the insignificance of humanity: ‘“You’re lyin’,’ cried Daisy angrily. ‘You’re tryin’ to scare me.

And you have; I want to go down!’” (2). When her fit doesn’t cause Dabster to relent, she resorts to a command: ‘“take me down,’ she cried vehemently…” (2). Daisy’s vehemence to leave the top of the skyscraper takes her from concern, to anger, to rage. Her anger and her commands suggest her growing power. Commands establish a hierarchy of power because the person issuing the commands is able to make someone do what he or she wants and, in some cases, can direct their movements. To take a case in point, it isn’t until Daisy commands Dabster

149

to “‘take me down’” that he finally relents and does what she asks (2). She gives him an order, and also a direction.

High above the City’s streets, Daisy realizes what many of us already know: humans may ultimately seem insignificant, at least when viewed from tall heights. In this story, distance only seems to emphasize the importance of close space and intimacy, however, something O.

Henry understood. Despite all his need for space, he did not like tall heights, and, as was discussed in prior chapters, sometimes enclosed spaces could provide privacy and solitude, ingredients necessary for him to write. One time he told Mabel Wagnalls “I’m shy about bearding absent-minded editors who live too high above the sidewalk. From long practice I am able to land safely out of a second-story window, but when I scrape an acquaintance I don’t want it to be a skyscraper” (Henry, Letter to Mabel Wagnalls 23 July 1903 24). Though not a “manly” thing to admit to a fear of heights, O. Henry nonetheless preferred to stay close to the ground, much like the quiet hero Joe in this story, who we never hear of ascending the skyscraper.

Instead, he is content to stay on the ground in a small space.

The reader of “Psyche and the Pskyscraper” is constantly reminded of space in the City;

Joe’s store is described as “the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a tool-box of the D. P. W., and was stuck like a swallow’s nest against a corner of a downtown skyscraper”

(“Psyche” 2). Daisy often teases Joe about the size of his store and how small it is, joking that he

‘“look[s] like a mummy in a case”’ while working inside of it (2). She also calls his store a

“sardine box” and dismisses romantic thoughts of Joe when she pictures his “funny little store tacked like a soap box to the corner of that great building…” (2). Her view of Joe and his prospects are dim at the beginning of the story because she doesn’t see how much he has to give

150

her. All she can see at eye level is the “funny little store” (2). All of these references to “little”

seem to suggest that littleness is a sign of ‘less,’ and, therefore, somehow that Joe is ‘less’ of a man, which right away makes him less appealing to Daisy. The suggestive space of smallness is unappealing on many levels, and perhaps encourages the idea that a man’s respective space in the world could be a reflection of his masculinity.

Daisy’s vision of Joe shifts when she sees her section of the world from above. After hearing Dabster blather on about people being “crawling insects going to and fro at random,” she defends her fellow New Yorkers with a humanistic call to arms: ‘“they ain’t anything of the kind…they’re folks!’” (2). Unwilling to accept Dabster’s philosophy on life that we are insignificant beings, Daisy develops her own philosophy, exclaiming ‘“it’s awful to be up so high that folks look like fleas. One of them we saw might have been Joe”’ (2). The mention of

Joe serves to emphasize how her thoughts of him have shifted due to her newly gained perspective of the world. Joe is no insignificant flea, but a person and a person for whom she cares, moreover. Once she realizes this, she’s frantic to leave “the revolving door of the skyscraper” and go down where things are safe and people are human (2).

Once Daisy comes down from the skyscraper she runs to Joe, “and Daisy, laughing, crying, scattering fruit and candies, tumbled into his arms,” while admitting ‘“Oh, Joe, I’ve been up on the skyscraper. Ain’t it cozy and warm and homelike in here! I’m ready for you, Joe, whenever you want me”’ (2). In a nutshell, then, Daisy had a choice between two men in this story. Upward and downward mobility give her the freedom to decide what is right for her. This mobility helps her realize that what she thought was “little” and “small” is really “cozy” and

“homelike.” Without her trip to the top of the skyscraper, she would not have seen that Joe was

151

the right match for her. She needed that upward, vertical distance in order to achieve a new

vision with a new clarity of mind and perception.

Helen, the heroine in “The Thing’s the Play” (1906), also reaches a revelation through an ascent. Daisy reaches a revelation at a high altitude and must “come down” to be with Joe, while

Helen reaches a revelation on the second floor of a boardinghouse and must go up to be with her beloved. As the owner of her own boardinghouse, Helen, who lives alone, has freedom of mobility. She rebuffs advances by suitors because she’s still in love with her husband, a man who left her on their wedding night when he assumed she was having an affair with his friend

John (“Thing’s” 8). Though she was never unfaithful, her husband did not believe her (8).

Twenty years later Helen has two male boarders that unsettle her in her own house: the

violinist Ramonti and a second man, who reminds her of her husband. The latter woos her, and

“his voice somehow took her swiftly back to the days of her youth’s romance….and it led her to

an instinctive belief that he had been a factor in that romance” (8). Unbeknownst to her, Helen is

leaning on the wrong side of the love triangle. Ramonti is actually her husband, not the other

man. Absent for twenty years, he returns as a man with a different name and no memory of the

time when he knew Helen. She, on the other hand, finally realizes who Ramonti really is at the

end of the story, when the boarder that she first thought was her real husband admits to being

John (8). At the time of John’s protestations of love for her, she hears “the soft, racking,

petitionary music of a violin” (8). Hearing Ramonti play makes her pause. She beseeches John

to verify his identity, and after he admits who he is, she flees to Ramonti, realizing he is her real

husband (8). Like Daisy, once Helen recognizes her true love and her ‘true’ place within the

established order, she runs to that space. Also like Daisy, Helen commands her other suitor to do

152

something, and once this deed is accomplished she is able to be with her true love. Unlike

Daisy, the heroine of “Psyche and the Pskyscraper,” however, Helen has to make an ascent rather than a descent in order to be with her beloved. She rushes up to her husband, “leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs toward the music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for his…” (8).

To summarize up to this point, after they reach their revelation, the women in “Psyche and the Pskyscraper” and “The Thing’s the Play” travel a vertical distance; one goes up, the other, down. O. Henry describes this movement in a list of participles, mainly in the present tense. Daisy is “laughing, crying, scattering fruits and candies” as she runs to Joe (“Psyche” 2).

This list of participles gives additional movement to the story not just because it explains the actions each woman is performing, but also because each one is doing these actions as a list, or as a sequence of “still shots” or actions (“laughing” and “crying”) strung out in a chain that suggests speed and movement, as if it were a film sequence. It is as if each participle were a

‘traveling shot,’ each word capturing a movement succinctly. There is an unchecked haste, a clumsiness in the descriptions of both women’s movements. Their movements were frantic, as if they are so excited to be with their lovers that they could not bother with finesse. Helen is

“hurrying” and “stumbling;” Daisy “scatters” things (“Thing’s” 8; “Psyche” 2). The first three words in each list are present participles, and these participles do not just describe how the women are moving, moreover, but also serve as a kind of action in themselves because participles can give the impression of urgency. These participles are present, meaning the action is taking place with the immediacy of now, of this instant. The description of the moment is immediate and fluid. The action is not cluttered with a lot of words or a lengthy sentence. This

153

type of description serves to emphasize how important the men are to Daisy and Helen. Neither

character stops to do anything else. There are no apologies made to the men they leave behind;

no quick checks in the mirror to see how their hair looks, or if they need lipstick. There is no

delay in ascending or descending. It’s as if love provided all the momentum they needed to get

where they belong.

2. Movement Through the Senses

In addition to revelations achieved through vertical distances, some of the characters in

O. Henry’s stories reach revelations through sensory input. In stories where this happens, a

movement of the senses triggers an epiphany of sorts, sometimes through sight, others through

smell, hearing, or even touch. As Descartes notes, “in order to perceive, the mind need not

contemplate any images resembling the things that it senses” (91). It is possible to notice

something with the senses and not associate that observation with an image. To sense is not

necessarily to literally “see” an image because sensory perception depends on “the movement of

nerves” in the body (101). This movement leads to perception, which can lead in turn to

knowledge, and from knowledge a revelation can ultimately be reached in this section. I would

like to begin by examining how a revelation is achieved in “Psyche and the Pskyscraper.”

As I have already pointed out, in this story the main character, Daisy, must move up to realize that what is important to her is down below. Her sense of sight helps to guide her to the knowledge that Joe is the man for her. In this story vision provides, in and of itself, a kind of subtle movement. As Martin Jay explains in Downcast Eyes, “the eye can only do its job by being in almost constant motion” (6). Eyes scan a crowd, lids blink, and pupils dilate. Be it a fixed or a fleeting gaze, there is movement in something as simple as a look. In “Psyche and the

154

Pskyscraper” we are told that Daisy gets to the top of the skyscraper and “look[s] down at the

black dots moving in the street below” (Henry, “Psyche” 2). Up from this height, she is so far

removed from civilization that she can’t even tell there are people below because they simply

look like “dots” (2). This limited vision makes Daisy nervous. Immediately after acquiring this

new perspective, she seeks clarification from Dabster with the question ‘“what are they?’” (2).

Being at such a height is significant because distance allows a revelation to take place.

O. Henry explains at the beginning of the story that normally when one ascends to a higher level

and looks down at people who are so far below that they appear to be “insects,” that person

comes to realize how little people matter in relation to the world (2). He asserts, “it is guaranteed

that the philosopher will have these thoughts. They have been expressly compiled from the

philosophies of the world and set down with the proper interrogation point at the end of them to

represent the invariable musings of deep thinkers on high places” (2). These same sentiments are

echoed by Martin Jay, who explains, “the development of Western philosophy cannot be understood…without attending to its habitual dependence on visual metaphors of one sort or another” (187). The philosopher may have these thoughts, but Daisy is no philosopher, as the narrator so pointedly reminds us: “but if your name happened to be Daisy, and you worked in an

Eighth Avenue candy store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom…and never had studied philosophy, maybe things wouldn’t look that way to you from the top of a skyscraper” (Henry,

“Psyche” 2). This comment raises the question: how does Daisy view the world from up above, if not with the eye of a philosopher like Dabster?

Distance has given Daisy a new perspective, and it is not one she likes. This discomfort is necessary, however, in order for her to “see” that Joe is the right man for her. In other words,

155

in O. Henry’s urban dramas, sometimes a character has to see what is wrong to realize what is

right, something required of readers as well, especially when O. Henry makes social critiques.

Daisy needed to see how far away Joe was from her in order to appreciate him, and understand that he was the man for her. Ascending to the top of the skyscraper tests her feelings for Joe.

This test could be compared to the tests Psyche had to undergo in Greek mythology to prove her love for Cupid, and it helps readers understand why O. Henry titled the story as he did (Hamilton

96-104). Both the fictional character and the mythological one had to leave their surroundings on a quest that led to a discovery. Just as Psyche’s tests took her away from Cupid, Daisy’s

“test” is contingent on space. That we can make these correlations is obvious: the title of the story, after all, is “Psyche and the Pskyscraper.” O. Henry’s titles are very deliberate (although not readily obvious), revealing, and sometimes pointing to a distinct theme in the story, sometimes one that was intended to call attention to the subtle social criticisms in his works. As

Fusco notes, sometimes O. Henry “used [a] tale’s title to…provide his readers with an interpretive key…” (127). O. Henry gave a great deal of thought to his titles, as evinced in a letter to his editor in which he discusses possible story titles for “The Man About Town” (Porter,

William Sydney, Letter to Steger 1909 846). “Psyche and the Pskyscraper” is another example of O. Henry’s thoughtfulness and care where sight leads to revelation, and this discovery is just another layer to the story.

In addition to sight, hearing can lead to revelations in O. Henry’s works. In “The Thing’s the Play” Helen hears the music of Ramonti’s violin, and the sound wafting down causes her to go up to her lover (Henry, “Thing’s” 8). Though music itself is a series of sound waves, these waves would mean nothing without the ear to hear them. According to Descartes, “the

156

movements of the nerves which respond to the ears cause it to hear sounds…” (101). Like

vision, the sense of hearing also entails movement. In Helen’s case, this movement is needed for

her to achieve a revelation, for “hearing provides the experience of temporal duration, a salient

example being a melody, which intertwines past, present and future in a meaningful whole” (Jay

197). Ramonti’s voice, and later the melody from his violin, “bewitches” Helen and “this music

and the musician called her” (Henry, “Thing’s” 8). Although the musician, being a person, can call to Helen, music cannot. This description is just another example of O. Henry’s subtle use of a literary device, personification in this case, to convey a deeper meaning—we should trust our instincts and listen to the subtle social critiques O. Henry is making about society at the turn of the twentieth century. Helen’s instincts tell her something is familiar about Ramonti. She is torn in this pivotal moment between the man she suspects is her husband—John—and the man she is drawn to, Ramonti. She is frozen, unable to move with this “later, fuller, nearer influence. And so the old fought against the new” (8). While Helen is at war with herself, John admits that he is not her real husband (8). As soon as the admission crosses his lips, she flees upstairs to her true love (8). Were it not for the music and John’s confession, she would not have been reunited with her estranged husband. Sometimes instead of listening to one’s heart, we need to literally listen as does Helen, with our ears, for the truth. The movement brought on by this sense leads to a second movement: Helen’s upward reach for Ramonti.

Though she never leaves the house in the story, this character has freedom of movement within it. She can go where she pleases because she owns the boardinghouse. Her whole world is this place, and her revelations must come from something (or someone) in this environment.

The protagonists in the next two stories reviewed are also in interior environments when they

157

reach their revelations. But unlike Helen, as we shall see, the men in these stories receive their

revelations through different senses.

In the “The Furnished Room” (1904) and “The Romance of a Busy Broker” (1904) it is the sense of smell that triggers a need for a loved one. As Gaston Bachelard explains in The

Poetics of Space, sometimes “a whiff of perfume, or even the slightest odor can create an entire environment in the world of the imagination” (174). O. Henry was extremely fond of perfume, and either wore it or had it on his handkerchief, though no one seems to know why (Williams

128). Perfume was one of the items Athol put in his Christmas box when he was in Honduras, so we can trace his liking for it at least that far back in his life (Smith, O. Henry 142). Perhaps the appreciation of this item and the desire to smell good were just a part of his daily routine.

In any case, we can see the power of perfume in the stories where the sense of smell ensnares the heroes and leads them to obsessive behavior. For example, in “The Furnished

Room” a young man is looking for his loved one. He thinks he finds her, and clings to this thought when assaulted by her scent, “the strong, sweet odour of mignonette. It came as upon a single buffet of wind with such sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a living visitant. And the man cried aloud: ‘What, dear?’ as if he had been called…” (Henry,

“Furnished” 245). Like Helen with Ramonti’s music, the young man feels “called” by an inanimate object, the perfume. He is so overcome by this aroma that he feels his beloved is in the room with him. This scent calls to him so clearly that he asks a question, almost as if the scent were human enough to answer (245). In other words, the sense of smell is so vivid that it makes his girl come to life. This perceived presence of his loved one is so strong that he kills

158

himself when “the perfume of the mignonette had departed” (249). Just as the scent, emblematic

of his hope of finding a lost girlfriend fades forever, the man fades away into oblivion.

An overwhelming scent pervades the thoughts of the protagonist of “The Romance of a

Busy Broker” as well. Similar to “The Furnished Room,” the main character in this story is

strongly reminded of his beloved through his sense of smell. The narrator explains, “through the

window came a wandering—perhaps a lost—odor—a delicate, sweet odor of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment immovable. For this odor belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and hers only” (“Romance” 4). Harvey Maxwell is the “busy broker” (investment, stock, or business broker; it is never made clear) who is so absorbed in his work that he forgets his beloved until

“the odor brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him” (4). The word “odor” is repeated four times in these descriptions, an emphasis that it is a smell that is stopping the broker from moving, and thus from working. Maxwell is arrested by this scent, and he is able to come to a revelation because the smell in question makes him drop everything he is doing and brings to mind the woman he loves.

Like the hero in “The Furnished Room,” Maxwell feels the presence of his lover via the sense of smell. Maxwell’s woman is still alive, however, and he realizes how important she is to him while “the world of finance dwindled suddenly to a speck,” suggesting that he forgets everything but her (4). In the end, he asks the woman to marry him, forgetting all about his work long enough to declare his feelings. Were it not for a whiff of her perfume, this workaholic would not have asked Miss Leslie to be his wife. Ironically, his work is so self-consuming that

Miss Leslie has to gently remind him that they have been married since the previous evening (4).

Apparently, Maxwell’s sense of smell was strong enough to invoke memories and feelings for

159

Miss Leslie, but not strong enough to serve as a reminder that they are now husband and wife.

Though O. Henry as narrator does not chastise Maxwell for his lapse in memory, there is

nonetheless the subtle reminder or moral of the tale that one should not get so consumed with

work as to forget what is really important, namely the love of a good woman. This is a theme

that is obviously important to O. Henry, one he picks up again in “From the Cabby’s Seat”

(1904), a story about a cab driver who is so drunk that he does not realize until the end of the tale

that his fare is actually his wife (173).

Unlike the previous stories discussed which deal with revelations achieved through the

sense of sight, hearing, or smell, in “A Bird of Bagdad” (1905) it is touch that leads a character

to a revelation. To touch is a physical movement of contact, and “touch restores the proximity of

self and other, who then is understood as neighbor. It also entails a more intimate relation to the

world” (Jay 557). The sense of touch is personal because it brings others into physical contact

with something that is so close that it could be said to be a “neighbor.” Unlike the other senses,

touch entails a physical connection and a closeness of space. Other than ingesting something,

touch is as close as one can get to another thing. In “A Bird of Bagdad” touch comes through a token, a coupon really, given to a boy by the main character. This touch is described in simple sentences. The boy “encountered the strange touch of the Margrave’s card” (Henry, “Bird” 9).

It is interesting to note that the boy in this sentence does not touch the object; what O. Henry’s syntax suggests in that the object itself does the touching. In this instance, an immobile thing is given the power to move through language. The strength of this movement is in its impossibility. That a non-living thing has the power of touch only makes this revelation that

160

much more significant because it adds the element of fantasy to the tale, opening up possibilities

that may not have been considered.

We consider things that move when they are not supposed to out of the ordinary, and

anything out of the ordinary is worthy of attention because it can be magical. The card touching

the boy’s hand in this story leads him to a revelation because it gives him the inspiration needed

to solve a riddle necessary to obtain the girl he loves. The boy is able to answer the riddle’s

question ‘“Vat [sic] kind of a hen lays der [sic] longest?”’ when he pulls Margrave’s card out of

his pocket and reads what is on it: ‘“good for one roast chicken to bearer”’ (9). At that moment

the boy realizes that the answer is a “roast,” or dead, chicken (9). With this answer, he gets the girl. As in “The Romance of a Busy Broker,” one man’s sense led him to his beloved.

This is because sense itself is a type of movement, one that happens everyday. For

example, our eyes move when they scan words on a paper, a hand gripping a pencil in frustration

is a movement of touch, and a nose twitching in the presence of dusty books in a library indicates

something is being smelled. The senses are part of a sensory experience in which body parts do

things, and the action, or doing, of these things is movement. The insights the characters have in

this section are not readily obvious, just like the social criticisms O. Henry has for readers are not

readily obvious. Like his characters, we have to work for them, unpeeling layers at a time until

we get to the true meaning of his work, the social critiques he subtly makes. Also like his characters, sometimes readers need distance and space, specifically from the text, time to think about what we read, in order to realize what is really important. Distance does not have to take the form of space, however. It can also be created or suggested by time, specifically in the form of a frame story.

161

3. Movement in Frame Stories

“The Thing’s the Play” is a frame story on many levels. The main setting is a three-story house or, in other words, what could be referred to as a spatial frame of three. Number three is important in this story and serves a literary purpose that O. Henry uses to develop his themes. I would like to further this discussion by pointing out that in this story there is the frame of the story itself, in which we have three layers: a.) the outer frame or the story told by the narrator, b.) the story of Helen and her beaux as told by the reporter, and c.) the story of Helen and her husband as told by her. The layers of dialogue and narrative in these stories add richness because they offer different perspectives and points of view on the story of Helen and her beaux.

For example, Helen’s side of the story adds gravity to the tale because her story is one of abandonment. Then there is the objective viewpoint of the narrator that pervades the narration.

Though outside the tale, he tells the story with humor, which brings in a touch of lightness so that readers understand that the tale, although tragic, is not a tragedy per se. The reporter’s viewpoint purports to be merely a statement of facts. This layer is important because it places the story within the realm of possibility, as opposed to mere fiction. The more things appear to be real, the more likely readers believe them, in spite of their implausibility.

Similar to “The Thing’s the Play,” “A Bird of Bagdad” is a frame story that mimics The

Arabian Nights, in which Scheherazade kept her husband, the mad king, enthralled with stories to prevent him from killing her (Portable 765). The “Caliph” in O. Henry’s story is an altruistic restaurant owner who walks around the City to help his fellow men, much like O. Henry did when “he would change twenty dollars into quarters at a restaurant, and after dinner would go up through one of his favorite parks…handing out quarters to unfortunates he found sitting or

162

sleeping on the benches,” usually until he was out of money (Stuart 143). Unlike O. Henry, the

restaurant owner helps people by giving them “cards” (tokens) to his restaurant that they can

exchange for food (Henry, “Bird” 9). During one of his nightly wanderings, he encounters a

young man in distress. Taking him under his wing, he explains ‘“it is my pleasure and

distraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated misfortunes that life in a great city

visits upon my fellow-men’” (9). He wants to help the young man and hear his story (9).

At that point we get the title of the young man’s story, double-spaced and in full capitals,

“THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER’S RIDDLE” (9). The

spacing and punctuation of the title act as a separation from both the frame story and the core

story of “A Bird of Bagdad.” It is a visual signal to the readers that they are about to encounter a

different tale, a flashback told from the point of view of the young man. This is a device similar

to the one used in The Arabian Nights (Portable 48). In the young man’s flashback we get the reason behind his woeful demeanor. As the title of the story suggests, it involves the riddle about the hen mentioned in the last section, a riddle that must be solved to win the hand of his lover (Henry, “Bird” 9).

The outer frame of the inner story of the young man, Simmons, consists of a setting that is explicitly detailed. “A Bird of Bagdad” contains a description of the streets and it is one in which, curiously, the skyscrapers are seen as negative, as they were in “Psyche and the

Pskyscraper.” The skyscraper, a term coined in 1891, was the answer to the lack of space in

Manhattan (Homberger, Historical 105). Elevators made these skyscrapers possible because they provided people with a feasible means of transportation to and from large distances between floors; as a result, massive tall buildings were created (104). In “A Bird of Bagdad” the

163

skyscrapers are “silent and terrible mountains—buildings square as forts, high as the clouds, shutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all day” (Henry, “Bird” 9). The buildings are personified and they perform multiple tasks: they are “silent” and “shut out the sky,” descriptions that are not without coldness (9). Words such as “silent” and “shut out” imply reserve, a sort of exclusivity at the expense of others. The people inside the skyscrapers are described as “slaves,” suggesting both their victimization and their lack of power (9). Perhaps O.

Henry views the people inside the skyscrapers as “slaves” because they serve large and impersonal corporations like Western Union and the Herald (Burrows and Wallace 942-943).

Skyscrapers can be intimidating buildings. We already know O. Henry was afraid of heights, but an aversion to these buildings may also have been because of what they stood for—big businesses that treat their laborers poorly. Although, as suggested in Chapter 1, skyscrapers could be viewed as a metaphor for women’s ascension in the workforce, they also represented the exploitation of labor.

These skyscrapers are mentioned in passing to draw our attention down to street level so that we may focus on the people outside the skyscraper. The physical environment is established at the beginning so readers get a sense of where these characters are in relation not only to one another, but also to the City itself. Objects in the City have a personality, streets have their own movement, and a purpose—not just to get pedestrians from one place to another, but also to maintain order and harmony. In “A Bird of Bagdad,” the street “Fourth avenue—born and bred in the Bowery—staggers northward full of good resolutions. Where it crosses Fourteenth street it struts for a brief moment proudly in the glare of the museums and cheap theatres” (Henry,

“Bird” 9). The street is personified because it is just as alive as the characters. The dashes help

164

to emphasize the direction from where this street comes because they make its origins stand out from the rest of the sentence. The location “Fourth avenue,” for example, is stated right after the first dash, and the “Bowery” comes directly after the last dash (9). Since the dashes graphically stand out, what surrounds them does too. The dashes in this story are strong separating devices that suggest different sections of the City. They serve to remind us that though streets are a permanent fixture and do not literally move like people, they make movement easier by providing structure, order, and an area on which to move. The dash is a deliberate choice on the part of the writer, just as streets were a deliberate choice of division on the part of those who designed the layout of the City.

Time is spent establishing the history of this street because origins help define who we are and can establish the backbone of our personality. For example, O. Henry grew up in a house with women who valued education, and this value was one he passed down to his daughter: “when one grows up, a thing they never regret is that they went to school long enough to learn all they could. It makes everything easier for them, and if they like books and study then can always content and amuse themselves that way even if other people are cross and tiresome, and the world doesn’t go to suit them” (Porter, William Sydney, Letter to Margaret 843). For O.

Henry, education was a means to rise above problems in society, and school was an important institution that can make life “easier.” One of the typical qualities that many New Women had was a college education, like O. Henry’s Aunt Lina as stated in the introduction. Besides school, reading can take people away from unpleasantness, and is in itself a type of mobility. Books can be a mode of transporting the mind to a more agreeable place, if one is willing to go there.

165

As far as travel within the City, one of the many things that affected New Yorkers and

their movement at the turn of the twentieth century was the advent of new modes of

transportation. As new methods of transportation were developed, people could reach places

faster and more efficiently. For instance, New Yorkers relied heavily on the “El,” the City’s

elevated train. There were different lines for the El in different parts of the City, and millions of

people commuted via this transportation system (Burrows and Wallace 1055-1058). Such modes of transportation were necessary. A look at a map of New York would lead one to expect massive congestion with such a vast amount of people living in such a small space. The City’s ever-expanding modes of transportation aided in encouraging movement throughout the City, however, furthering the idea that New Yorkers were far from idle, and instead, constantly on the move. At the time, characters in O. Henry stories move similarly to people in real life, but that is not always the case. Some of O. Henry’s stories begin with a triad and end with a break up of this grouping.

4. Triads

The number three is traditionally considered stable because it is a number that can provide balance. For example, Aristotle explains in Poetics that plot needs to be “whole,” and “a whole is that which has a beginning, a middle, and an end” (65). We see other examples of triads in literature constantly. For example, there is the infamous desire to have “three wishes” filled by a genie in The Arabian Nights, Psyche must complete “three” tasks in “Cupid and

Psyche,” the Bible affirms Christianity’s faith in the Holy Trinity, and so forth. Three is a powerful number, and triads are typical formulas O. Henry uses in his work to create layers in the narrative suggestive of space. Number three translates the dynamics of a love triangle, and it

166

provides balance for the plot of the story because it can create conflict. In order for there to be a

happy resolution, a story must end with the breaking up of the trio into a group of two, implying

that triads are perhaps not as stable as we think they are, or at least in terms of human

relationships. As the narrator explains in “Schools and Schools” (1908), “it is a common custom to refer to the usual complications between one man and two ladies, or one lady and two men … as the triangle. But they are never unqualified triangles. They are always isosceles—never

equilateral” (Henry, “Schools” 552-553). This description of a grouping of three suggests that

threes are perhaps not as stable because not all of their elements are the same. For example, a

love triangle is an imbalance of affections, one that creates conflict, especially in “The Thing’s

the Play.”

To begin with, in the inner story there are three people romantically involved with one

another. The love triangle helps to convey movement because it draws characters to each other

emotionally and spatially. In a plot with a love triangle there is one character who is always

stable and does not move. This person, who shall be referred to as “the constant,” does not

waver emotionally and, typically, has restricted physical movement. This restricted movement

serves to symbolize the firm feelings he or she harbors for a beloved. To put it another way, a

character devoted to a lover will never leave him or her both literally and figuratively. The

character who does not leave is known as the constant; in “The Thing’s the Play,” Helen is the

constant.

In this same story, three characters are described as “three mortals thus juggling with

years as though they were billiard balls…” (“Thing’s” 8). Only one man can end up with Helen,

and the rivalry between the two men in the story comes to a head when one of them, John

167

Delaney, jumps from the fire escape into Helen’s room and tries to win her (8). However, Helen

has just married Frank Barry and refuses John’s advances (8). When Frank enters Helen’s room,

he witnesses John kissing her hand in farewell (8). Misconstruing the situation, Frank flies into a

jealous rage and “throws her from him to the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing” (8). In

this case, we have an example of syntax mimicking the movement of a character in a striking

manner. There is a list of three participles in this scene, a tricolon containing the following

words: “huddled, crushed, moaning” (8). This list of participles describes Helen’s temporary

immobility in contrast with the fact that Frank physically moved her. She is described in

negative terms, terms that connote powerlessness and immobility. In addition, the adverb

“moaning” conveys the idea that Helen is in pain, perhaps so much so that she is only able to

utter sounds instead of words (8). That Helen is reduced to a “thing” is also very pertinent

because this noun implies she is an object rather than a person (8). The use of the word “thing”

in place of the word woman or girl suggests that she has hurt Frank to the point that she has lost her value to him as a person, or perhaps that Helen is so deeply hurt by his actions that she is reduced to a shell of a being, incapable of having an identity, an important insight that we will

revisit later in this chapter.

Another example of the use of tricolons to explain movement occurs earlier in the

confrontation with Frank. Helen is also described as “rushing and clinging to him, trying to

explain” the situation, but he will have none of it (8). As opposed to the description of

participles in the previous paragraph where things were done to Helen, in this example Helen is

actively moving. She seems to have more power earlier in this scene, even though this power is

of a desperate type since she is described as “rushing and clinging” (8). The first word in this

168

description denotes haste and the second suggests neediness. “Trying” is not much better; she is

ineffective in her attempts to convince Frank of her innocence (8). In the same paragraph we have another tricolon with the line “he catches her wrists and tears them from his shoulders—

once, twice, thrice he sways her this way and that…” (8). Helen is frantic to assert her

innocence, but Frank must physically remove her from touching him. Ultimately, this removal,

and Frank’s departure from her life, will result in Helen’s independence as a working woman,

property owner, and owner of her own business, for upon the death of her father, she inherits his

boardinghouse and runs it on her own (8).

Much like “The Thing’s the Play,” “The Venturers” (1909) contains triads and men who

leave. In this instance we have two characters, Ives and Forster, who consider themselves to be

“followers of chance,” or venturers (Henry, “Venturers” 486). Ives tells fellow venturer Forster

‘“what I want is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no conclusion”’ (488). It is the rush of the unknown that motivates these men, and Forster whole-heartedly agrees with Ives and his philosophy of ‘“I don’t want to know, I don’t want to reason, I don’t want to guess—I want to bet my hand without seeing it”’ (489). The repetition of “don’t” in this sentence is just one of many examples in which repetition, particularly in a tricolon, shows up throughout the story.

The repetition of this tricolon helps to emphasize Ives’s feelings because it lends an emphatic tone to his speech, making him sound resolute. Sometimes people repeat things in order to stress intention or motivation, which seems to be what he is doing here. Ives seems confident of his thoughts, which is why he keeps repeating them.

Another instance where number three is repeated occurs when Ives explains to Forster that he came back ‘“from a three years’ ramble around the globe”’ (489). He also says he

169

noticed a veiled lady in Constantinople “three months ago,” and this number appears again when he confesses to Mary that he is “opposed…to the rule of three” (490, 492). Finally, this number shows up near the end of the story when the narrator states “three years he had been away from her [Mary]…” (492). Also revealed is the house where Mary is to be found, where “there had been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years before” (492). Repeating something this many times translates an intentionality, a sort of tradition.

Repeating triads suggests the kind of rhythmic power inherent to mantras or characteristic of rituals, but repetition of threes will need to come to an end because this repetition of threes is a gridlock of sorts that O. Henry is determined to break. We see this time and time again in stories with love triangles. In “The Venturers” Forster faces a dilemma in his love triangle. He is engaged to marry a woman named Mary (the same woman referred to in the previous paragraph who knows Ives), but he debates whether or not to follow through with this action (491). For

Forster, marriage signals the end of his life as a venturer. Though he tells Ives he loves her, he also admits the idea of marriage is holding him back, making it clear that Forster sees no excitement in marriage (491). His views on the subject are expressed in a lengthy paragraph with eight dashes interspersed between his views on what a married couple does with their days, a list of mundane things:

It’s the same idea, you know, that we were discussing—[marriage] does for a

fellow as far as possibilities are concerned. Everybody knows the routine—you

get a kiss flavored with Ceylon tea after breakfast; you go to the office; you come

back home and dress for dinner—theatre twice a week—bills—moping around

most evenings trying to make conversation—a little quarrel occasionally—maybe

170

sometime a big one, and a separation—or else a settling down into a middle-aged

contentment, which is worst of all. (491)

Forster dismisses marriage because it is a life of routine. If married, his life would be punctuated with all of the ordinary activities he decides and this routine would hamper adventure. But what does Forster really mean by “adventure?”

Perhaps what Forster has in mind is best explained by Bakhtin in “Forms of Time and

Chronotype in the Novel.” In the beginning of this essay Bakhtin discusses “the adventure chronotype,” that is to say, the adventure story that is wholly dependent on “chance” (94). To

Forster, marriage seems to be a break in the venture of the unexpected, and the dashes in his descriptions of marriage serve to highlight that break by literally taking on the role as an interruption in the sentence. The dashes emphasize the “routine” of marriage punctuated by boring and unhappy events and routines that involve the “theatre,” “bills,” and “quarrels” for example, all of which take a person away from what Forster sees as an exciting life (Henry,

“Venturers” 491). Routine interferes with the opportunity for chance. In addition, an adventurer needs room to move, something Bakhtin also notes (99). Forster knows this; he knows marriage would mean establishing a home in one place and a daily routine, a break in the life of the unexpectedness that comes with adventures. Marriage means responsibility not just to oneself, but also to another, and this responsibility takes one away from freedom.

To Ives, in contrast, the real “venture” is marriage to a girl you love. He loves Mary, who has always been there for him, as “cool and sweet and unchangeable,” as well as

“established and constant” (Henry, “Venturers” 492). Ives ran away from Mary, or rather left her to gallivant around the world, thinking she would always be there. But everything changes

171

when she mentions that she’s to be married soon (493). This revelation makes Ives see Mary in

a new light. The girl who would always be there for him, the one whom he kept waiting for

three years, so certain of her affections for him, might just slip away. This realization leads him

to propose to her, and when Forster visits him to tell him he broke off his engagement with

Mary, Ives says not to worry (493). In a touching conclusion in which he expresses his love and

devotion to Mary, Ives explains to Forster, ‘‘‘I’ve found out the biggest hazard in the world—a

game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may end in the highest heaven or the

blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge until the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never

know—not until his last day and not then will he know….I have found the venture’” (493). Ives

assures Forster not to worry about Mary because they were wed the day before (493).

For Ives, the greatest risk is not some grand adventure to a foreign land; it is marriage.

No one knows how things will turn out in the end, and to him, it is worth the risk to be with

Mary. He doesn’t see marriage as a chore or as a boring and stifling noose around his neck. In

fact, Ives sees marriage to Mary as a future full of excitement and promise, not knowing what

this new and final adventure will bring him (493). Unlike Forster’s descriptions of married life, which are punctuated with eight dashes, or breaks and pauses that allude perhaps to how this character feels marriage interrupts the life of an adventurer, in Ives’s whole speech there are only two dashes. If Forster’s speech on marriage inclusive of punctuation mimics his feelings on the subject, so do Ives’s. It could be said that the punctuation in Ives’s speech conveys the idea of marriage as something stable. His statements are definitive and uninterrupted with the dash. His thoughts are complete, not erratic statements of events like Forster’s. It is as though the breaking

172

up of the love triangle has harmonized and stabilized Ives. Marriage is a venture Ives will take with Mary, and it is ‘“a game of chance that is never concluded…”’ (493).

Though the love triangle in “The Venturers” worked as a stabilizing force because it is a reliable plot device, the conclusion results only when two break away from a group of three.

Readers expect a love triangle to be resolved, and readers who want a happy ending expect two of the three characters to end up together. One character has to be removed from the triad in order to accomplish this. As we have seen, and will continue to see in O. Henry’s stories— almost always in fact—it is typically a man who is removed from the equation.

Although “the constant” does not have to be a woman, when she is the constant she does not travel great distances in the story. She is the stable force in the relationship, something hinted at in “The Venturers” when Ives is in Mary’s parlor. Among the many things Ives notices in this room are “brass andirons,” presumably in the fireplace (492). Although seemingly innocuous, Ives later thinks, “the brass andirons were monuments to order and stability” (492). I point out this comment because andirons come in pairs, and the idea that two connotes “order and stability” is part of O. Henry’s ideology. There are many instances when he breaks a group of three apart in order to create a pair, as shown in this section. O. Henry also allows for the fact that the constant, or “stable,” person in the pair can be a man, something that allows women mobility, as we will see when we take a closer look at the love triangle in “Psyche and the

Pskyscraper.”

In this story Joe is the stable, dependent element who does not move physically, nor does he waver in his affections for Daisy. Daisy and Dabster move away from Joe vertically when they go to the top of the skyscraper, as described earlier in this chapter, and it is because of this

173

movement that Daisy realizes she doesn’t need to move at all to be near her true love. Once she

gets down, “outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her. She vanished;

and he stood, bewildered without figures or statistics to aid him” (“Psyche” 2). Dabster’s facts

are no match for the strong feelings Daisy has for Joe. She doesn’t care what Dabster knows;

she only cares about what she feels for Joe. Though Dabster hoped to illuminate Daisy on the

grand ideas one can have as a result of a new perspective on life, his plan only led her farther

away from him and closer to Joe (2).

5. Leitmotifs

“Squaring the Circle” (1904) is another story that deals with the issue of movement in the

City, and the leitmotif of the grid is everywhere in this story. Established in 1811, Gunter Barth explains, “[the] gridiron plan produced straight streets intersecting at right angles” (30). The grid provides order and structure in the City, and “the system appealed to city residents’ preference for rational solutions and scientific methods…” (30). We see this idea emulated at the beginning of “Squaring the Circle” when the narrator explains he will begin his story with a “discourse on geometry” in which he professes that “Nature moves in circles; Art in straight lines” (Henry,

“Squaring” 2). It would appear that direction of movement is determined by one’s constitution, and “the city man’s feet, denaturalized by rectangular streets and floors, carry him ever away from himself” (2). People are different in the City. They move differently, and “when we begin to move in straight lines and turn sharp corners our natures begin to change” (2). O. Henry plays with the term “nature” in this story, first using it to mean the natural world and then to mean someone’s constitution. In this story, location determines movement, and movement determines personality.

174

In terms of location, New York City is a place that consists of lines, corners, and angles

for the most part. Unlike the circle, a shape that has a positive image in this story, the angles and

planes in the City are perceived as negative. The circle is a perfect image for nature because it

allows for freedom of movement. As French philosopher Gaston Bachelard indicates, “images

of full roundness help us to collect ourselves, permit us to confer an initial constitution on

ourselves, and to confirm our being intimately, inside” (234). If this is true, then the sharp

angles of the City can suggest strife and discord among people. Straightness seems unnatural

and almost inhuman, which is why the main character of O. Henry’s story has such a hard time

adapting to his environment. It is never easy to adapt to change, even more so when that change

is drastic. It can be quite a shock to come from a place of open, rural space to an area as

structured and congested as New York City. As Louis Wirth explains, in a large city “we tend to

acquire and develop a sensitivity to a world of artifacts and become progressively farther removed from the world of nature” (73). People’s priorities shift when they are in the City. In the City people are typically focused on what is in front of them, on “artifacts,” man-made things, in lieu of the natural world around them, something we will see in this tale (73).

The narrator further explains, “Nature is lost quickest in a big city. The cause is

geometrical, not moral” (Henry, “Squaring” 2). The reasons for this are long and varied. All

have to do with sharp lines and delineated space, “the straight lines of its streets and architecture,

the rectangularity of its laws and social customs, the undeviating pavements, the hard, severe,

depressing, uncompromising rules of all its ways—even of its recreation and sports—coldly

exhibit a sneering defiance of the curved line of Nature” (2). A list of words that includes terms

like “straight lines,” “rectangularity,” and “undeviating” serves to remind the reader how

175

different the City is from Nature, with her soft “curved line” (2). The grid is seen as something

negative, a view taken by many architects and urban historians, such as Camillo Sitte and Lewis

Mumford (Homberger, New 27).

To someone not from the City, someone from the country like Sam Folwell in “Squaring

the Circle,” a man “still moving and living in the free circles of nature…,” this rigid movement

in terms of direction is alien and overwhelming (Henry, “Squaring” 2). When Sam arrived in the

City, “he did not perceive the formidable, pitiless, restless, fierce angles of the great city waiting

in the dark to close about the rotundity of his heart and brain and mould [sic] him to the form of

their millions of re-shaped victims” (2). Though the word “angle” is mentioned four times in

this story, only in this instance does it have a very negative connotation. The narrator lists four

adjectives to describe the angles of the city. This may seem insignificant, but I argue that this

number serves a deeper purpose. For a start, the title of the story is “Squaring the Circle,” and

squares have four angles. Perhaps O. Henry wrote a different adjective for each angle, adjectives

all possessing negative connotations, in order to emphasize how cold life in the City can be. The

angles, or ‘qualities’ that constitute the City are “formidable,” meaning intimidating; they are

also “pitiless” and “restless,” which is to say, always on the move; they are “fierce,” suggesting

belligerence to the point of ruthlessness (2). Such descriptive adjectives paint a picture of a city that doesn’t care about its inhabitants. The only thing that really matters is movement.

In New York City things move “in straight lines,” something anyone who looks at a map will rapidly recognize (2). These straight lines are personified with the description “Sam

Folwell stood where two great, rectangular arteries of the city cross,” which we are later told are

“the angles of Broadway, Fifth avenue, and Twenty-third street…” (2). While at this location

176

“he looked four ways, and saw the world hurled from its orbit and reduced by spirit level and

tape to an edged and cornered plane” (2). Things are different in this city from all Folwell has

ever known. In New York, “all life moved on tracks, in groves, according to system, within

boundaries, by rote. The root of life was the cube root; the measure of existence was the square

measure. People streamed by in straight rows…” (2). Movement in the City is structured,

orderly, rote, the direct result of the City’s layout. Due to the environment, shaped and

manipulated by man, people move in specific, straight lines. Not only this, but life in the City

relies on geometry, lines, and structure. This is why “the root of life was the cube root” (2).

“The root,” perhaps a metaphor for the origin of living things in the City, is a structure

established as a result of math, the “cube root” (2). Nature doesn’t move this way, and this

rigidity is daunting to someone unused to such a forced movement. For Folwell, such rigid

movement is especially overwhelming because he cannot follow it. Being from a rural area, this

new urban environment is foreign to him.

His only salvation from a forced horizontal movement is when he runs into an old enemy,

whom he now sees as a friend, a familiar face amongst the unfamiliar movements in the City (2).

At that moment, foe becomes friend next to the Flatiron Building (2). Though the building is not specifically mentioned by name in the story, the narrator does describe “the sharp edge of the building that, by the cheek of architects, is modelled [sic] upon a safety razor” (2). That this is a description of the Flatiron becomes evident when we are told the exact location of the building,

at “the angles of Broadway, Fifth avenue, and Twenty-third street…” (2).

In addition to being a well-known landmark, the Flatiron appears to have left a distinct imprint on its location, marking a spot in the city as its own, and marking it in angles. Unlike

177

Nature, with her roundness and softness, the angles of the Flatiron are straight and sharp. The angles of the building are made possible because of the grid, a manmade invention that circumnavigates nature and the way we move. This grid affects characters in O. Henry’s stories and how they move because space affects travel. Because everyone uses the grid, both men and women are altered by it.

Women move the same way as men do in the City, and they can be just as aggressive when they need to get across the street. For example, in “Squaring the Circle” “a large lady in a changeable silk waist dug an elbow into [Folwell’s] back…” as he was trying to cross the street

(2). This lady treats Folwell just as rudely as the “cab-driver [who] bumped him with a hub and explained to him that kind words were invented to be used on other occasions….and a newsy

[who] pensively pelted him with banana rinds…” (2). Everyone is disrespectful of Folwell: women, men, and even children. This should not be surprising. The grid provides structure so that people can travel easily and quickly. Anyone who does not adhere to the rules breaks that structure, disrupting order by slowing down the momentum. Folwell is blocking movement; he is in the way and is thus seen as an obstacle to overcome, not as a person.

Just as the grid aids in controlling movement in “Squaring the Circle” by directing traffic, the leitmotif of the theatrical play controls movement in “The Thing’s the Play.” The story opens with the narrator, who went to see a vaudeville show. His reporter friend “recites” to him a story he is supposed to cover while they are at the show, one in which he found no humor, but according to the narrator, “three people couldn’t have acted in a more absurd and preposterous manner if they had been real actors in a real theatre” (“Thing’s” 8). The narrator then relates this inner story to the readers. In this story we become the audience and Helen’s house is like a

178

stage. The narrator plays with language and uses theatrical terminology when he’s telling

Helen’s story fifteen times in the text to emphasize the leitmotif of theatrical plays (8). This

word frequency is not an accident. O. Henry had a history of dabbling in the theatre. Langford

tells us that in his Austin days, he was a member of the cast in a few “amateur theatricals” (43).

And we know from O’ Connor that in New York he attended vaudeville shows (119). A year

before his death, he collaborated with Franklin Pierce Adams on an unsuccessful musical named

Lo (Stuart 228-232). Such a theatrical background establishes O. Henry’s credibility with

theatrical material and language, and we see this reflected in the following story, published in

1906.

In “The Thing’s the Play,” Frank and John, the two male characters vying for Helen’s

hand, are described as being “expected to turn upon each other every time the curtain went up”

(Henry, “Thing’s” 8). Helen’s rejected suitor John is said to have “bowed low” over her hand before he says goodbye (8). In addition, there is “the scene” when Helen’s husband (Frank)

finds them in what he assumes to be a compromising position (8). The use of this word is a pun

on the word “scene,” indicating both the theatrical term for a specific section or place in a drama,

and also the meaning of “scene” in the colloquial sense of “don’t make a scene.” In addition to this, the narrator states at the end of the story, “I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene like that and her emotions to portray,” meaning Helen’s emotions are too genuine to be faked (8).

The leitmotif of play does not end here. To show the passage of time, the narrator explains: “and now, because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must stroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray, rich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which must precede the rising of the curtain again” (8). The

179

movement of time is likened to the rising and falling of a curtain. As an audience, people are

conditioned to expect certain things out of drama. For example, the rising of a curtain signifies

the beginning of the play, an act, a scene, etc. The falling of the curtain is a visual signal to the

audience that the act is over, the show is over, or it is an intermission. Thus, the curtain is a sort

of clock that tells us when to expect certain events. In other words, the curtain freezes time, and

in doing so, freezes movement. This is important because, by freezing movement, the curtain is

both a literal and a figurative barrier that keeps the action of the story from proceeding. The

curtain keeps the pretense that the only movement on stage is the movement occurring in the

proscenium, and when it is down, movement stops, allowing the audience to take a break and

process what is occurring in the drama.

O. Henry’s playful language is also a poignant statement about life and our expectations of what can happen in twenty years. The list of emotions and life events such as “marry, die, grow gray, rich, poor, happy or sad” is a brief recollection of the typical human life span (8).

This list of seven actions and adjectives is likely a nod to Shakespeare’s “Seven Ages of Man,”

part of the monologue delivered by Jaques in As You Like It. In Shakespeare’s play Jaques

states, “all the world’s a stage, / And all the men and women merely players” (As You Like It

2.7.138-139). In “The Thing’s the Play,” the characters are referred to as playing parts like actors onstage (Henry, “Thing’s” 8).

The title “The Thing’s the Play” is also an allusion to a line quoted in Hamlet at the end of 2.2 when the hero voices in a soliloquy that he plans to use the play The Murder of Gonzago

to discover if his uncle is guilty of murdering his father. At this moment Hamlet swears “the

play’s the thing / Wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king” (Shakespeare, Hamlet 2.2.616-

180

617). O. Henry inverts the line in his story deliberately. Biographer and friend Alphonso C.

Smith explains O. Henry often “misquoted reconstructively. He made misquotation an

art….[and] impresses a new meaning and releases a new thought” with his misquotations

(Selected viii). It is tempting to take this misquotation as merely a parallel between Hamlet and

“The Thing’s the Play.” As in O. Henry’s story, in Hamlet there is a story within a story, or a

play within a play. The inner story/play in Hamlet is intended to evoke real emotions in the

audience, specifically in the king, Hamlet’s uncle. Hamlet’s goal is to use the play to reveal the

king’s involvement in the murder of his father, hence “catch the conscience of the king”

(Shakespeare, Hamlet 2.2.617). The play is the vehicle with which “the thing” that is, emotions,

will be revealed (2.2.616). Perhaps by deliberately inverting the words “thing” and “play” O.

Henry is suggesting that emotions will be the vehicle that creates a play. Or perhaps he is just

having fun “playing” with words and the inner “play,” the love triangle between Helen and her

beaus is supposed to evoke emotions in the audience as a result of its touching story.

Even more compelling is the possibility of another option: perhaps Helen is “the Thing

instead of the Play” (Henry, “Thing’s” 8). Maybe she is supposed to be the focal point of the play, the one to whom we are supposed to pay the most attention to and the one for whom we should have the most sympathy. I lean toward this option for several reasons. First of all, there is the misquotation of Shakespeare when the narrator says “all the stage is a world, anyhow, and all the players merely men and women” (8). As stated earlier, Jacques also refers to “men and women” in his speech (Shakespeare, As You Like It 2.7.139). Perhaps O. Henry states this line in

order to stress the importance of one person: namely, Helen. She is the only woman in the story,

and maybe our “conscience” should be “caught” by the way she is treated by the men in the play.

181

By also inverting Jacques’s line “all the world’s a stage” to “all the stage is a world,” O. Henry

seems to imply that what takes place in the frame story, the “play,” can represent what goes on in

the world, or, more particularly, is a social commentary on gender issues (As You Like It 2.7.138;

Henry, “Thing’s” 8). To further the idea that Helen should be the focal point of this drama, the narrator describes her as a “thing,” an impersonal, unnamed object, when Frank “throws her from him” in his fit of anger (Henry, “Thing’s” 8). The second sentence following the fight begins with “and now, because it is the Thing instead of the Play” (8). This visual reminder of the inversion of the play’s title, following Helen’s description as a “thing” perhaps serves as a parallel between the woman “on stage” and womankind. That this “thing’s the play” suggests that this story is Helen’s story, a woman’s story, perhaps even the story of womankind. O.

Henry could be subtly suggesting that society should not take women for granted, nor see them as “things,” nor should we be so forceful in our treatment of them.

O. Henry’s play on words express an emotion about life that, though humorous, is also quite profound. The constant inversions of reality versus fiction are designed to make us question what is real. If what is real is now subjective, then the lines between fiction and fact in the story begin to blur. A story can then cease being fiction and becomes truth, or someone’s version of the truth. If, as the narrator asserts, “all the stage is a world,” then perhaps drama can be used as a vehicle for social commentary (8). We can then see that the drama onstage is not a representation of our world, but rather a sliver of it. This sliver, this piece of our world, is the perfect “stage” for delivering a social commentary because it is narrow and specific, just like the social critique O. Henry has on Helen, the New Woman in his story.

182

The leitmotif in “A Bird of Bagdad” is of the Caliph, a recurring theme in other O. Henry stories such as: “A Night in New Arabia,” “The Caliph and the Cad,” and “The Caliph, Cupid, and the Clock.” O. Henry often referred to New York City as “Bagdad on the Subway” (Henry,

“Madison” 26). This is an allusion to The Arabian Nights, a work to which, according to Smith, he alludes to “fourteen [times], though the figures do not show the relative significance of the great classic in his work” (Selected xiii). The significance of this allusion could lead one to believe that perhaps O. Henry saw The Arabian Nights as an analogy for some of his stories about New York. O. Henry himself was quoted with saying, “there are stories in everything,” meaning even the most insignificant thing, person, or event can become a story (qtd. in Hansen v). This belief is one he could have picked up while reading The Arabian Nights, a frame story filled with 1,001 stories of men and women from different cultures and backgrounds. Such a variety of people can also be found in New York City. In fact, we can draw many comparisons between The Arabian Nights and O. Henry’s own “A Bird of Bagdad.”

“A Bird of Bagdad” begins with the line “without doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Haroun Al Raschid [sic] descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen

Quigg” (Henry, “Bird” 9). The first line of the story cements the idea that not only is “A Bird of

Bagdad” a reference to The Arabian Nights, but it is also specifically a reference to “The

Meetings of Al-Rashid on the Bridge of Bagdad.” In fact, the story in The Arabian Nights is very similar to O. Henry’s. For example, as in “The Bird of Bagdad,” the Caliph in “The

Meetings of Al-Rashid on the Bridge of Bagdad,” travels around his city on foot (“Meetings”

124). Quigg reminds Simmons of this story: ‘“you may be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler, the Caliph Haroun al Raschid, [sic] whose wise and beneficent

183

excursions among his people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving so

much of their distress”’ (Henry, “Bird” 9). The Caliph Haroun was not merely a character in a

storybook, he was also a real life person. Here is yet another instance of fact and fiction blurring

in an O. Henry story. Quigg admits, ‘“in my humble way I walk in his footsteps”’ (9). Quigg, a fictional character, is thus imitating a man who was both real and fictitious. The fact that he is imitating a historical figure suggests that Quigg’s benevolent acts, though fictitious, could be just as real as the man Haroun. Anyone can be a Caliph; you just have to be willing to walk among the people and give them what they need, as O. Henry did. On the other hand, imitating the fictitious man Haroun serves to remind us of the frame story mentioned earlier, and how this

narratology helps to establish the power the Caliph does not have as a storyteller, but as a listener

who can help his subjects in times of need, as O. Henry was famous for doing when he would

listen to stories from shop-girls (Stuart 142).

One of the ways Haroun helps his subjects in “The Meetings of Al-Rashid on the Bridge

of Bagdad” is by personally giving “a gold dinar” to beggars (124). In the story “A Bird of

Bagdad,” our New York City Caliph Quigg gives people cards good for food at his restaurant,

something akin to a modern day gift card or voucher (Henry, “Bird” 9). Perhaps O. Henry is

toying with us readers with the notion that the real Haroun gave out “dinars” (“Meetings” 124),

while Quigg is giving out dinners (Henry, “Bird” 9). If this pun was intended, which is highly

plausible knowing how O. Henry loved to play with words, then perhaps he is suggesting a

parallel between food and money. Money can buy what you need, be it shelter, food, water, or

clothing, and food is necessary to sustain life. As Barthes explains, “there’s a symbolic

exchange between changing your lifestyle and changing the food you eat. To be reborn = to eat

184

different sorts of food…” (110). Perhaps food can be a metaphor for life, a sort of communion that rejuvenates body and soul. Or food could be a metaphor for people, as explained in Chapter

1 with “The Third Ingredient.” In any event, food and life are linked.

The token Quigg bequeaths in “A Bird of Bagdad” holds a different value than the value of money or food, however. After hearing Simmons’s story, Quigg gives him a token that at first seems insignificant but later proves to be his saving grace and an inadvertent means of procuring his beloved’s hand in marriage. The token, a coupon “good for one roast chicken to bearer” gives Simmons the clue to a riddle he needs to answer correctly in order to win the hand of a girl (Henry, “Bird” 9). The riddle, asked by the girl’s father as, ‘“vat kind of a hen lays der longest?”’ is finally answered by Simmons as ‘“a dead one!”’ (9). Having the correct answer, inspired from Quigg’s coupon “good for one roast chicken,” he ends up with the girl (9). The coupon was Simmons’s clue: a roast chicken is a dead one, which “lays der longest” because it can no longer move (9). Though Quigg’s coupon was neither used to buy anything nor exchanged for food, it ended up providing something more valuable. The implications are that there are things more important in life than money, such as being able to marry the person you love. Once a man has the love of his life, he can get married and establish a home, something that does not often happen among the next set of New Yorkers I propose to discuss—transients.

6. Transients

Transients often figure in O. Henry’s New York stories, and when they appear, they typically do at the beginning of stories. Usually, transients are members of the lower working class, and they tend to frequent settings that require one to be mobile because such places are not ones in which you would permanently stay, such as hotels and restaurants. Men have more

185

flexibility in being transient than women, mainly because they can travel safely at night. O.

Henry himself said he would often “walk at all hours of the day and night along the river fronts, through Hell’s Kitchen, down the Bowery, dropping into all manner of places, and talking with any one who would hold converse with me” (qtd. in MacAdam “‘O. Henry’ On” 9). In O.

Henry’s stories transients move for one or more of the following reasons: when they’re looking for something or someone, when they reach a revelation, when they’re helping others, or when they have to move to a new home. People cease to be transient when they accomplish their goal(s). The term transient is mentioned in seven of O. Henry’s New York stories. Four of them will be examined in this chapter.

The word “transients” is mentioned fleetingly in “The Memento” and “The Brief Debut of Tildy.” In these stories people have a sense of transience because they do not stay in any one place for very long, tending to linger in hotels and restaurants where patrons enter and exit frequently. All of the action in “The Furnished Room,” “Transients in Arcadia: A Tale of

Summer in New York,” (referred to thus forward as “Transients in Arcadia”) and “The Brief

Debut of Tildy” takes place in one building, and in some cases, in just one room. “The

Memento” and “Transients in Arcadia” are both set in a hotel, a place where people stay while they are on the move. Because of this similarity, I propose to look at these two stories together.

The first sentence of each story works like an establishing shot in a movie frame. “The

Memento” (1908) opens with the sentence “Miss Lynnette D’Armande turned her back on

Broadway” (Henry, “Memento” 81). “Transients in Arcadia” (1904) begins with “there is a

hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the summer-resort promoters” (“Transients”

9). The setting of “The Memento” begins and ends in “The Hotel Thalia [that] looks on

186

Broadway as Marathaon looks on the sea” (81). Both settings are on Broadway, and both

describe Broadway as roaring, though with a different kind of roar, as we shall see.

Inside the Hotel Lotus, “the pleasing, distant roar of Broadway is transformed into the

imagination for the happy guests to the noise of a waterfall filling the woods with its restful

sound” (“Transients” 9). This hotel’s setting is so tranquil that it is able to lull its guests’ ears

into believing what is outside is more pleasing than reality. Opposed to this serene place and the

“restful sound” in the Hotel Lotus is the Hotel Thalia, where one hears “the tumult and glitter of

the roaring Broadway beneath her window…” (“Memento” 81).

In both of these stories the hotels become characters and, significantly, share names that are Greek in origin. The Hotel Thalia is either named after the Grace of “Good Cheer,” or she is the Muse “Thalia of comedy” (Hamilton 37-38). The Thalia is a hotel for theatre people, and it was also the name of a theatre in the Bowery when O. Henry was living in New York City

(Silver 76). The Hotel Lotus gets its name, no doubt, from the Lotus Land in The Odyssey, a place where some of Odysseus’s men ate the Lotus flower “and let the memory of all that had been fade from their minds” (Hamilton 220). The entire story of “Transients in Arcadia” is set in

the Lotus, “an oasis in the July desert of Manhattan” (Henry, “Transients” 9). This hotel is a haven where people go in order to escape from the City, and “to enjoy that delectable hostelry one must forego the city as though it were leagues away” (9). It is a place where people can relax. At the Lotus we see people enter the hotel, and we know they have to leave, although we don’t see them doing so in the story. Guests can’t stay in the hotel forever, but life does stand still for the duration of the story. Once one’s time is up, however, one must leave regardless.

The hotel is described as a place where you can stay temporarily, “for a restful sojourn during the

187

heat of midsummer” (9). The Hotel Lotus is a place where people go on vacation. It is a treat and a delightful escape from the City, not a permanent place of residence.

Though both the Lotus and the Thalia are similar in that they are not permanent places of residence, there is a contrast of movement within each hotel. In the Hotel Lotus “at every strange footstep the guests turn an anxious ear, fearful lest their retreat be discovered and invaded by the restless pleasure-seekers who are forever hounding nature in her deepest lairs”

(9). It is a hidden hotel, sequestered from the world, but also in the world, as opposed to the

Hotel Thalia, which “stands like a gloomy cliff above the whirlpool where the tides of two great thoroughfares clash” (“Memento” 81). Unlike the Lotus, the Thalia is obvious, noticeable, and unavoidable.

Feelings of anxiousness exist in both hotels. As seen in “The Memento,” they exist inside, like in the Hotel Lotus, and “about the house lingers a sense of unrest, of expectation, of transientness, even of anxiety and apprehension” (81). The repetition of the preposition “of” four times in this description serves to create a sense of unease, almost as if to suggest we do not know what is coming next. It is almost as if the momentum of the sentence suggested that something was coming, something that the guests in the hotel will not like. This hotel is a temporary residence that makes its habitants transients. Perhaps this transientness occurs because, as Bachelard states, “a house in a big city lacks cosmicity. For here, where houses are no longer set in natural surroundings, the relationship between house and space becomes an artificial one. Everything about it is mechanical and, on every side, intimate living flees” (27).

The people dwelling in these hotels are not in a real house, and a hotel that can never be a home because it is not a permanent place of residence. This knowledge makes them uneasy and

188

uncertain, because of what the hotel symbolizes to the guests: a place of calm and peace. Once

these guests leave the hotel, perhaps they are also going to leave these tranquil feelings behind.

In addition, the use of direct address plays a key role in the descriptions of the Hotel

Thalia. In “The Memento” direct address is used when describing the journey through the

Thalia. The use of direct address as a plot device can be effective in telling a story because

direct address closes the gap between reader and writer, and when writers bridge this new space,

readers can feel as though they are characters in the story, even more so if, instead of readers, we are referred to by the pronoun “you.” For example, the narrator describes as you move, “past you, as you ramble distractedly through the mossy halls, flit audible visions of houris, with veiled starry eyes, flying tag-ends of things and a swish of silk, bequeathing to the dull hallways an odor of gaiety and a memory of frangipanni” (Henry, “Memento” 81). Here in this place

“you meet alarming tragedians stalking in bath-robes in search of rumored bath-rooms,” and

“turning any corner, a dressing-sack or a cul-de-sac may bring you up short” (81). This is a personal atmosphere, yet very public because people are everywhere. It is both close-quartered and loud. There are a lot of people in this environment, and “from hundreds of rooms come the buzz of talk, scraps of new and old songs, and the ready laughter of the convened players” (81).

There is also a sense of mobility in this hotel, of restlessness and high energy.

In contrast to this energetic movement is the Hotel Lotus’s “reduced array of guests scattered luxuriously about in the cool twilight of its lofty dining-room, gazing at one another across the snowy waste of unoccupied tables, silently congratulatory” (“Transients” 9). The

Lotus is relatively empty, quiet, and intimate. Part of the allure of this hotel is its open space.

People are comfortable in the Hotel Lotus; the lack of bodies around them means more space for

189

them to enjoy. In addition, fewer people make less noise and cause less trouble. Though the

residents of the Hotel Thalia are packed in like sardines, they are still able to move around from

place and make all kinds of noise. They are a lively bunch, in each other’s faces, and very vocal

with one another. There is nothing private about this type of place. This community is

suggestive of some tenement houses in New York City at the turn of the twentieth century,

where people “congregated in the hallways, left their doors open to talk between apartments, and

used the airshaft to facilitate conversation” (Peiss 15). Much as our modern day fraternity house,

the Thalia is a social place. This sociability promotes movement, even though space is limited.

In addition to being cramped and noisy, there is also an analogy between punctuation and hotel life in “The Memento.” This analogy begins with a pun. In this story the narrator explains,

“thus punctuated, life in the genial hostel scans easily—the comma being the favorite mark, semicolons frowned upon, and periods barred” (Henry, “Memento” 82). Such a comment helps to explain the significance of punctuation establishing movement. Commas “scan easily,” or can be read through quickly, because they do not completely end a sentence. This play with commas explains the fluidity of movement in the hotel. O. Henry is using punctuation to mimic the constant movement in a hotel, which is quick and variable. The commas help move the words in the sentence much like footsteps moving bodies through hotels. This type of punctuation, unlike the period, makes movement easier and smoother.

Both hotels are described as a “caravansary” (“Memento” 81; “Transients” 9), though in

“Transients for Arcadia” the hotel is described as a “depopulated caravansary [in which] the little band of connoisseurs jealously hide themselves during the heated season, enjoying to the uttermost the delights of mountain and seashore that art and skill have gathered and served to

190

them” (9). The dual meanings of caravansary are used here to describe the type of movement in

each hotel. The Lotus is stationary and secluded, whereas the caravansary of the Hotel Thalia is

moving, like “some great ark or caravan about to sail, or fly, or roll away on wheels”

(“Memento” 81). The descriptions of this hotel are descriptions of its occupants. In O. Henry stories, where you are determines who you are and the way you move. In contrast to the people at the Lotus, who are anxious of others invading their oasis and wish the hotel to stay stationary,

the people in the Thalia are anxious for movement and change. Though the “Transients in

Arcadia” at the Hotel Lotus are temporary, it is a restful sojourn. The people in the Thalia are on

the move and wish to be on the move. They embrace their transience and accept movement for

what it is, something that is not permanent, an everyday occurrence that is a part of their life in

the City, much like going to a restaurant for a meal. Both hotels serve to represent O. Henry’s

views on travel and space. As stated in Chapter 1, O. Henry felt a great need for a special place that would give him enough space and privacy, which is why he lived in his large quarters at 55

Irving for five years (Williams 41). Despite this need, O. Henry also needed space to move, to travel, which is why he liked to walk about the City, and as C. Alphonso Smith says, “O.

Henry’s favorite coign of vantage was the restaurant” (O. Henry 187).

“The Brief Debut of Tildy” (1904) takes place entirely in a restaurant. It is the only environment in which we see Tildy and her friend and co-worker, Aileen. The restaurant,

“Bogle’s Chop House and Family Restaurant,” is located “in that highway of bourgeoisie, that boulevard of Brown-Jones-and-Robinson, Eighth avenue” (Henry, “Brief” 10). Like in “The

Memento,” direct address is used in the story, where Bogle, “makes your change, files your check, and ejects at you, like a toad, a word about the weather. Beyond a corroboration of his

191

meteorological statement you would better not venture” (10). The verbs in this quote are extremely important and require a closer inspection. The list of action verbs such as “takes,”

“files,” and “ejects” in this quote are dismissive verbs that suggest an impersonal relationship between Bogle and his customers (10). Bogle’s actions are almost methodical. He “takes your change,” or collects the money used to pay for a meal before you leave (10). Then he “files your check,” or puts away the meal ticket (10). Then he “ejects at you, like a toad, a word about the weather,” meaning he briefly makes a statement on the blandest and safest of all topics— meteorological conditions (10). It’s the type of scene that can be witnessed in almost any restaurant in the world. Pay for a meal, put the ticket up, talk about the weather, then do the same thing over and over again with the countless number of transient customers who come in for a bite to eat. Though this is an impersonal scene, it is universal, and it is humorously described in the form of direct address. I mention direct address again because it is O. Henry’s reminder that he is telling a story to us, his readers. This is important because O. Henry’s stories were not a world created out of thin air, but reflections of the real world around him. Though they are fiction, if the world they reflect is real, the reader and the narrator are real, and the subtle social commentaries made within this story should be taken seriously.

Though direct address is present in “The Memento,” this literary technique is used differently in “The Brief Debut of Tildy.” Direct address in “The Brief Debut of Tildy” comes in the form of questions. The narrator asks three questions of the reader concerning the girls who work at the restaurant, two about the name of Tildy and one about Aileen’s beauty. Asking the reader questions makes this type of direct address even more personal, as if the narrator were relying on our cooperation to tell the story. He asks the reader “her other name?” in reference to

192

Aileen, then states, “the name of the other waitress was Tildy….Please listen this time—Tildy—

Tildy” (10). The narrator asks the reader “why do you suggest Matilda?” (10). Phrased in this

manner, such a question urges the reader to see that Tildy’s name doesn’t really matter—it could

be Matilda for all he cares. The narrator then repeats Tildy’s name to the reader, encouraging us

to pay attention (10). In this story, the reader is not just a silent observer walking through the

halls of a hotel; the reader takes on the status of a character in the story who can perhaps affect

the outcome. Like the characters in the story, the reader is also transient: we read a story, put it

down, then move on to a new activity.

Direct address in “The Brief Debut of Tildy” is on a different level than in other stories

because the narrator is not just addressing or speaking to the reader, but also appears to be speaking with him or her. In this story direct address allows for a friendly dialogue, one in which the reader feels as though he or she may actually affect the events, or have a say in matters related to the story. The narrator is not just directly telling the reader something—he is also asking him or her questions. In this case, questions are important because they imply an answer

is forthcoming. In this story, there is a suggested exchange of thoughts, dialogue, and ideas between reader and narrator. For example, the narrator asks the reader a question, “will it tire you to be told again that Aileen was beautiful?” then continues with the statement “had she donned a few hundred dollars’ worth of clothes and joined the Easter parade, and had you seen her, you would have hastened to say so yourself” (10). The movement of direct address (from

questioning the reader to encouraging him or her to speak) suggests a familiar tone that helps to

establish a sense of camaraderie with the reader. This relationship helps bridge the gap between

fiction and reality and makes the story seem more realistic. Additionally, it also serves as a

193

contrast to the impersonal relationship between Bogle and his customers. The narrator is warm

and amiable, concerned only with telling a story. Bogle’s concern is business.

The narrator describes the relationship between Bogle and his customers in the following

terms: “you are not Bogle’s friend; you are a fed, transient customer, and you and he may not

meet again until the blowing of Gabriel’s dinner horn. So take your change and go…” (10).

People who come to this restaurant do not stay there permanently, and they cannot, because it is

a place to eat and not a home. Some of these people will come back to frequent the restaurant,

others will not return. There is a distinction between those who are considered transients and

those who are not, however. For example, “if the transients were entranced by the fascinating

Aileen, the regulars were her adorers” (10). Transients in this story are not important; they are

merely in and out of the picture. The description of “the regulars” is used in order to emphasize

that they are are stable customers and thus more reliable than transients.

Another story where we see the term transients is “The Furnished Room.” This story

begins with the following description of people: “restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a

certain vast bulk of the population of the red brick district of the lower West Side. Homeless,

they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to furnished room, transients

forever—transients in abode, transients in heart and mind” (“Furnished” 239). The use of transients in this opening paragraph serves to emphasize the mobility of this particular group of

New Yorkers.

The large group of people in this location is always on the move, and not only moving from place to place, but also moving “in heart and mind,” an idea that echoes the concept of the

City shifting and changing people’s nature, much like in “Squaring the Circle.” The emphasis in

194

these first few sentences is on the movement of these people. By that I mean the participles used

to describe them (“restless, shifting, fugacious”), the adjective “homeless,” and the verb “flit” are

all words that serve to emphasize how unstable and capricious these people are (239). These

words convey instability and capriciousness through negative connotations. Nothing is

permanent; everyone changes and moves. Whereas the transients in “The Memento” are

presented in a positive way, transients in “The Furnished Room” are perceived as negative.

Perhaps O. Henry is suggesting that it is ok to be transient, but one also needs a place to call

home in order to be happy, as Bachelard explains when he states “we know perfectly that we feel

calmer and more confident … in the house we were born in, than we do in the houses on streets

where we have only lived as transients” (43).

Transients are “homeless” and “restless” because they have no stable residence, which is a sad concept, especially given all the positive connotations of the home, like those expressed by

Bachelard, who explains the imagination associates shelter with the home, and “the chief benefit of the house…[is] the house shelters day-dreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace” (6). Those constantly on the move have no chance to have a home, the protection of which Bachelard speaks, because, as Wirth explains, “overwhelmingly the city-dweller is not a home-owner, and since a transitory habitat does not generate binding traditions and sentiments, only rarely is he a true neighbor” (76). This means that transients not only lack the stability provided by a permanent residence, they also tend to lack the kinship found with people who are spatially close to them, people with whom they share a fence, for example. Instead, they develop different relationships and perhaps find kinships with other people who, in all likelihood, travel just as much as they do. This suggests that relationships in

195

the city are rarely stable, unlike those in more rural areas. To take a case in point, as stated in the

introduction, O. Henry’s boyhood home was right next to the schoolhouse in an area in which he had room to play (Arnett 16-19). It was a stable environment, albeit a poor one with relatives who were not very loving (O’ Connor 10).

7. Conclusion

Though “transients,” or people constantly moving from one temporary home to another, do make up a vast majority of the population of New York City, and though their relationships are primarily superficial, there are other things we can learn from them. For example, in “The

Brief Debut of Tildy” we are reminded that, as readers, we are transients as well, people who pause long enough to enjoy a story before we move on to something else. But women do not have to move to be “free.” Though a woman’s movement may seem stilted, as in “The

Venturers” and “The Thing’s the Play,” some women who stay at home actually have more freedom than at first perceived. Helen, for example, though physically confined to her boardinghouse in “The Thing’s the Play,” has freedom within it and the freedom that comes from owning not just her business, but also real estate, something quite rare for a woman in early twentieth century America. Helen serves as the exception, not the rule, however. Being in charge of her business gives her the liberty to do with it as she wishes. She is beholden to no one for her livelihood, provides for herself, and makes a decent, honest living, like Aunt Lina had to do (Langford 5-6). For a woman during this time, this is true independence not just financially, but also because she owns property, a much more permanent and stable space than the furnished rooms and tenement houses most working women lived in at the turn of the century.

196

Though we only see her in the context of a home, Mary from “The Venturers” has the freedom to welcome Ives into that home and to say something so simple, yet so life-changing as

‘“I am going to be married soon”’ (Henry, “Venturers” 493). As eager as Ives is for change, he does not want to lose Mary. This is why these six little words shake Ives to the core. So he makes a change of his own when he marries Mary, a move that, literally and figuratively, ensures that he will permanently abandon his life as a venturer in favor of the adventures married life has to offer (493). Mary has the power in this scene to move Ives to propose. All she did was tell him something he didn’t want to hear. In turn, he says something she wanted to hear—a marriage proposal. It is easy to make parallels with this story and O. Henry’s life. Published in

October of 1909, “The Venturers” was most likely written while he was in Asheville, North

Carolina. Earlier that year, his second wife Sara left New York and moved back home to

Asheville, where O. Henry would visit her from time to time (O’ Connor 187). Considering that the debate of this story is between seeking adventure and “settling down,” perhaps this was a conflict in O. Henry’s heart while he wrote this story. Maybe he was thinking of giving up the

“venture” himself and settling down again with Sara. But, in fact, O. Henry chose to do otherwise, and returned to the City.

Although Sara’s move to Asheville did not permanently “move” her husband, there are cases where a woman’s movement does have the power to cause men to move in some of O.

Henry’s stories. To take a case in point, though the woman in “A Bird of Bagdad” is only briefly mentioned, without her existence there would be no “STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND

THE HARNESS MAKER’S RIDDLE” (Henry, “Bird” 9). Without Laura, the woman Simmons is in love with, Quigg would never have found him moping around the City, would never have

197

heard his story, and would never have given him the token that saved the day (9). This is a story that reminds us of the power of subtlety to change lives. The woman in this story is a subtle presence that moves men, just as O. Henry was advocating change in a subtle manner with his work. His social commentaries are slight, but they are in the text.

One of these suggested changes is that women also have the power to be on equal terms as men. O. Henry implies this idea in several ways. For instance, he uses the term “transients” to refer to both men and women. In addition, when he uses direct address he never speaks of the gender of the reader. There is also the view of people from atop a skyscraper, where people are indistinguishable from each other, and the way people on a grid all move the same. Such descriptions imply it is necessary to have equality between the sexes, a progressive idea at the turn of the twentieth century that some people were working towards achieving. Besides already noting the wage gap between genders in Chapters 1 and 2, there were activists who saw this inequality and fought to increase the low wages of working women, like Joesphine Shaw Lowell and Helen Campbell (Burrows and Wallace 1178). Others would pick up the cause for suffrage and continue to fight for it until women finally gained the right to vote in 1920.

If we take the idea of equality further by recalling Scheherazade from The Arabian Nights as a subtle layer to O. Henry’s tales, then we learn even more about his ideas on gender roles.

Scheherazade’s story is the frame story in that ancient tale, a story which no doubt shaped O.

Henry’s philosophy on story telling, and also his notion that an equality of the sexes can exist.

Scheherazade shaped a man’s life—changed a man’s life for the better—through stories, and she was actually able to stay alive and help the king regain his sanity by telling stories night after night for one thousand nights (Portable 765-766). Perhaps O. Henry’s allusions to this fictional

198

character and her manner of telling tales was his way of expressing a desire to make fiction more

like fact, to shape and change social consciousness, much like Scheherazade changed her

husband. If O. Henry could blur the lines between fact and fiction just enough, as he does in many of his stories, then maybe his readers could begin to see equality between the sexes as a reality instead of just something to read about in a story. Perhaps this is another reason why he

so obsessively broke up triads. Triads could serve as a layer in his stories that symbolized an

“old” order, a traditional, established way of doing things in society that needed to change.

Thus, breaking triads is a break in the rhythm of social life, a movement towards something

different and new for women.

This new movement and the significance of it reminds me of “Psyche and the

Pskyscraper” and the literal “new” movement Daisy took (the electric elevator), to gain an insight into her world (Henry, “Psyche 2). This particular story reminds me of the elevators in

The O. Henry Hotel in Greensboro, which have the titles of some of his stories engraved on the edges of the inside of its doors (Galucci). I was fascinated by this little detail when I stayed there in the summer of 2016. Perhaps these small reminders of O. Henry’s works serve as a metaphor for the movement of the language in his stories, language that not only moves his characters and propels the plots of his stories, but language that also moves us as humans. One of the stories engraved in the edge of the door is “The Voice of the City,” a story discussed in Chapter 1 in which a man who searches high and low for the voice of New York City finds out that women are the voice of the City (Henry, “Voice” 4). This man’s movements led him to the conclusion that a woman’s space is very much alive in this City. Women were the “Voice” of the City, and their voice was heard through the writings of O. Henry, writings that were repeatedly indirect

199

and subtle but had to be so in order to express very important social criticisms about gender equality.

200

CONCLUSION

“Be sure to use good movement” is a phrase written neatly and continuously in cursive, filling the pages of a lined copy book in a glass case in the Greensboro History Museum (Arthur).

Labeled “In Our Desks at Aunt Lina’s School,” the glass case contains relics of items that O.

Henry and his classmates may have had in their desks, like jacks, marbles, a slate and chalk, and a copy book that is similar in appearance to our modern day lined notebook. The repetitive phrase in the copy book serves as a reminder that when O. Henry was a child, routine was paramount to success. The book’s contents imply that great care was taken to the act of writing, something I believe applies to O. Henry’s writing process. Williams tells us O. Henry did not use the typewriter to compose his stories, but instead would write them down on yellow pages in cursive (182). Routine is a form of movement, so the fact that O. Henry had a consistent

“writing routine” suggests to me that repeating literary devices in his works was something that was deliberate.

When I began writing this dissertation, I was concerned with movement and how the language of O. Henry’s urban stories reflected women’s movement in New York City at the turn of the twentieth century. Later I came to realize that we could trace his support for women’s rights in his language. Subtle metaphors about movements—specifically displacements and shifts—abound in O. Henry’s works, and I believe this author’s advocacy for women’s rights is the thread that ties most, if not all, of his New York stories together. Once we realize this, we can read his works differently. Take, for example, his epigraph to The Four Million, a collection of his New York short stories published in 1906. In this epigraph O. Henry states, “not very long ago some one invented the assertion that there were only ‘Four Hundred’ people in New York

201

City who were really worth noticing. But a wiser man has arisen—the census taker—and his larger estimate of human interest has been preferred in marking out the field of these little stories of the ‘Four Million’” (Four). At first glance, this epigraph could be read as a dedication to New

Yorkers. On the surface, O. Henry seems to be saying that his stories represent New York City as a whole, as opposed to the ‘Four Hundred,’ an allusion to a comment made by wealthy socialite Ward McAllister in 1888: “Why, there are only about 400 people in fashionable New

York society. If you go outside that number, you strike people who are either not at ease in a ballroom or else make others not at ease. See the point?” (qtd. in Homberger, Historical 92).

Clearly, O. Henry did “see the point.” The point was that there were some who found a division of class necessary in society because it kept them comfortable, and these same people wanted this division to last. In order to break these social boundaries, O. Henry became a

“census taker” who recounts, or tells, stories about the “Four Million.” Although it could be argued that he does not address ethnicity and race enough in his stories to really be the “census taker” of the “Four Million,” he does do something very significant and revolutionary.

Besides recounting stories, O. Henry also re-counts, by which I mean that he looks at numbers in a new way. This concept of re-counting did not occur to me until after I had completed this project, when I realized how important figures—figures as people and figures as monetary amounts—were to the author. For a start, it is clear that O. Henry considers women as figures, a part of the “Four Million” who are “really worth noticing.” He was especially concerned about the shop-girl who “belonged to the class that he thought of as under a strain and his interest in her welfare grew with his knowledge of the conditions surrounding her” (Smith, O.

Henry 217). According to his friend Anne Partlan, that’s why he made a point to meet her; he

202

wanted her insights into these girls and what their life was like (117). The more I read about the

shop-girl—both historically and through O. Henry’s stories—the more parallels I drew between the life of these shop-girls and O. Henry’s own life, and I firmly believe this is a topic that deserves more attention than his biographers have given it heretofore.

C. Alphonso Smith, for example, believed “the shop-girl is part of a larger theme and that theme is the city” (O. Henry 226). I disagree with this idea—at least in part. The City is a vital part of O. Henry’s tales, and his New York stories do serve a significant social importance.

Davis and Maurice contend that O. Henry’s New York stories are important because they provide a historically accurate picture of New York City during the first decade of the turn of the twentieth century (174). I do not mean to discount the City’s importance in O. Henry’s work, and I wholeheartedly endorse Davis and Maurice’s opinion. But the bigger issue in his stories is the portrayal of women in the City, and by this I mean a portrayal providing a deeper understanding of the woman’s plight at the turn of the twentieth century. O. Henry once stated of his stories “so long as a story is true to human nature all you need to do is change the local color to make it fit in any town…” (qtd. in MacAdam, “‘O. Henry’ On” 9). Being “true to human nature” means writing characters who are realistic so readers can sympathize with them.

O. Henry could sympathize, and many times even empathize, with the shop-girl. As I’ve stated in Chapter 1, he lived and worked in spaces that were in every way comparable to the apartments, furnished rooms, and hotels where most shop-girls lived. He understood that their space and place in society was changing, something with which he could also relate because his own space and place in society changed when he went to prison, when he got out of it, and also when he at last met with success in New York City. O. Henry was not always O. Henry. He had

203

to reinvent himself after prison and become a new person. In many ways his personal task or endeavor was similar to that of many women at the turn of the twentieth century who were reinventing themselves. O. Henry got along with women; Anne Partlan highlights how “he fitted so well into our [the working women’s] queer makeshift life” (117). He “fitted so well” because he was used to being around women, having been raised by his grandmother and aunt. Both women were important figures in his life, and he spent his childhood in his grandmother’s home and in his aunt’s school. Space was always an issue in his life, and it was an issue in many of his stories as well where it often shows up in connection with a woman’s identity insofar as the space where they are to be found in the City defines them in every regard. For example, the

“shop-girl” would not exist were it not for her job in the department store. The “office girl” would cease to be if she did not have an office in which to work. Female space in the City thus seemed a logical place to begin my dissertation, although it ended up being the last chapter I wrote.

Where to place the other chapters was a dilemma at first. Issues of money and travel were so closely tied together that it was difficult to decide which to discuss next. Initially, I thought the next chapter in the dissertation should be on travel, but after thinking about O.

Henry’s biography, it seemed there were many instances when he tried to move, to go somewhere, but a lack of funds stood in his way, so Chapter 2 became “money matters.” This chapter means two very important things to me: first of all, it addresses matters or issues concerning money, and then, more importantly perhaps, it addresses the overall value of money as opposed to other values, such as love and kindness. As I discovered, O. Henry and the shop- girl had issues with money, which is why he doesn’t just “recount” stories—he also re-counts.

204

In O. Henry’s stories re-counting usually refers to monetary matters. A significant number of monetary amounts are to be found in his stories, and, as revealed in the second chapter, a word frequency study involving not just key terms like “money,” “dollar,” and “cents” was needed in order to get a firm grasp of the role money plays in his works. Although money was not important to O. Henry, what people did with money was of great interest to him, something best expressed when he provides monetary details in his stories. He is at his best when tallying up costs for shop-girls, as evinced in “An Unfinished Story” and “The Third

Ingredient.” The connection between women and money is very strong in his urban tales, reflecting how hard the new working woman had to struggle with money in real life. His frequent references to this struggle naturally leads one to wonder if he was in some way or other a reformer, someone who desired change in society on behalf of these women as the new century dawned. It is because of this desire to protect women and advocate for their rights that poet

Nicholas Vachel Lindsay called O. Henry the “little shop-girls’ knight,” a title that all of his biographers and many of his critics reference (1338).

The quote comes from a poem Vachel Lindsay wrote entitled “The Knight in Disguise,” published in 1916. The more I thought about this idea of O. Henry being a “knight,” the more I recalled how the image of the knight played in his life. To begin with, O. Henry and his friends played “knights” when they were little boys (Long 14). The group even had a name, and “the

Union Jacks observed the forms of knighthood, and titles were bestowed upon the worthy, in romantic tradition. After the rituals of a meeting had been performed, the band set forth in quest of adventure” (14). C. Alphonso Smith relates a tale of adventure told by one of O. Henry’s unnamed boyhood friends that captures not only his imagination, but also his desire to ‘save’

205

those in need: “he [O. Henry] and I were riding around my mother’s garden on stick horses, when we found a conical mound….His fertile imagination at once converted this into a great castle inhabited by a cruel giant who kept imprisoned within its grim walls a beautiful maiden whom he and I, after doing valiant battle as her loyal knights, were to triumphantly rescue” (qtd. in Smith, O. Henry 68-69). Though O. Henry was only a young boy at the time of this escapade, this desire for adventure would continue even as a teenager when he traveled six miles on foot with his friend Tom Tate at midnight in order to get a magnolia blossom for his beloved Sara

Coleman because, not only was it her favorite flower, but she admired them as they grew at this particular spot in the country (Arnett 188-189). Arnett further notes “there were plenty of those blossoms which could have been plucked in Greensboro in the broad open daylight, but his nature craved an opportunity to play the gallant knight” (188-189). C. Alphonso Smith remarks on this anecdote as well: “what his [O. Henry’s] nature craved was an opportunity to play the knight, to steep himself in romance, to dare the forbidden…” (O. Henry 68).

In addition to these anecdotes about his past, there was also O. Henry’s “love to tell stories about knights in shining armor” when he was young (Stuart 25). This love for knight stories would continue later on in his career. Twenty-one of O. Henry’s New York stories have either the word “knight(s)” or contextual references to them—i.e. words such as “armor” and

“steel” (as in the blade of a sword). But only one of these stories is a “shop-girl” story; in “An

Unfinished Story,” Dulcie looks at a picture of General Kitchener on her dresser, and “he was

Dulcie’s ideal of a gallant knight” (Henry, “Unfinished” 425). As we have seen in the first chapter, Dulcie was a shop-girl who needed a knight to remind her of the values he represents: chivalry, courage, and perseverance. Though the only “knight” she ever knew was in a picture,

206

an image of a person she does not know personally and who will never ride up on a white horse

to save her, the values this image represents are ones that she can emulate and, in so doing, she

can save herself.

Although his biographers are all in accordance that O. Henry’s shop-girl stories stand out

as a unique body of writing, I felt that this idea warranted further study, and I wondered at his

fascination with women and their problems. Vachel Lindsay says in his poem “with something

nigh to chivalry he [O. Henry] trod— / The fragile drear and driven would defend— / The little

shop-girls’ knight unto the end” (1338). Vachel Lindsay believed these “girls” needed saving,

which is sometimes the case in O. Henry’s stories as well. But there are also women in these

stories who can save themselves and will persevere despite the odds in life, very capable women

like Hetty in “The Third Ingredient” and Rosalie Ray in “The Memento.”

As previously stated, Aunt Lina and Grandmother Porter were two women in O. Henry’s

life who saved themselves and the rest of the family if truth be told, and they serve as examples

of New Women in some of his stories. C. Alphonso Smith explains that Grandmother Porter was

known for “her loyalty to her convictions, her practical efficiency, her self-reliance, and her goodness of heart” (O. Henry 39). She was “left a widow at the age of forty-three with seven children and a mortgaged home [so] she set to work first with her needle and then with a few boarders to earn a support for herself and those dependent on her” (39). She never remarried.

Grandmother Porter was also known as “‘a character,’ the term implying marked individuality and will power” (38). Aunt Lina never married; she lived at home with her mother and ran her school, where she was “three-in-one principal, business manager, and teacher” (Arnett 63). A very capable woman, Long relates that “far from being the gentle, retiring lady of the Southern

207

tradition, Miss Lina was perfectly able to take care of herself” (12). Even Athol, Will’s first

wife, wanted to be independent enough to provide for herself and her daughter when he was in

exile in Honduras, so “she started a course in business college but was unable to finish because

her health failed under the strain” (87). These three important women in O. Henry’s life

understood that independence was necessary in order to survive, and they strove to achieve

and/or maintain this independence without becoming reliant on men for money. They were not

“little shop-girls,” a description that paradoxically suggests powerlessness because they work but

they are still referred to as “little…girls.”

Vachel Lindsay’s comment at O. Henry as “the little shop-girl’s knight” kept reappearing

in the critical works that I read, so I knew that it was significant, but I did not feel anyone

sufficiently explained why this was the case, nor did I think then or now that this sentiment was

taken seriously. Christopher Wilson makes the point that, even though O. Henry championed his

shop-girls, he does not seem as concerned with helping men (47). C. Alphonso Smith notes

“certainly no other American writer has so identified himself with the life problems of the shop-

girl in New York as has O. Henry” (O. Henry 217). There were men in the City who had the

same problems as these working women, but maybe O. Henry was not focusing on their

problems as much as he was focusing on the shop-girls and her issues because he could relate

more to women and because he felt they were the ones who needed more help.

Another commentary that I disagreed with was that O. Henry “writes on behalf of his shopgirls [sic], but not to them” (Wilson 48). C. Alphonso Smith proposes a different idea than

Christopher Wilson’s with the assertion that “The Trimmed Lamp” was “written for the shop-girl rather than about her” (O. Henry 224). There are other stories that corroborate Smith’s idea, and

208

I disagree with Wilson’s comment on the contention that O. Henry wrote stories that were printed in newspapers and magazines, all read by everyone of all classes and genders.

The accessibility and popularity of magazines and newspapers, especially the World, made O. Henry’s stories famous. As Eugene Current-Garcia explains, “in the fall of 1903…he signed a contract with…[the World] for $100 a week. Since the World, with a circulation of nearly half a million, was the largest paper in America, Porter now enjoyed the greatest audience he had ever had…” (38). Kathy Peiss affirms this reach at the turn of the century America: “a common form of working-class recreation involved reading and discussing the news, particularly the Sunday editions of the New York Journal and the World…” (22). People were reading, and they were reading O. Henry’s stories. He submitted one a week for the World from 1903-1906, a time when many of his shop-girl stories, like “The Ferry of Unfulfilment,” “A Lickpenny

Lover,” and “The Purple Dress,” were written.

Women were reading these stories or having these stories read to them, so they must have taken note that there was someone—a man—out there who cared enough about them and their problems to address them. O. Henry told stories based on real life, and the endings to these tales hold humanistic ideals and frequently suggest that we can become better people, take responsibility for our actions, and be kind towards one another. Although I suppose we can learn these humanistic ideals from characters in a story, O. Henry has often been criticized for his lack of character development. H. L. Mencken, for example, complains “his characters all speak the same tongue” (176). Robert Cortes Holliday claims “O. Henry created no characters, no figures which, as figures, abide in the mind after the chance circumstance in which we found them has fallen away from them in the memory” (12). But this is the point, in fact. There is very little

209

characterization in his stories, and this deficit is there for a reason. The characters whose names we usually don’t remember pale in comparison to O. Henry’s plots and the conclusions to his tales, which we do remember.2 His characters are stock characters because they could be anyone. I could be Hetty in “The Third Ingredient,” recently unemployed because I slapped my boss for sexually harassing me. One’s daughter, or niece, or sister, anyone could be in her shoes.

And that’s the whole point of O. Henry’s stories, to get readers to see women as people, to make us grasp that we all have choices in life, and that we can be better people by being kind to others.

Part of getting these ideas across and addressing the shop-girls’ issues so that people would listen meant being subtle, or using indirect means. As E. Hudson Long pointed out, O.

Henry crusaded for the shop-girl under the guise of humor (3). In 1999, Christopher Wilson also noted that the writer couched social commentary in humor (42). O. Henry makes people laugh, and his works are entertaining, but he also makes important social commentaries. Wilson acknowledges the possibility that O. Henry deprecated his work because this attitude “may have allowed O. Henry to act as if he were devoid of a platform or program yet sustain a man-in-the- street presentation…This double gesture may have been the reason that his contemporaries did

2 I noticed in my research that there were a few critics and biographers who wrote some female characters’ names incorrectly. For example, Wilson misspells Masie’s name, calling her “Maisie” when listing some shop-girls by name (48). Gunther Barth calls Masie “Massie” while describing the practices of female department store workers (135). E. Hudson Long refers to Hetty as “Hettie” not once but twice in his biography (118, 122). In O’ Connor’s case, it is a matter of getting the wrong woman when summarizing “The Trimmed Lamp.” O’ Connor writes that Nancy is explaining to her friend Lou why she rejected a marriage proposal, but Lou is not even in the scene at the time of this exchange; Nancy is instead speaking with her co-worker Carrie (O’ Connor 128; Henry, “Trimmed” 395). Although to me the mishandling of these female character’s names by these men, particularly since I noticed it on more than one occasion, suggests an ambivalence towards them, it also illustrates my point that plot is more instrumental than character development in relaying social criticisms in O. Henry’s stories.

210

not find O. Henry ‘patronizing…’ ” (42-43). Wilson makes interesting points about O. Henry and his work, and I believe many of them are valid, but, when all is said and done, I think he is skirting the issue on reform. What needs to be stressed is that O. Henry was a reformer.

The humanistic themes in his works (choosing love over money for example, or giving to people in need) point to the idea that O. Henry was a reformer, one of the few men at the turn of the twentieth century who fought for women’s rights. O. Henry was a knight to these shop-girls not just because he fought for women’s rights, but also because in some cases, he gave them the tools to save themselves and to fight their own battles. To make this argument, I selected the topics of space, travel, and money, all themes important to O. Henry in his personal life. He was a knight because he wanted to help women, and he wanted to help women because he believed they must have rights. He respected women throughout his life and treated every one of them, regardless of vocation or social status, with dignity (Williams 137). As Williams explains “he wouldn’t tolerate a story which wasn’t clean or lend an ear for a minute to any stag discussion of women. He would walk out on the party the instant it took such a turn” (106). O. Henry’s respect toward women translated to portraying them with respect in his works, a notion that helps us understand Fred Lewis Pattee’s comment about O. Henry’s works in general: “at every point that touches the feminine—paradox again!—the work is as chaste as Emerson” (Sidelights 12).

O. Henry’s respect for women was probably one of the reasons why he was so upset that they were being treated disrespectfully. He understood their despair and their struggles. He saw how strong the women of the City could be, how they could save themselves if they had someone to help point the way, someone to go on a quest, to give the facts of their lives, to show their spaces and places in society both as they are and as they could be, someone like a knight.

211

Some of his female characters are helpless, but for the most part—like Masie and Hetty—they are not. So I propose to amend Vachel Lindsay’s statement to read: O. Henry was not “the little shop-girl’s knight;” he was “the knight for women’s rights,” and he fought just as strategically and as strongly as any knight would. The difference was that O. Henry used a pen instead of a sword.

That being said, his pen would prove to be more effective, or more long lasting at any rate, than a sword. As far as where O. Henry belongs in the literary canon, Gerald Langford categorizes him as a “minor classic” (xii). “Minor classic” though he may be, he was nonetheless one with radical ideas about gender equality, ideas that made a major impression on the 26th President of the United States, Theodore Roosevelt. Sadly, O. Henry never heard

Roosevelt’s response to his writings, namely that “it was O. Henry who started me on my

campaign for the office girls” (qtd. in The Mentor 6). Though many often remark on this

comment of Roosevelt’s, I do not think the importance of it has been fully realized. To put it in

perspective, I would like to point out that President Roosevelt had the opportunity to respond to

children participating in a 1903 child labor strike, but he chose not to take action (Zinn 346).

The cries of overworked children did not catch Roosevelt’s attention in the Progressive Era, nor

did he much care to hear from the countless annoying reformers carping for change (“the

muckrakers”). Instead, Roosevelt listened to the quiet voice of a storyteller, a “money writer,” a

convicted felon not even championing for his own rights (Stuart 136). O. Henry’s stories caught

his attention, and to catch the attention of a man as powerful as the President of the United States

is high praise indeed. If this was the only proof we had that O. Henry was a champion, a

reformer, an advocate for women’s rights, it is the only proof we need.

212

WORKS CITED

[Arthur Schertzi’s Copy Book]. [circa 1900]. Harper’s New Graded Copy Books of Practical Penmanship: Grammar Course, No. 8, by H. W. Shaylor, American Book. “In Our Desks at Aunt Lina’s School.” Aunt Lina’s Schoolhouse, Welcome to the Gate City!, Greensboro History Museum, Greensboro, North Carolina. Artifact.

Aristotle. Poetics. Translated by S. H. Butcher and introduction by Francis Fergusson, Hill and Wang, 1961.

Arnett, Ethel Stephens. O. Henry from Polecat Creek. Piedmont P, 1962.

Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. 1958. Translated by Maria Jolas, Beacon P, 1994.

Bakhtin, M. M. “Forms of Time and of the Chronotype in the Novel.” 1937-1938. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays, translated by Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist, edited by Michael Holquist, U of Texas P, 1981, pp. 84-258.

Barth, Gunther. City People: The Rise of Modern City Culture in Nineteenth-Century America. Oxford UP, 1980.

Barthes, Roland. How to Live Together: Novelistic Simulations of Some Everyday Spaces. Translated by Kate Briggs, Columbia UP, 2013.

Berenson, Edward. The Statue of Liberty: A Transatlantic Story. Yale UP, 2012.

Blake, Victoria. Introduction and notes. Selected Stories of O. Henry. By O. Henry, consulting editorial director George Stade, Barnes and Noble Books, 2003, pp. xiii -xxvii and 403- 421.

Blansfield, Karen Charmaine. Cheap Rooms and Restless Hearts: A Study of Formula in the Urban Tales of William Sydney Porter. Bowling Green State U Popular P, 1988.

Bloom, Harold, editor. O. Henry: Comprehensive Research and Study Guide, Bloom’s Major Short Story Writers. Introduction by Harold Bloom, Chelsea House P, 1999.

Burrows, Edwin G. and Mike Wallace. Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898. Oxford UP, 1999.

Caravantes, Peggy. Writing is My Business: The Story of O. Henry. Morgan Reynolds P, 2006.

Chair, Rocking. [circa 1893]. O. Henry Museum Collection (ID 1936.22.01) O. Henry Museum, Austin, Texas. Artifact.

213

---. [circa 1893]. O. Henry Museum Collection (ID 1936.22.02) O. Henry Museum, Austin, Texas. Artifact.

Chopin, Kate. “The Story of an Hour.” 1894. The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction, edited by R. V. Cassill, 4th ed., Norton, 1990, pp. 277-279.

Clark, Roy Peter. Writing Tools: 50 Essential Strategies for Every Writer. Little and Brown, 2006.

Coles, Robert. Preface. Minding the Store: Great Writing About Business, from Tolstoy to Now, edited by Robert Coles and Albert LaFarge, introduction by Albert LaFarge, The New P, 2008, pp. vii-viii.

Current-Garcia, Eugene. O. Henry (William Sydney Porter). Twayne, 1965.

Davis, Robert H. and Arthur B. Maurice. The Caliph of Bagdad: Being Arabian Nights Flashes of the Life, Letters, and Work of O. Henry. D. Appleton, 1931.

Descartes, Rene. Discourse on Method, Optics, Geometry, and Meteorology. 1637. Translated and introduction by Paul J. Olscamp, revised ed., Hackett P, 2001.

Ejxenbaum, B. M. “O. Henry and the Theory of the Short Story.” 1925. O. Henry and the Theory of the Short Story, translated, notes, and postscript by I. R. Titunik, Michigan Slavic Contributions, U of Michigan, 1968, pp. 1-27.

Ewen, Elizabeth. Immigrant Women in the Land of Dollars: Life and Culture on the Lower East Side, 1890-1925. Monthly Review P, 1985.

Fiction 100: An Anthology of Short Fiction, edited by James H. Pickering, 13th ed., Pearson, 2012.

Fusco, Richard. Maupassant and the American Short Story: The Influence of Form at the Turn of the Century. Pennsylvania State UP, 1994.

Furman, Laura. Afterword. 41 Stories by O. Henry, by O. Henry, selected and introduction by Burton Raffel, Signet, 2007, pp. 417-424.

Galucci, Jim. [Interior Elevator Doorframes]. 1998. O. Henry Hotel, Greensboro, North Carolina. Artifact.

Gilman, Charlotte Perkins. “The Yellow Wall-Paper.” 1892. Fiction 100: An Anthology of Short Fiction, edited by James H. Pickering, 12th ed., Pearson, 2010, pp. 519-530.

214

Hall, Sir Peter. Cities in Civilization. Pantheon Books, 1998.

Hamilton, Edith. Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes. Grand Central P, 1969.

Hansen, Harry. Foreword. The Complete Works of O. Henry: Volume I, by O. Henry, Doubleday, 1953, pp. v-x.

Henderson, Archibald. “O. Henry: After a Decade.” The Southern Review, May 1920, pp. 15- 18. (Vertical Files) Greensboro Public Library, Greensboro, North Carolina.

Henry, O. (William Sydney Porter) “An Adjustment of Nature.” 1905. The Four Million, Doubleday, Page, 1920, pp. 101-109.

---. “A Bird of Bagdad.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 5 July 1903, p. 9.

---. “The Brief Debut of Tildy.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 27 Mar. 1904, p. 10.

---. “Brickdust Row.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 1 July 1906, p. 8.

---. “The Buyer from Cactus City.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 4 Mar. 1906, p. 8.

---. “The Caliph and the Cad.” 1904. Sixes and Sevens, Doubleday, Page, 1918, pp. 258-264.

---. “The Caliph, Cupid, and the Clock.” 1904. The Four Million, Doubleday, Page, 1920, pp. 186-196.

---. “The Discounters of Money.” The American Magazine, vol. 66, no. 6, Oct. 1908, pp. 540- 544. University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, texashistory.unt.edu, texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139403/; crediting Austin History Center, Austin Public Library.

---. “The Enchanted Profile.” The American Magazine, vol. 67, no. 1, Nov. 1908, pp. 88-93. University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, texashistory.unt.edu, texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139404/; crediting Austin History Center, Austin Public Library.

---. “The Ferry of Unfulfilment.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 27 Dec. 1903, p. 12.

---. The Four Million. 1906. Doubleday, Page, 1920.

---. “From the Cabby’s Seat.” 1904. The Four Million, Doubleday, Page, 1920, pp. 165-173.

---. “The Furnished Room.” 1904. The Four Million, Doubleday, Page, 1920, pp. 239-250.

215

---. “Gifts of the Magi.” The New York Sunday World, Christmas Section, 10 Dec. 1905, p. 1.

---. “The Girl and the Graft.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 28 May 1905, p. 8.

---. “The Girl and the Habit.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 29 Jan. 1905, p. 2.

---. “Hearts and Hands.” 1902. Prentice Hall Literature: Timeless Voices, Timeless Themes. Platinum ed., Prentice Hall, 2000, pp. 264-265.

---. “The Lady Higher Up.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 24 July 1904, p. 4.

---. Letter to Mabel Wagnalls. 13 Oct. 1903. Letters to Lithopolis From O. Henry to Mabel Wagnalls, Doubleday, 1922, pp. 44-48.

---. Letter to Mabel Wagnalls. 23 July 1903. Letters to Lithopolis From O. Henry to Mabel Wagnalls, Doubleday, 1922, pp. 23-32.

---. “A Lickpenny Lover.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 29 May 1904, p. 8.

---. “A Madison Square Arabian Night.” 1904. The Trimmed Lamp, authorized ed., Doubleday, Page / Review of Reviews, 1916, pp. 22-31.

---. “Mammon and the Archer.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 19 Mar. 1905, p. 9.

---. “The Memento.” Ainslee’s Magazine, vol. 21, no. 1, Feb. 1908, pp. 81-85. University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, texashistory.unt.edu, texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139391/; crediting Austin History Center, Austin Public Library.

---. “Memoirs of a Yellow Dog.” 1905. The Four Million, Doubleday, Page, 1920, pp. 110- 118.

---. “A Night in New Arabia.” Everybody’s Magazine, vol. 18, no. 3, Mar. 1908, pp. 302-310. University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, texashistory.unt.edu, texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139446/; crediting Austin History Center, Austin Public Library.

---. “One Thousand Dollars.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 5 June 1904, p.4.

---. The Pocket Book of O. Henry Stories. Edited and introduction by Harry Hansen, Pocket Books, 1956.

---. “Psyche and the Pskyscraper.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 15 Jan. 1905, p. 2.

216

---. “The Purple Dress.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 5 Nov. 1905, p. 8.

---. “The Red Roses of Tonia.” 1905. Prentice Hall Literature: Timeless Voices, Timeless Themes. Platinum ed., Prentice Hall, 2000, pp. TX18-TX25.

---. “The Romance of a Busy Broker.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 13 Mar. 1904, p. 4.

---. “Schools and Schools.” 1908. The Complete Works of O. Henry: Special Literary Digest Edition, Doubleday, Page / Funk and Wagnalls, 1926, pp. 552-557.

---. Selected Stories of O. Henry. Introduction and notes by Victoria Blake, consulting editorial director George Stade, Barnes and Noble, 2003.

---. “A Service of Love.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 8 Jan. 1905, p. 8.

---. Sixes and Sevens. 1911. Doubleday, 1919.

---. “The Skylight Room.” 1905. The Four Million, Doubleday, Page, 1920, pp. 47-57.

---. “Squaring the Circle.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 27 Nov. 1904, p. 2.

---. Stories by O. Henry. The Life of O. Henry, foreword, and afterword by Justin Lieber, Tom Doherty, 1988.

---. “The Tale of a Tainted Tenner.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 12 Nov. 1905, p. 14.

---. “The Thing’s the Play.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 14 Jan. 1906, p. 8.

---. “The Third Ingredient.” Everybody’s Magazine, vol. 19, no. 6, Dec. 1908, pp. 790-797. University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, texashistory.unt.edu, texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139451/; crediting Austin History Center, Austin Public Library.

---. “Transients in Arcadia: A Tale of Summer in New York.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 17 July 1904, p. 9.

---. “The Trimmed Lamp.” McClure’s Magazine, vol. 27, no. 4, Aug. 1906, pp. 391-399. University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, texashistory.unt.edu, texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139343/; crediting Austin History Center, Austin Public Library.

217

---. “An Unfinished Story.” McClure’s Magazine, vol. 25, no. 4, Aug. 1905, pp. 422-426. University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, texashistory.unt.edu, texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139342/; crediting Austin History Center, Austin Public Library.

---. “The Venturers.” Everybody’s Magazine, vol. 21, no. 4, Oct. 1909, pp. 486-493. University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, texashistory.unt.edu, texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth139458/; crediting Austin History Center, Austin Public Library.

---. “The Voice of the City.” The New York World Sunday Magazine, 25 June 1905, p. 4.

---. “While the Auto Waits.” 1903. The Voice of the City, authorized ed., Doubleday, Page / Review of Reviews, 1908, pp. 58-66.

Holliday, Robert Cortes. “The Amazing Failure of O. Henry.” Chicago Daily News, sec. 1, 19 Mar. 1919, p. 12. (Vertical Files) Greensboro Public Library, Greensboro, North Carolina.

Holt McDougal American Literature. Holt McDougal, 2010.

Holt McDougal Literature, Grade 10. Teacher’s ed., Holt McDougal, 2010.

Homberger, Eric. The Historical Atlas of New York City: A Visual Celebration of Nearly 400 Years of New York City’s History. Cartographic Consultant Alice Hudson, Henry Holt, 1994.

---. New York City: A Cultural and Literary Companion. Interlink, 2003.

Housman, Laurence. “The Rooted Lover.” 1894. The Oxford Book of Modern Fairy Tales, edited by Alison Lurie, Oxford UP, 1993, pp. 170-177.

Jay, Martin. Downcast Eyes: The Denigration of Vision in Twentieth-Century French Thought. U of California P, 1993.

Jennings, Al. Through the Shadows with O. Henry. A. L. Burt, 1921.

Kilmer, Joyce. “Is O. Henry a Pernicious Literary Influence?” The New York Times Magazine, 23 July 1916, p. 12. (Vertical Files) Greensboro Public Library, Greensboro, North Carolina.

Kramer, Dale. The Heart of O. Henry. Rinehart, 1954.

218

LaFarge, Albert. Introduction. Minding the Store: Great Writing About Business, from Tolstoy to Now, edited by Robert Coles and Albert LaFarge, preface by Robert Coles, The New P, 2008, pp. ix-xi.

Langford, Gerald. Alias O. Henry: A Biography of William Sidney Porter. Macmillan, 1957.

Leacock, Stephen. “O. Henry and His Critics.” The New Republic, vol. 9, no. 109, 2 Dec. 1916, pp. 120-122. (Vertical Files) Greensboro Public Library, Greensboro, North Carolina.

Ledger, Sally. The New Woman: Fiction and feminism at the fin de siècle. Manchester UP, 1997.

Lewis, Charleton T. An Elementary Latin Dictionary. Compiled by Hugh Macmaster Kingery, American Book, 1918.

The Life and Times of O. Henry. iBooks ed., Golgotha P, 2011.

Long, E. Hudson. O. Henry: The Man and His Work. U of Pennsylvania P, 1949.

MacAdam, George. “ ‘O. Henry’ On Himself, Life, and Other Things.” The New York Times, 4 April 1909, p. 9.

---. “O. Henry’s Only Autobiographia.” The New York Times Book Review and Magazine, 6 Aug. 1922, pp. 5+. (Vertical Files) Greensboro Public Library, Greensboro, North Carolina.

Maltby, Frances Goggin. The Dimity Sweetheart: O. Henry’s Own Love Story. P of The Dietz Printing, 1930.

Maurice, Arthur B. “O. Henry, Boy and Man: How He Lived, How He Looked, and How He Worked.” The Mentor, vol. 11, no. 1, February 1923, pp. 9-16. (Vertical Files) Greensboro Public Library, Greensboro, North Carolina.

“The Meetings of Al-Rashid on the Bridge of Bagdad.” The Book of the Thousand Nights and One Night: Rendered Into English From the Literal and Complete French Translation of Dr. J. C. Mardrus by Powys Mathers, translated by Dr. J. C. Mardrus and Powys Mathers, vol. iv, Routledge, 1996, pp. 124-172.

Mencken, H. L. H. L. Mencken on American Literature, edited by S. T. Joshi, Ohio UP, 2002.

The Mentor, vol. 11, no. 1, Feb. 1923. O. Henry Resources Collection (Box 63) Austin History Center, Austin Public Library.

Moretti, Franco. Atlas of the European Novel 1800-1900. Verso, 1999.

219

---. Distant Reading. Verso, 2013.

Morris, Charles R. The Tycoons: How Andrew Carnegie, John D. Rockefeller, Jay Gould, and J. P. Morgan Invented the American Supereconomy. Times Books, 2005.

Moyle, Seth. My Friend O. Henry. H. K. Fly, 1914. Google Books, https://books.google.com/books?id=Ux0FAQAAIAAJ&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs _ViewAPI#v=onepage&q&f=false.

The Norton Anthology of Short Fiction. Edited by Richard Bausch and R. V. Cassill, 8th ed., Norton, 2015.

O’ Connor, Richard. O. Henry: The Legendary Life of William S. Porter. Doubleday, 1970.

“Old Mother Hubbard and Her Dog.” 1805. iBooks ed., n.p., 1 Mar. 2012.

Partlan, Anne. Op-ed. The Writer, vol. XXVI, no. 8, Aug. 1914, pp. 116-117.

Pattee, Fred Lewis. The Development of the American Short Story: An Historical Survey. Harper, 1923.

---. Sidelights on American Literature. Century, 1922.

Patterson, Martha H. Beyond the Gibson Girl: Reimagining the American New Woman, 1895- 1915. U of Illinois P, 2005.

Peiss, Kathy. Cheap Amusements: Working Women and Leisure in Turn-of-the-Century New York. Temple UP, 1986.

Poe, Edgar Allen. “Review of Twice-Told Tales.” 1842. The New Short Story Theories, edited by Charles E. May, Ohio UP, 1994, pp. 59-64.

The Portable Arabian Nights. Edited and introduction by Joseph Campbell, Viking P, 1952.

Porter, Sara Coleman. “O. Henry as I Knew Him.” Redbook Magazine, vol. 68, no. 5, March 1937, pp. 8+. (Vertical Files) Greensboro Public Library, Greensboro, North Carolina.

---. “The Gift.” The Delineator, vol. 79, no. 5, May 1912, pp. 374+. (Vertical Files) Greensboro Public Library, Greensboro, North Carolina.

Porter, S. W. “O. Henry as His Brother Knew Him.” The News and Observer, Raleigh, North Carolina. 12 May 1929, p. 10. (Vertical Files) Greensboro Public Library, Greensboro, North Carolina.

220

Porter, William Sydney. (see also Henry, O.) Letter to Al Jennings. [circa 1902]. The Complete Works of O. Henry: Special Literary Digest Edition, Doubleday, Page / Funk and Wagnalls, 1926, pp. 848-849.

---. Letter to Frank Maddox from W. S. Porter. 18 Mar. 1902. O. Henry Resources Collection (Box 68, Folder 3) Austin History Center, Austin Public Library. Manuscript.

---. Letter to Margaret. 1 Oct. 1900. The Complete Works of O. Henry: Special Literary Digest Edition, Doubleday, Page / Funk and Wagnalls, 1926, p. 843.

---. Letter to Mr. Roach. 18 May 1898. O. Henry, by C. Alphonso Smith, Chelsea House, 1980, pp. 154-156.

---. Letter to Mrs. Roach. 25 March 1898. O. Henry, by C. Alphonso Smith, Chelsea House, 1980, p. 146.

---. Letter to Mrs. Roach. 8 July 1898. O. Henry, by C. Alphonso Smith, Chelsea House, 1980, pp. 156-158.

---. Letter to Steger. 1909. The Complete Works of O. Henry: Special Literary Digest Edition, Doubleday, Page / Funk and Wagnalls, 1926, pp. 846-847.

---. Letter to Steger. [circa 1909-1910]. The Complete Works of O. Henry: Special Literary Digest Edition, Doubleday, Page / Funk and Wagnalls, 1926, pp. 847-848.

---. Verse Written to Athol Estes by W. S. Porter. 25 Sept. 1885. O. Henry Resources Collection (ARL.015) Austin History Center, Austin Public Library. Manuscript.

Prentice Hall Literature: Language and Literacy, Grade 10. Texas Teacher’s ed., Pearson, 2011.

Shakespeare, William. As You Like It. 1623. The Complete Works of Shakespeare, by William Shakespeare, edited by David Bevington, 4th ed., Addison Wesley Longman, 1997, pp. 292-325.

---. Hamlet. 1603. Penguin, 1998.

Silver, Nathan. Lost New York. Wings Books, 1967.

Simmel, Georg. “The Metropolis and Mental Life.” 1903. On Individuality and Social Forms: Selected Writings, by Georg Simmel, edited and introduction by Donald N. Levine, U of Chicago P, 1971, pp. 324-339.

221

---. The Philosophy of Money. 1900. Translated by Tom Bottomore and David Frisby, Routledge, 1978.

Smith, C. Alphonso, editor. Selected Stories from O. Henry. By O. Henry, introduction and notes by C. Alphonso Smith, Doubleday, 1931, pp. vii+.

---. O. Henry. 1916. Introduction by Warner Berthoff, general editor Professor Daniel Aaron, Chelsea House, 1980.

Stuart, David. O. Henry: A Biography of William Sydney Porter. Scarborough House, 1990.

Strunk, William Jr. and E. B. White. The Elements of Style. 3rd ed., Macmillan, 1979.

Tear Jerkers in American Song, Part 1. The Parlor Songs Academy: Lessons in America’s Popular Music History, http://parlorsongs.com/issues/2001-10/thismonth/featurea.php.

Vachel Lindsay, Nicholas. “The Knight in Disguise.” 1916. The Complete Works of O. Henry: Special Literary Digest Edition, Doubleday, Page / Funk and Wagnalls, 1926, pp. 1338- 1339.

Veblen, Thorstein. The Theory of the Leisure Class. 1899. Introduction by John Kenneth Galbraith, Houghton, 1973.

Wagnalls, Mabel. Preface and Introductory Notes. Letters to Lithopolis: From O. Henry to Mabel Wagnalls, Doubleday, 1922, pp. vii+.

Wirth, Louis. “Urbanism as a Way of Life.” 1938. On Cities and Social Life: Selected Papers, by Louis Wirth, edited and introduction by Albert J. Reiss, Jr., The U of Chicago P, 1964, pp. 60-83.

Wilkinson, Burke. Uncommon Clay: The Life and Works of Augustus Saint Gaudens. Harcourt, 1985.

Williams, William Wash. The Quiet Lodger of Irving Place. E. P. Dutton, 1936.

Wilson, Christopher P. White Collar Fictions: Class and Social Representation in American Literature, 1885-1925. U of Georgia P, 1992.

Wiseman, Thomas. The Money Motive. Random House, 1974.

Zinn, Howard. A People’s History of the United States: 1492-Present. Perennial, 1999.

Zola, Emile. The Ladies’ Paradise. 1883. Translated by April Fitzlyon, Alma Classics, 2008.

222

BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH

Cristen Hamilton grew up on a cattle ranch ten miles from the Mexican border. She attended public school in the rural town of Carrizo Springs, Texas and graduated third in her high school class in 1998. Upon graduation, she attended Southern Methodist University in Dallas, Texas, where she earned her Bachelor of Arts in English with a Specialization in Creative Writing in

2002. She completed her student teaching for her Texas Teacher’s Certification at W. T. White

High School in the fall of 2002, and in the summer of 2003 she was accepted to the Graduate

Program at the University of Dallas in Irving, Texas, where she graduated with a Master of Arts in English in 2005. She taught English at Travis Middle School in Irving for one year before transitioning to teaching high school sophomores in 2006, a position she held for nine years. She enrolled in the Graduate Program of Arts and Humanities School at The University of Texas at

Dallas in 2007.

223

CURRICULUM VITAE

Cristen Hamilton

Education

Expected 2017. Doctoral Candidate in Humanities, Major in Studies in Literature, University of Texas at Dallas, Richardson, Texas

Dissertation Title: “The Role of Space, Money, and Travel in O. Henry’s New York Stories,” Directed by Dr. Rene Prieto

Comprehensive Exam Fields: The Development of the American and British Short Story: 1774- Present Day, Urban History and Theory, and British and American Literature: 1813-1913

2005. Master of Arts, English, University of Dallas, Irving, Texas

Thesis: “Lily Bart: The Tragic Hero in Edith Wharton’s The House of Mirth,” Directed by Dr. Theresa Kenney

2002. Bachelor of Arts, English with a Creative Writing Specialization, Southern Methodist University, Dallas, Texas

University Scholar, Golden Key National Honor Society, Latin Study Group, Sigma Tau Delta English Honor Society Graduated Cum Laude, 3.6

Certifications

June 2012 Advanced Placement Certification December 2005 State of Texas Teacher’s Certification in ESL (English as a Second Language) December 2002 State of Texas Teacher’s Certification in Secondary English (grades 6-12)

Conference Presentations and Panels

2017 “The Little Red Purse.” Short story presented at the Research, Art, Writing Graduate Student Symposium at the University of Texas at Dallas. 2016 “Movement in O. Henry’s New York Short Stories.” Paper presented at the UTA English Graduate Conference on Bodies at Work: Reimagining the Lines of (Re)Production at the University of Texas at Arlington. 2016 “Happily Ever Equality: Women’s Rights in Fairy Tales.” Paper presented at the Research, Art, Writing Graduate Student Symposium at the University of Texas at Dallas. 2015 “Letting the Uncanny in the Short Story.” Paper presented at the Coastal Plains Graduate Liberal Arts Conference on Days of Future Past: Remixing, Revisioning, Reflecting at the University of Houston. 2014 “The Care and Feeding of a Book Club.” Panel with Sara Reyes, RNR Reader’s Convention,

224

Allen, Texas. 2013 “Flashlight Reads.” Panel with Mitzi Roadcap and Sara Reyes, RNR Reader’s Convention, Allen, Texas. 2013 “Why Romance Matters: Empowering Ideas in the Historical Romance.” Paper presented at the Coastal Plains Graduate Conference on Language and Literature at the University of Houston. 2013 “The Importance of Setting in O. Henry’s ‘A Departmental Case’ and ‘The Furnished Room.’” Paper presented at the Fourth Annual Texas A&M History Conference at Texas A&M University. 2012 “Circular Contracts: Rings in William Shakespeare’s The Merchant of Venice.” Paper presented at the Research, Art, Writing Graduate Student Symposium at the University of Texas at Dallas.

Teaching Experience

2015-2017 Instructor of Rhetoric, University of Texas at Dallas, Richardson, Texas Planned, lectured, and facilitated lessons for Rhetoric 1302 classes. Taught a curriculum focused primarily on writing effective arguments with an emphasis on analytical writing and research papers. • Collaborated with fellow Rhetoric instructors to invent unique and relevant lessons geared to engage students in the learning process. • Created writing templates with fellow Rhetoric instructors designed to assist STEM students become better writers and demystify the writing process. • Guided students through the writing process both as a group and in student/instructor conferences, instructed students how to document sources in their papers, and assisted students in the revising and editing process. • Designed and taught lessons on the following types of writing: rhetorical analysis, visual analysis, problem/solution essays, and research papers.

2011-2015. Pre-AP English II Teacher, W. T. White High School, Dallas, Texas Prepared, facilitated, and instructed lessons for Pre-Advanced Placement 10th grade English classes. Taught a curriculum focused primarily on the Western canon with an emphasis on analytical and persuasive writing. • Collaborated with fellow Pre-AP English II teachers to create inventive and challenging lessons for students, including “TAG,” or Talented and Gifted, students. • Created and implemented a rigorous reading list not only centered around the theme of leadership, but also designed to assist students in preparing for future Advanced Placement English classes and exams. • Promoted to Academy of Engineering Pre-AP English II teacher for the 2012/2013 school year.

2006-2015. English II Teacher, W. T. White High School, Dallas, Texas Planned, demonstrated, and instructed lessons for 10th grade English classes. Taught a curriculum focused primarily on world literature with an emphasis on narrative writing, persuasive writing, and grammar. • Collaborated with special education co-teacher on lessons, assignments, and tests to accommodate the needs of special education and 504 students. • Taught writing templates, Cornell Notes, and other learning strategies to help Limited English Proficient (LEP) students pass district and state tests. • Appointed to 10th Grade Team Leader during the 2009/2010 school year.

225

Research Interests Urban Theory Creative Writing: Short Fiction British and American Short Stories Distant Reading Young Adult Literature Shakespeare’s Plays

Public Scholarship and Organizations

Modern Language Association

Assistant Organizer and Event Host of Dallas Area Book Club Meetings for Fresh Fiction, a literary organization that brings visiting authors to the Dallas area and encourages literacy in the community through various social events, conferences, and its active web site.

226