Character reveiling action

Whatever the author may say of his creatures or they of them¬selves, it is by their deeds that we judge them. Action we believe to be the most genuine expres¬sion of character, particularly action in response to feeling and passion; action, that is, truly characteristic of the man's inner self, and not calculated for effect. Thus, a man is revealed at crucial moments, when superficial mannerisms are in abeyance, the conventional and acquired qualities laid aside. It is in the selection of appropriate action by which to reveal his creations traly in moments of stress that the writer must exercise his greatest care. In trivial acts one man may differ little from another. On the scaffold, or in the moment of temptation or passion, they reveal their basic differences.
If the author has permitted himself analysis, he must, in his choice of action, see to it that his characters live up to the roles assigned them. If he has described the hero as an admirable character, the hero's actions must be admirable in our eyes; if not, the story is at cross purposes, and serves merely to illustrate the moral un¬certainty of the author. We are not unac¬quainted with the type of story in which the author, to make a point he deems necessary to the development of his plot, forces a character to an inconsistency to achieve that end.
Yet it is not always the emotional crises which serve alone to reveal true character, important as these are, and vital as is the obligation that in them the characters act fully to the parts as¬signed them. Character-building skilfully con¬trived is no sudden revelation of unsuspected traits, but a slow process of consistent growth. The method is strictly analogous to that of ex¬position and preparation. Just as every inci¬dent is significant doubly for what it is, and for what it prepares, so every action of the skilfully drawn character should serve to build for a crisis
in which deeper revelations, but these consistent with and anticipated from the previous acts, may be effectively and convincingly set forth. The careful writer secures his effects subtly, prejudicing the reader for or against this person or that, predicting unmistakably, though not too obviously, the roles each must assume. It is difficult to cite brief instances, for the process is coterminous with the story, and the effect is of a whole sufficiently robust though built of parts individually slight. I shall quote a passage, italicizing a few instances by which the character of Markheim, in Stevenson's story of the name, is revealed to us. The analysis could be carried further, but we must content ourselves here with the first touches by which we are prepared for the murder:
exerpt from Markheim
That Markheim is a rogue who has disposed of stolen articles to the dealer is sufficiently ob¬vious. The dealer's remark that his visitor's manner is odd arouses our attention. When Markheim gazes upon the dealer with pity and horror, our interest becomes keen. This display of emotion is an odd revelation in a rascal. Then, in the next speech, we are aware that Markheim is lying; the dealer, too, is aware of this. Again, when the dealer stoops to find the glass, the mention of tumultuous passions in the face of the purchaser puzzles us. We know, at least, that the man is wrought to a high pitch of excitement; an excitement which he dare not reveal, and which, therefore, is evil. The eager¬ness with which he seeks to discover good traits in the dealer is again significant. He seems de¬sirous of being friends with him, and soon we know why. He is driven to a deed which he loathes, and at the last moment, were there a loophole, he would withdraw. The mirror is an excellent device; Markheim's terror of it and
his words show again the man who fears what he is and soon will become. The character of Markheim grows clear before our eyes, and we anticipate his crime, for character and action are here inseparable, the revelations of emotion serving to predict incident.
But have we not departed somewhat from our theme: significant action as a means of slow character creation? Markheim's words are more significant than his acts. Again he moves the dealer, in whose suspicions we see reflected the image of Markheim himself. And, last, we have brief descriptive touches of the man's appear¬ance, which suggest the passions within. Of analysis there is scarcely a trace; the method is almost purely objective to the point of the murder. That all these means should serve the writer in the creation of his character is signifi¬cant. The resort to many devices gives variety, and the skilful story-teller uses, therefore, as many as he can: analysis, action, speech, effect upon others, and description—all may be illus¬trated in a single good passage, and so inter¬related that they cannot be separated one from another. Doubtless we could find passages in which one or another sufficed of itself for a time, but in the best character drawing we shall find not one but several means employed. A further selection will admirably reinforce the point.
This is from Turgenieff's Tatydnet Borisavna and Her Nephew:
At first, Tatyina Borisovna did not recognize him. From his letters she had expected a thin and sickly man, but she beheld a broad-shoul¬dered, stout young fellow, with a broad red face, and curly, greasy hair. The pale, slender An¬dritisha had been converted into sturdy Andrei Ivinoff Byelovzfiroff. His external appearance was not the only thing in him which had under¬gone a change. The sensitive shyness, the caution and neatness of former years, had been replaced by a careless swagger, by intolerable slovenliness; he swayed to right and left as he walked, flung himself into armchairs, sprawled over the table, lolled, yawned to the full extent of his jaws, and behaved impudently to his aunt and the servants,—as much as to say, "I'm an artist, a free kazik! I'll show you what stuff I'm made of!" For whole days together, he would not take brush in his hand; when the so- called inspiration came upon him, he would be¬have as wildly as though he were intoxicated, painfully, awkwardly, noisily; his cheeks would burn with a coarse flush, his eyes would grow inebriated; he would set to prating about his talent, his successes, of how he was developing and advancing. . . . But, as a matter of fact, it turned out that his gift barely sufficed for tolerably fair petty portraits. He was an utter ignoramus, he had read nothing; and why should an artist read? Nature, freedom, poetry,— those are his elements. So, shake thy curls,
and chatter away volubly, and inhale Zhuk6ff with frenzy! Russian swagger is a good thing, but it is not becoming to many; and talentless second-rate Polezhieffs are intolerable. Our Andrei Ivanitch continued to live at his aunt's: evidently gratuitous food was to his taste. He inspired visitors with deadly ennui. He would seat himself at the piano (Tatyina Borfsovna had set up a piano also) and begin to pick out with one finger "The Dashing Tr6ika"; he would strike chords and thump the keys; for hours at a stretch he would howl Varlimoff's romances "The Solitary Pine," or "No, Doctor, no, do not come," and the fat would close over his eyes, and his cheeks would shine like a drum. . . . And then, suddenly, he would thunder: "Begone, ye tumults of passion!" . . . And Ta¬tyina Borfsovna would fairly jump in dismay.
"'Tis extraordinary,"—she remarked to me one day,—" what songs are composed nowadays, —they are all so despairing, somehow; in my day, they used to compose a different sort: there were sad ones then too, but it was always agreeable to listen to them. . . . For example:
" Come, come to me in the meadow, Where I wait for thee in vain; Come, come to me in the meadow,
Where my tears flow hour after hour. . . . Alas, thou wilt come to me in the meadow, But then 't will be too late, dear friend!"
Tatyina Borfsovna smiled guilefully.
"I shall suf-fer, I shall suf-fer," howled her nephew in the adjoining room.
"Stop that, Andrifisha I"
"My soul is lan-guishing in part-ing," con¬tinued the irrepressible singer.
Tatyfina Borfsovna shook her head.
"Okh, those artists!" .. .
A year has passed since then. Byelovthroff is still living with his aunt, and still preparing to go to Petersburg. He has become broader than he is long in the country. His aunt—who would have thought it?—is perfectly devoted to him, and the young girls of the neighborhood fall in love with him. . . .
Many of Tatyfina Borfsovna's former acquaint¬ances have ceased to visit her.
In this admirable selection description is re¬inforced with characteristic action and speech, and the result is a speaking likeness.
The methods of characterization are suffi¬ciently obvious to require no further illustra¬tion. They are not to be divorced from exposi¬tion and preparation, for they serve with these the story's purposes, which involve not character portrayal only but action as well. They de¬mand, also, description. But as description is a matter which requires separate consideration, this will be taken up in another chapter. Dia¬logue, too, is involved; but this, again, requires separate analysis. Let us note, however, that though for purposes of intelligibility these ele¬ments are considered as separate problems of
story-construction, they are found usually not as free elements but as compounds or mixtures. The story-teller must do many things all at once, and yet his product must be simple and unified. Thus, in his symphony, the composer produces an harmonious whole from the blended tones of many instruments.
Action lends itself almost exclusively to the Indirect characterization type of handling. It is true that in The Cask of Amontillado, Montresor begins with the statement that his story is to be of an act of revenge, premeditated and perpetrated under a guise of friendship. He brands himself and his act at the beginning. Wich is Direct characterization.
Usually, however, an action is allowed to be its own comment on character.. Notice one
of the details of revenge. In assuming a guise of friendship, Montresor keeps continually urging For¬tunato to go back to avoid risk to his health from the dampness of the vaults with their nitre-encrusted walls. By such feigning, he disarms any suspicion that might have arisen in the mind of his victim. Then finally, after he has chained Fortunato securely in the niche, he turns again to say:
"Pass your hand over the wall; you cannot help feeling the nitre. Indeed, it is very damp. Once more let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively leave you."
All the cruelty and vengefulness of Montresor's nature are there suddenly revealed. One is thus constantly doing things that reveal character. In refusing himself to arrest his one-time friend, Jimmy Wells reveals a certain tenderness. But for the evidence of the milk tallies of the interview with Turpin in They, one might almost have ques¬tioned Miss Florence's reality. She is shown to be strict in business and aware even of the tricks of her tenant.
Category:Character