O. Henry (real name and surname William Sidney Porter)

O. Henry (eng. O. Henry, pseudonym, real name William Sidney Porter- English. William Sydney Porter; 1862–1910) was an American novelist, prose writer, and author of popular short stories characterized by subtle humor and unexpected endings.
Biography
William Sidney Porter was born September 11, 1862 in Greensboro, North Carolina. After school, he studied to be a pharmacist, worked in a pharmacy. Then he worked as a cashier-accountant in a bank in the Texas city of Austin. He was accused of embezzlement and hid from law enforcement officers in Honduras for six months, then in South America. Returning to the United States, he was convicted and sent to the Columbus prison in Ohio, where he spent three years (1898-1901).
In prison, Porter worked in the infirmary and wrote stories, looking for a pseudonym for himself. In the end, he chose the O. Henry variant (often incorrectly spelled like the Irish surname O'Henry - O'Henry). Its origin is not entirely clear. The writer himself claimed in an interview that Henry's name was taken from a column secular news in the newspaper, and the initial O. is chosen as the simplest letter. He told one of the newspapers that O. stands for Olivier (the French name for Olivier), and indeed, he published several stories there under the name Olivier Henry. According to other sources, this is the name of a famous French pharmacist. Another hypothesis was put forward by the writer and scientist Guy Davenport: “Oh. Henry" is nothing more than an abbreviation of the name of the prison where the author was imprisoned - Oh io Peniten tiary. His first short story under this pseudonym, Whistler Dick's Christmas Present, published in 1899 in McClure's Magazine, was written in prison.
O. Henry's first book of short stories, Cabbages and Kings, was published in 1904. It was followed by The four million (1906), The trimmed Lamp (1907), The Heart West (Heart of the West, 1907), The Voice of the City (1908), The Gentle Grafter (1908), Roads of Destiny (1909), Favorites (Options, 1909), Exact Cases (Strictly Business, 1910) and Whirlpools (Whirligigs, 1910).
At the end of his life he suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and diabetes. The writer died on June 5, 1910 in New York.
The collection "Postscripts" (Postscripts), published after the death of O. Henry, included feuilletons, sketches and humorous notes written by him for the newspaper "Post" (Houston, Texas, 1895-1896). In total, O. Henry wrote 273 stories, complete collection of his works is 18 volumes.
Features of creativity
O. Henry occupies an exceptional place in American literature as a master of the genre of "short story" (short-story). Before his death, O. Henry expressed his intention to move on to a more complex genre - to the novel (“everything that I have written so far is just pampering, a test of the pen, compared to what I will write in a year”).
In creativity, however, these moods did not manifest themselves in any way, and O. Henry remained an organic artist of the "small" genre, the story. It is no coincidence, of course, that during this period the writer first began to be interested in social problems and revealed his negative attitude towards bourgeois society (Jennings "Through the Darkness with O. Henry").
The heroes of O. Henry are diverse: millionaires, cowboys, speculators, clerks, laundresses, bandits, financiers, politicians, writers, artists, artists, workers, engineers, firefighters - replace each other. A skilled plot designer, O. Henry does not show the psychological side of what is happening, the actions of his characters do not receive deep psychological motivation, which further enhances the unexpectedness of the finale.
O. Henry is not the first original master"short story", he only developed this genre, in its main features already established in the work of T. B. Aldrich (Thomas Bailey Aldrich, 1836-1907). The originality of O. Henry was manifested in the brilliant use of jargon, sharp words and expressions, and in the general colorfulness of the dialogues.
Already during the life of the writer, the “short story” in his style began to degenerate into a scheme, and by the 1920s it turned into a purely commercial phenomenon: the “method” of its production was taught in colleges and universities, numerous manuals were published, etc.
American writers of the interwar period (Sh. Anderson, T. Dreiser, B. Hecht) contrasted the emptyness of the epigones of O. Henry with rich psychological novels.
O. Henry Award
Eight years after his death, the O. Henry Prize was established in memory of the writer

STOP! The story of O. Henry "Without fiction" can be read on English language and then check yourself - The level of the story corresponds to the average level (intermediate), compound words are highlighted in the text and translated. Learn English by reading world literature.

I worked as a freelancer for a newspaper and hoped that someday I would be transferred to a permanent salary. At the end of a long table littered with newspaper clippings, was my place. I wrote about everything that the great city whispered, trumpeted and shouted to me during my wanderings through its streets. My income was not regular.

One day, a certain Tripp came up to me and leaned on my table. He was doing something in the printing department, he smelled of chemicals, his hands were always smeared and burned with acids. He was twenty-five years old, but he looked to be forty. Half of his face was hidden by a short curly red beard. He had a sickly, pitiful, ingratiating look, and was constantly borrowing money ranging from twenty-five cents to one dollar. He never asked for more than a dollar. Sitting on the edge of the table, Tripp clenched his hands to keep them from trembling. Whiskey! He always tried to be careless and cheeky, this could not deceive anyone, but it helped him to intercept loans, because this pretense was very pitiful. On that day, I managed to get five shiny silver dollars in advance from our grouchy accountant for a story that was very reluctantly accepted for Sunday's issue.

“Well, Tripp,” I said, looking at him not too kindly, “how are you?”

He looked even more unhappy, exhausted, bruised and obsequious than usual. When a person reaches such a stage of humiliation, he causes such pity that you want to hit him.

— Do you have a dollar? Tripp asked, his doggy eyes gleaming ingratiatingly in the narrow gap between his high-growing, matted beard and low-growing, matted hair.

- Eat! - I said. “Yes, there are,” I repeated even louder and sharper, “and not one, but five. And I can assure you it took a lot of work to get them out of old Atkinson. But I pulled them out,” I continued, “because I needed—really needed—needed—just five dollars.

The anticipation of the imminent loss of one of these dollars made me speak impressively.

“I'm not asking for a loan,” Tripp said. I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought you'd need a theme for good story he continued, “I have an excellent subject for you. You could overclock it by at least a whole column. It turns out lovely story, if you play it right. The material would cost you about a dollar or two. I don't want anything for myself.

I began to soften. Tripp's offer proved that he appreciated past loans, although he did not pay them back. If he had guessed at that moment to ask me for twenty-five cents, he would have received them immediately.

- What's the story? I asked and turned the pencil in my hand with the air of a real editor.

“Listen,” Tripp said. “Imagine it: a girl. Gorgeous. A rare beauty. A rosebud, a dewy violet on damp moss, and so on. She had lived twenty years on Long Island and had never been to New York. I ran into her on Thirty-fourth Street. She had just taken the ferry across the East River. She stopped me in the street and asked how she could find George Brown. She asked how to find George Brown in New York. What do you say to that?

I got to talking with her and learned that next week she was getting married to the young farmer Dodd. But, apparently, George Brown still retained the first place in her girlish heart. A few years ago, this George polished his boots and went to New York to seek his fortune. He forgot to come back, and Dodd took his place. But when it came to the denouement, Ada—her name was Ada Lowry—saddled up her horse, galloped eight miles to railway station, got on the first morning train and went to New York to look for George. Here they are, women! George is gone, so take out and put George in her.

You understand, I couldn't leave her alone in this City-on-Hudson. She probably expected that the first person she met should answer her: “George Brown? Dada-yes ... wait a minute ... such a stocky guy with blue eyes? You'll find him on 125th Street, next to the grocery store. He's the cashier at the store." That's how charmingly naive she is! You know the coastal villages of Long Island - that's where she came from. And you should definitely see it! There was nothing I could do to help her. I don't have money in the morning. And she had almost all her pocket money gone on a train ticket. With the remaining quarter dollar, she bought candies and ate them straight from the bag. I had to take her to the furnished rooms on Thirty-second Street, where I myself once lived, and pawn her there for a dollar. Old McGinnis takes a dollar a day. I will take you there.

— What are you weaving, Tripp? - I said. “You said you had a topic for a story. And every ferry that crosses the East River brings hundreds of girls in and out of Long Island...

The early lines in Tripp's face cut even deeper. He looked at me seriously from under his tangled hair, unclenched his hands and, emphasizing every word with a movement of a trembling index finger, said:

"Don't you see what a marvelous story this can be made of?" You will do great. Describe the girl more romantically, pile up all sorts of things about true love, you can tease a little about the innocence of the inhabitants of Long Island - well, you know better than me how it's done. You will receive no less than fifteen dollars. And the story will cost you about four. You'll be left with a clean eleven dollars!

"Why would he cost me four dollars?" I asked suspiciously.

“One dollar for Mrs. McGinnis,” Tripp answered without hesitation, “and two for the girl, for a return ticket.

What about the fourth dimension? I inquired, doing some quick mental arithmetic.

“One dollar for me,” Tripp said. - Whiskey. Well, is it coming?

I smiled enigmatically and rested my elbows comfortably on the table, pretending to return to my interrupted work. But to shake off this familiar, obsequious, stubborn, unfortunate burdock in human form it wasn't that easy. His forehead was suddenly covered with shiny beads of sweat.

“Don’t you understand,” he said with a kind of desperate determination, “that the girl must be sent home this afternoon—not tonight, not tomorrow, but this afternoon!” I can't do anything myself!

Then I began to feel a heavy, like lead, oppressive feeling, called a sense of duty. Why does this feeling fall on us like a burden, like a burden? I realized that on this day I was destined to lose most of my hard-earned money in order to help out Ada Lowry. But I swore to myself that Tripp would never see a dollar on whisky. Let him play the role of a knight-errant at my expense, but he will not be able to organize a drinking party in honor of my gullibility and weakness. With a kind of cold fury, I put on my coat and hat.

Submissive, humiliated, Tripp, trying in vain to please me, took me on a tram to the hotel where he put Ada. I paid for the fare, of course. It seemed that Don Quixote, smelling of collodion, and the smallest coin had never had anything in common with each other.

Tripp yanked the bell at the entrance of the gloomy brick house. The faint tinkle of the bell made him turn pale and shrink like a hare hearing dogs. I understood how he lived, if the approaching footsteps of the landlady terrified him.

- Give me one dollar, hurry! he whispered.

The door opened about six inches. In the door stood Mrs. McGinnis, the innkeeper's aunt, white-eyed—yes, yes, she had white eyes—and yellow-faced, holding a greasy pink flannel hood to her throat with one hand. Tripp silently handed her a dollar and they let us in.

“She's in the living room,” McGinnis said, turning the back of her hood towards us.

In the gloomy living room, a girl sat at a cracked round marble table and, weeping sweetly, gnawed at candy. She was irresistibly beautiful. Tears only increased the sparkle in her eyes. When she chewed on a lollipop, one could envy the insensitive candy. Eva at the age of five minutes - that's what Lowry could compare with at the age of nineteen or twenty years. Tripp introduced me, the lollipops were momentarily forgotten, and she looked at me with naïve interest.

Tripp stood at the table and rested his fingers on it like a lawyer. But that's where the similarities ended. His shabby jacket was buttoned up to the collar to hide his lack of underwear and tie. The restless eyes, sparkling in the gap between the hair and the beard, were reminiscent of a Scottish terrier. An unworthy shame stung me at the thought that I had been introduced to the inconsolable beauty as his friend. But Tripp, apparently, was determined to carry on the ceremony according to his plan. It seemed to me that in his posture, in all his actions, there was a desire to present everything that was happening to me as material for a newspaper story in the hope of still extracting a dollar for whiskey from me.

“My friend (I shuddered) Mr. Chalmers,” Tripp began, “will tell you the same thing I have already told you, Miss Lowry. Mr. Chalmers is a reporter and can explain everything to you much better than I can. That's why I brought him. He knows everything very well and can advise you on the best thing to do.

I did not feel much confidence in my position, besides, the chair on which I sat was loose and creaking.

"Uh... uh... Miss Lowry," I began, inwardly furious at Tripp's introduction. “I’m all at your service, but… er… I don’t know all the circumstances of the case, and I… um…

- ABOUT! said Miss Lowry with a flashing smile. - It's not so bad, there are no circumstances. I arrived in New York today for the first time, apart from the fact that I was here five years old. I never thought it was like this Big city And I met Mr.--Mr. Snipp on the street and asked him about one of my acquaintances, and he brought me here and asked me to wait.

“I think, Miss Lowry,” said Tripp, “you'd better tell Mr. Chalmers everything. He is my friend (I have become accustomed to this nickname) and will give you the right advice.

“Well, of course,” Ada said to me, chewing on a lollipop, but there is nothing more to tell, except that I am getting married to Hiram Dodd on Thursday.

It's already decided. He has two hundred acres of land right on the beach and one of the most profitable gardens on Long Island. But this morning I had my horse saddled—I have a white horse, her name is Dancer—and I rode to the station at Home, I said I would stay all day with Susie Adams; I made it up, of course, but it doesn't matter. And so I came by train to New York and met Mr. ... Mr. Flipp on the street and asked him how I could find J ... J ...

“Now, Miss Lowry,” said Tripp, loudly and, it seemed to me, rudely, as soon as she faltered, “tell me if you like this young farmer, this Hiram Dodd. Is he a good person, does he treat you well?

“Of course I like him,” said Miss Lowry eagerly, “he is very good man And of course he treats me well. Is everyone treating me well?

I was absolutely sure of it. All men will always treat Miss Ada Lowry well. They will climb out of their skin, compete, compete and fight for happiness to hold an umbrella over her head, carry her suitcase, lift her handkerchiefs or treat her to soda water.

“But last night,” Miss Lowry went on, “I was thinking about J—oh—George and—and I—”

The golden head rested on the arms crossed on the table. What a wonderful spring shower! She sobbed uncontrollably. I really wanted to comfort her. But I'm not George. I was glad I wasn't Dodd... but I also regretted it.

Soon the rain stopped. She lifted her head, cheerful and slightly smiling. ABOUT! She will undoubtedly make a charming wife - tears only enhance the brilliance and tenderness of her eyes. She put a lollipop in her mouth and began to talk further.

“I understand that I am a terrible redneck!” she said between sighs and sobs. “But what am I to do? George and I...we've loved each other since he was eight years old and I was five. When he was nineteen—that was four years ago—he went to New York. He said he was going to be a policeman, or the president of a railroad company, or something like that, and then he would come for me. But he seemed to have sunk into the water ... And I ... I loved him very much.

A new flood of tears seemed inevitable, but Tripp rushed to the locks and locked them in time. I perfectly understood his villainous game. In the name of his vile, selfish goals, he tried at all costs to create a newspaper story.

"Go on, Mr. Chalmers," he said. Tell the lady what to do. That's what I told her - you're a master at such things. Go ahead!

I coughed and tried to stifle my annoyance at Tripp. I realized what my duty is. I was cunningly lured into a trap, and now I sat firmly in it. In fact, what Tripp wanted was quite right. The girl needs to be returned today. It must be persuaded, reassured, taught, ticketed, and dispatched without delay. I hated Dodd Hiram and despised George, but duty is duty. My job is to be an oracle and pay the fare in addition. And so, I spoke as convincingly as I could.

“Miss Lowry, life is complicated enough. As I uttered these words, I involuntarily caught something very familiar in them, but I hoped that Miss Lowry had not heard this fashionable song. We rarely marry the object of our first love. Our early hobbies, illuminated by the magical brilliance of youth, are too airy to be realized. — Last words sounded trite and vulgar, but I continued anyway. - These are our cherished dreams, albeit vague and unrealizable, cast a wonderful reflection on our entire subsequent life. But life is not only dreams and dreams, it is reality. You can't live with memories alone. And now I want to ask you, Miss Lowry, do you think you could construct a happy ... that is, a consonant, harmonious life with Mr. ... Mr. Dodd, if in all other respects, except for romantic memories, he is a man, so to speak, suitable?

“Oh, Hiram is very nice,” said Miss Lowry. Of course, we would get along very well. He promised me a car and a motorboat. But for some reason, now that it's time for the wedding, I can't help it... I keep thinking about George. Something must have happened to him, otherwise he would have written to me. On the day he left, we took a hammer and chisel and broke a dime in half. I took one half, and he took the other, and we promised to be faithful friend friend and keep them until we meet again. I keep my soul mate in a ring box in the top drawer of my chest of drawers. It was foolish, of course, to come here looking for him. I never thought it was such a big city.

Here Tripp interrupted her with his staccato, raspy laugh. He was still trying to concoct some drama or story to scrape off the coveted dollar.

“Those country boys forget a lot once they get to town and learn a thing or two here. Most likely your George went crazy or got hooked by another girl, or maybe drunkenness or racing ruined him. Listen to Mr. Chalmers, go home and everything will be fine.

The hand of the clock was approaching noon; it was time to act. Glancing fiercely at Tripp, I gently and intelligently began to urge Miss Lowry to return home at once. I convinced her that it was not at all necessary for her future happiness to tell her fiancé about the wonders of New York, and in general about the trip to the huge city that had swallowed up the hapless George.

She said she left her horse tied to a tree at the train station. Tripp and I advised her, as soon as she got back to the station, to ride home as quickly as possible. At home, she should tell in detail how interestingly she spent the day with Susie Adams. You can talk to Susie - I'm sure of it - and everything will be fine.

And then, not being invulnerable to the poisonous arrows of beauty, I myself began to get involved in this adventure. The three of us hurried to the ferry; there I learned that a return ticket to Greenburgh cost only one dollar and eighty cents. I bought a ticket, and for twenty cents a bright red rose for Miss Lowry. We put her on the ferry, and I watched her wave her handkerchief at us until the white patch disappeared into the distance. And then Tripp and I descended from the clouds to dry, barren land, shadowed by the bleak shadow of unsightly reality.

The spell of beauty and romance has dissipated. I looked at Tripp with distaste: he seemed to me even more exhausted, bruised, downcast than usual. I felt in my pocket for the remaining two silver dollars and narrowed my eyes contemptuously. Tripp tried to defend weakly.

"Can't you make a story out of this?" he asked hoarsely. - At least no matter what, after all, you can add something from yourself?

- Not a single line! I snapped. “I can imagine how our editor would look at me if I tried to sell him such nonsense. But we rescued the girl, we will be consoled at least by this.

“I'm sorry,” Tripp said in a barely audible voice, “I'm really sorry you spent so much money. It seemed to me that this is just a find, what can be done from this wonderful story, you see, a story that would have been a wild success.

"Let's forget about it," I said, making a commendable effort to appear nonchalant, "let's get on the tram and go to the editorial office."

I prepared to rebuff his unspoken but clearly felt desire. No! He will not succeed in snatching, begging, squeezing this dollar out of me. I've been fooling around enough!

With trembling fingers, Tripp unbuttoned his faded, shiny jacket and pulled out what had once been a handkerchief from a deep, cavernous pocket. On his waistcoat he wore a cheap chain of applied silver, and a key chain dangled from the chain. I reached out my hand and touched it curiously. It was half a silver dime cut with a chisel.

- What?! I asked, looking directly at Tripp.

“Yes, yes,” he answered dully, “George Brown, alias Tripp. What's the point?

I wonder who, besides the sorority for temperance, would condemn me for taking a dollar out of my pocket at once and handing it to Tripp without hesitation.

About ten years ago, in St. Petersburg, I met an American. The conversation did not go well, the guests were about to leave, but by chance I mentioned the name of O. Henry. The American smiled, invited me to his place, and introducing me to his friends, he said to each of them:

“Here is a man who loves O. Henry.

And they began to smile at me in a friendly way. This name was a talisman. One Russian lady asked the owner: “Who is this O. Henry? Your relative? Everyone laughed, but, in fact, the lady was right: O. Henry, indeed, is a relative for every American. Other writers are loved differently, cooler, and they have a homely attitude towards this. Calling his name, smile. His biographer, Professor Alfonso Smith, says that O. Henry attracted conservatives, extreme radicals, maids, society ladies, scribes, and business people. There is no doubt that in a few years he will be one of the most beloved writers in Russia as well.

O. Henry's real name was William Sidney Porter. Even his admirers did not know this for a long time. He was secretive and did not like popularity. Someone wrote him a letter: "Please answer, are you a man or a woman." But the letter remained unanswered. In vain did the publishers of newspapers and magazines ask O. Henry for permission to print his portrait. He flatly refused everyone, saying: "Why did I invent a pseudonym for myself, if not in order to hide." He never told his biography to anyone, not even to his closest friends. Reporters did not have access to him and were forced to invent fables about him.

He never visited either secular or literary salons and preferred to wander from tavern to tavern, talking to the first people he met, who did not know that he was a famous writer. In order to preserve his incognito, he mastered the vernacular and, if he wished, gave the impression of being illiterate. Liked to drink. He felt best in the company of workers: with them he sang, and drank, and danced, and whistled, so that they mistook him for a factory worker and asked what factory he worked at. He became a writer late, he learned fame only in the forty-fifth year of his life. His kindness was extraordinary: he gave away everything he had, and no matter how much he earned, he was constantly in need. In his attitude to money, he was similar to our Gleb Uspensky: he could neither save money nor count. Once in New York, he was standing on the street and talking with his acquaintance. A beggar approached him. He took a coin out of his pocket and angrily thrust it into the beggar's hand: "Go away, don't interfere, here's a dollar for you." The beggar left, but a minute later he returned: "Mister, you have been so kind to me, I don't want to deceive you, it's not a dollar, it's twenty dollars, take it back, you made a mistake." Father Henry pretended to be angry: “Go, go, I told you not to pester me!”

In a restaurant, he gave a footman a tip twice as much as the cost of dinner. His wife lamented: as soon as any beggar came to him and lied about his misfortunes, and O. Henry gave everything to the last cent, gave trousers, a jacket, and then escorted to the door, begging: "Come again." And they came again.

Supernaturally observant, he allowed himself to be childishly naive when it came to the needy.
He was a taciturn man, kept aloof from people, and seemed stern to many. In appearance, he looked like an average-handed actor: full, clean-shaven, short in stature, narrow eyes, calm movements.

He was born in the south, in the sleepy town of Greensboro, North Carolina, on September 11, 1862. His father was a doctor - absent-minded, kind, small, funny man, with a long gray beard. The doctor was fond of inventing all sorts of machines from which nothing came out; he was always fiddling in the barn with some ridiculous projectile that promised him Edison's glory.

Willie Porter's mother, an educated, cheerful woman, died of consumption three years after her son was born. The boy studied with his aunt, the aunt was an old maid who beat her students, who, it seems, were worth a rod. Willie Porter was as much of a tomboy as the others. His favorite pastime was to play redskins. To do this, he pulled out feathers from the tail of live turkeys, decorated his head with these feathers, and rushed after the bison with a wild squeal. The role of bison was performed by neighboring pigs. The boy with a crowd of comrades pursued the unfortunate animals, shot at them with a homemade bow. Khavronyas squealed as if they were being cut, the arrows pierced deep into their bodies, and it was woe to the boys if the owners of the pigs found out about this hunt.

Willie Porter's other pastime was to break those shells that his father invented. The old man was positively obsessed with these shells: he invented the perpetuum mobile, and the steam car, and the airplane, and the machine for mechanical washing clothes - he abandoned the practice and almost never left the barn.

One day, Willy ran away with a friend from home to join a whaling ship (he was then ten years old), but he did not have enough money, and he had to return home as a hare - almost on the roof of the car.

Willy had an uncle, a pharmacist, the owner of a drug store. At the age of fifteen, Willy entered his service and soon learned how to make powders and pills. But most importantly, he learned to draw. Every free minute he drew caricatures of his uncle and his customers. The cartoons were evil and good. Everyone prophesied Willy the glory of the artist. The drug store in the outback is not so much a shop as it is a club. Everyone comes there with their illnesses, questions, complaints. best school for the future novelist it is impossible to think of.

Willie read voraciously - "The Red-Eyed Pirate", "The Forest Devil", "The Storm of Jamaica", "Jack the Ripper" - read and coughed, because from the age of eighteen he began to threaten consumption. Therefore, he was very glad when one of the regulars of his uncle's club, Dr. Hall, suggested that he go to Texas for a while to improve his health. Dr. Hall had three sons in Texas - giants, well done, strong men. One of the sons was a judge - the famous Lee Hall, who was afraid of the whole district; armed from head to toe, he prowled the roads day and night, hunting down horse thieves and robbers, with whom Texas was then teeming. In March 1882, Willie Porter came to him and became a cowboy on his farm. He was half servant, half guest; worked as a servant, but was on friendly terms with the owners. Jokingly, he learned to manage the herd, throw a lasso, shear and bathe sheep, follow horses, shoot without leaving the saddle. He learned to cook dinner and often cooked, replacing the cook. The wild life of Texas was studied by him to the smallest detail, and later he used this knowledge perfectly in the book "Heart of the West". He learned to speak Spanish, not only in the corrupted Spanish slang spoken in Texas, but in genuine Castilian.

Then he began to pee, but mercilessly destroyed his manuscripts. What he wrote is unknown. Of all the books, he read with the greatest interest at that time not novels and short stories, but sensible English dictionary, in the style of our Dahl - the best reading for a young writer.

He stayed on the farm for two years. From there he went to Austin, the capital of Texas, and lived there for eleven years. What professions he tried during these eleven years! He was a clerk in a tobacco warehouse, and an accountant in a house selling office, was a singer in all kinds of churches, and a bank teller, and a draftsman for a surveyor, and an actor in a small theater - nowhere did he show special talents, nor a special predilection for business , but, without noticing it, accumulated huge material for future literary work. At that time, he seemed to deliberately avoid literature, preferring small, inconspicuous posts to it. He had no ambition and always liked to remain in the shadows.

In 1887 he married a young girl whom he secretly took away from his parents, and soon began to write for newspapers and magazines. But his writings were small - ordinary newspaper rubbish. In 1894, he became editor of the local humorous newspaper Rolling Stone, for which he supplied drawings, articles, and poems that were decidedly unremarkable. The newspaper soon withered away.

In 1895, he moved to another town - Gauston, where he edited the Daily Mail, and everything was going well, he got out on the literary road - suddenly a thunderstorm broke over him.

A subpoena came from Austin. William Porter was subpoenaed on charges of embezzlement. The judicial investigation found that when he was a cashier at the First National Bank, he different time embezzled more than a thousand dollars.

Everyone who knew him considered this accusation a miscarriage of justice. They were sure that, having appeared before the court, he would prove his innocence in half an hour. Great was the astonishment of all when it turned out that the accused had fled. Before reaching the city of Austin, he transferred to another train and rushed south at night to New Orleans, leaving his daughter and wife in Austin.

Why he ran away, we do not know. His biographer claims that he was innocent and ran away because he wanted to save his wife's good name. If so, then he - on the contrary - should have stayed and proved his innocence in court. The wife would not have had to endure so much shame and grief. Obviously, he had reason to fear the trial. The biographer says that the bank administration was to blame for everything: the accounts were kept negligently, the bosses themselves took either two hundred or three hundred dollars from the cash register, without entering it into the account books. There was a monstrous chaos in the books; the teller, who had worked at the bank before Porter, was so confused that he wanted to shoot himself. No wonder Porter got confused. Who knows: maybe, taking advantage of the availability of money, he himself borrowed a hundred or two dollars from the cash register two or three times, with the sincere confidence that he would put these dollars back in the coming days. The biographer assures that he was absolutely innocent, but why did he run then?

From New Orleans, he made his way on a cargo steamer to Honduras and, having stepped out onto the pier, he felt safe. Soon he saw that another steamer was approaching the pier and some very strange man in a tattered tailcoat and a rumpled top hat was running out from there like an arrow. Ballroom clothes, unsuitable for a ship. It was evident that the man got on the steamer in a hurry, without having time to change clothes, straight from the theater or from the ball.

What made you leave so hastily? the runaway cashier asked him.

“The same as you,” he replied.

It turned out that the gentleman in the tailcoat was Al. Jannings, notorious criminal, head of a gang of train thieves who terrorized the entire southwest with their audacious thefts. The police tracked him down, he was forced to flee Texas so quickly that he did not even manage to change his clothes. With him was his brother, also a thief, also in a top hat and evening dress. William Porter joined the fugitives, and the three of them began to circle South America. That's when he needed knowledge Spanish. Their money ran out, they fell from their feet from hunger. Jannings offered to rob a German bank, sure enough, the booty was even.
— Would you like to work with us? he asked William Porter.

“No, not really,” he replied sadly and politely.

These forced wanderings in South America were useful to Porter later. If he had not fled from the court, we would not have had the novel "Kings and Cabbage", which affected close acquaintance with the banana republics of Latin America.

At this time, his wife was sitting in the city of Austin, without money, with a little daughter, sick. He called her to visit him in the Republic of Honduras, but she was very sick and could not embark on such a journey. She embroidered some kind of handkerchief, sold it and, having bought a bottle of perfume for her fugitive husband with the first money she got, sent him into exile. He had no idea that she was seriously ill. But when he was informed of this, he decided to put himself in the hands of the judicial authorities, go to prison, just to see his wife. And so he did. In February 1898 he returned to Austin. He was tried, found guilty - and at the trial he was silent, did not say a word in his defense - and sentenced to five years in prison. Being on the run only added to the guilt. He was taken into custody and sent to the state of Ohio, to the city of Colombos, to a penitentiary. Orders in this prison were terrible. In one of his letters, William Porter wrote:
"I never thought that human life such a cheap thing. People are looked upon as animals without a soul and without feelings. The working day here is thirteen hours, and whoever does not complete the lesson is beaten. Only a strong man can endure the work, for the majority it is certain death. If a person has fallen down and cannot work, they take him to the cellar and send such a strong stream of water into it that he loses consciousness. Then the doctor brings him to his senses, and the unfortunate man is suspended by the hands from the ceiling, he hangs on this rack for two hours. His feet barely touch the ground. After that, he is again driven to work and if he falls, he is put on a stretcher and carried to the infirmary, where he is free to either die or recover. Consumption is a common thing here, just like you have a runny nose. Twice a day, patients come to the hospital - from two hundred to three hundred people. They line up and walk past the doctor without stopping. He prescribes medicine - on the go, on the run - one after the other, and the same line moves forward to the prison pharmacy. There, in the same manner, without stopping - on the go, on the run - patients receive medicine.

I tried to come to terms with prison, but no, I can't. What binds me to this life? I am able to endure any kind of suffering in the wild, but I no longer want to drag out this life. The sooner I finish it, the better it will be for me and for everyone.

It was, it seems, the only case when this strong and secretive person expressed his feelings aloud, complained about his pain.

When asked in prison what he did outside, he replied that he was a reporter. The prison did not need reporters. But then he caught himself and added that he was also a pharmacist. It saved him; he was placed at the hospital, and soon he showed such talents that both doctors and patients began to treat him with respect. He worked all night long, preparing medicines, visiting the sick, helping prison doctors, and this gave him the opportunity to get to know almost all the prisoners and collect a huge amount of material for his future books. Many criminals told him their biography.
In general, life seemed to take special care to turn him into a novelist. If he had not been in prison, he would not have written to one of his best books The Gentle Grafter's Tales.

But he did not get his knowledge of life cheaply. In prison, he was especially tormented not by his own, but by other people's torments. With disgust, he describes the cruel regime of the American prison:

“Suicides are as commonplace with us as picnics are with you. Almost every night the doctor and I are called to some cell where one or another prisoner has tried to commit suicide. This one slit his throat, this one hung himself, that one got gassed. They think well of such undertakings, and therefore they hardly fail. Yesterday, an athlete, a boxing specialist, suddenly went crazy; of course, they sent for us, for the doctor and for me. The athlete was so well trained that it took eight people to tie him up.”

These horrors, which he observed from day to day, painfully worried him. But he braced himself, did not complain, and sometimes managed to send cheerful and frivolous letters from prison. These letters were intended for his little daughter, who should not have known that her father was in prison. Therefore, he took all measures so that his letters to her were not of a gloomy nature:

"Hello, Margaret! he wrote. - Do you remember me? I am Murzilka and my name is Aldibirontifostifornikofokos. If you see a star in the sky and before it sets, you have time to repeat my name seventeen times, you will find a diamond ring in the first footprint of a blue cow. A cow will walk in the snow - after a blizzard - and crimson roses will bloom all around on tomato bushes. Well, goodbye, it's time for me to leave. I ride a grasshopper."

But no matter how he tried to seem carefree, these letters often slipped melancholy and anxiety.

In prison, he unexpectedly met with his old acquaintance, the railroad robber Al. Jannings. Here they became even closer, and Jannings, under the influence of Porter, became a different person. He abandoned his profession and also went down the literary road. Recently, he published his prison memoirs about O. Henry, a whole book, where he described in a very penetrating manner what moral torments O. Henry experienced in prison. About prison orders Al. Jannings remembers with rage. All criticism unanimously admitted that this thief is an excellent writer, that his book is not only a curious human document, but also an excellent work of art. By the way, Al. Jannings says that in prison there was a wonderful cracker of fireproof cash registers, an artist in his field, who so brilliantly opened any locked iron cash register that he seemed to be a miracle worker, a magician, unearthly creature. This great artist languished in prison - melted like a candle, longing for his beloved work. And suddenly they came to him and said that somewhere in some bank there is a cash desk that even the judicial authorities are not able to open. It needs to be opened, there are no keys, and the prosecutor decided to call a brilliant prisoner from prison to assist the judicial authorities. And he was promised freedom if he opened this cash desk. One can imagine how enthusiastically and passionately a talented burglar attacked the cash register, with what rapture he crushed its iron walls, but as soon as he opened it, the ungrateful authorities forgot their promise and drove him back to prison. The unfortunate man could not endure this mockery, finally collapsed and withered away.

Porter subsequently portrayed this episode in his famous short story "A Retrieved Reformation", but famously changed the ending. Prison authorities in the story are kinder than they were in reality.

He was released early for good behavior in prison. Good behavior mainly consisted in the fact that, as a prison pharmacist, he did not steal official alcohol, a virtue unprecedented in the annals of prison pharmacies.

After leaving prison, he took up writing seriously for the first time in his life. Already in prison, he sketched something, and now he took up the work closely. First of all, he assigned himself the pseudonym O. Henry (the name of the French pharmacist Henri), under which he tightly hid from everyone. He avoided meeting with his former acquaintances, no one had any idea that a former convict was hiding under the pseudonym O. Henry. In the spring of 1902, he first arrived in New York. He was in his forty-first year. Until now, he had lived only in the provinces in the south, in sleepy and naive towns, and the capital fascinated him. Day and night he wandered the streets, insatiably absorbing the life of the great city. He fell in love with New York, became a poet of New York, studied every corner of it. And millionaires, and artists, and shopkeepers, and workers, and policemen, and courtesans - he recognized everyone, studied them, and brought them to his pages. His literary output was colossal. In a year he wrote about fifty stories - laconic, clear, to the limit saturated with images. His stories appeared week after week in the World newspaper - and were met with great enthusiasm. There has never been a writer in America who has perfected the technique of the short story to such perfection. Each story by O. Henry is 300-400 lines, and each contains a huge, complex story, a lot of superbly outlined faces and almost always an original, intricate, intricate plot. Critics began to call him "American Kipling", "American Maupassant", "American Gogol", "American Chekhov". His fame grew with each story. In 1904, he collected his stories depicting South America in one volume, hastily tied them together with a funny plot - and printed them under the guise of the novel "Kings and Cabbage". This was his first book. It has a lot of vaudeville, deliberately rigged - but it also has the southern mountains, and the southern sun, and the southern sea, and the genuine carelessness of the dancing, singing south. The book was a success. In 1906, O. Henry's second book, Four Millions, appeared, all dedicated to his New York. The book opens with a remarkable preface, which is now famous. The fact is that in New York there is its own aristocracy - money - living a very closed life. It is almost impossible for a mere mortal to penetrate her circle. It is small, no more than four hundred people, and all the newspapers grovel before it. O. Henry did not like this, and he wrote:

“Recently, someone took it into his head to claim that there are only four hundred people worthy of attention in the city of New York. But then another, smarter one appeared - the compiler of the census - and proved that there were not four hundred such people, but much more: four million. It seems to us that he is right, and therefore we prefer to call our stories "Four Million".

There were then four million inhabitants in New York, and all these four million seemed to O. Henry equally worthy of attention. He is the poet of four million; that is, the entire American democracy. After this book, O. Henry became famous throughout America. In 1907 he printed two books of short stories, The Seasoned Lamp and The Heart of the West; in 1908, also two - "Voice of the City" and "Delicate Rogue"; in 1909, again two - "Roads of Doom" and "Privileges", in 1910 again two - "Only on business" and "Whirlpools". Scripture short stories did not satisfy him, he planned big romance. He said: "Everything that I have written so far is just pampering, a test of the pen, compared to what I will write in a year." But a year later he did not have a chance to write anything: he overworked, began to suffer from insomnia, went south, did not recover, and returned to New York completely broken. He was taken to the Polyclinic on Thirty-fourth Street. He knew that he was going to die, and he spoke about it with a smile. In the clinic, he joked, lay in full consciousness - clear and joyful. On Sunday morning, he said: "Light the fire, I do not intend to die in the dark," and he died a minute later - June 5, 1910.
A characterization of O. Henry as a writer will be given in the next issues of The Modern West, when the Russian reader becomes more familiar with his works.

K. Chukovsky

1 O. Henry Biography, by Alphonso Smith, Roe Professor of English at the University of Virginia Garden City, N.-Y., and Toronto.

William Sidney Porter (pseudonym O. Henry) is an unsurpassed master of short stories! Combining real life stories with fiction, the novels of this author arouse interest and keep in suspense until the very end of the story.

O. Henry skillfully plays with surprise. This is his peculiar style, chip. The writer has created many entertaining stories, which at the same time are distinguished by the depth of inner meaning. The writer appears in his wonderful works as a true humanist and realist.

short biography

William Sidney Porter was born in 1862 in a place near the city of Greensboro. His father was a failed pharmacist who abused alcohol, and his mother creative personality. She drew well and wrote poetry, but died early.

The boy was raised by his aunt Evelyn. From a young age, William was fond of reading . He was especially attracted to the books of W. Shakespeare, O. Balzac and Flaubert. From the age of sixteen, the young man began to learn from his uncle the craft of a pharmacist.

Working in a pharmacy, William had the opportunity to observe visitors, listen to them everyday stories. He sympathized with their suffering and dreamed of a world where only happy people would live. At the age of nineteen, Porter received a document confirming his profession as a pharmacist officially.

A year later, William fell ill with tuberculosis. In order to recover, he changed the situation, moving to the American Southwest. Since that time, he had to change many professions. Work as a cashier in a bank led to serious consequences that affected his future life.

Porter was accused of embezzlement large sum . It is still unknown whether the writer was guilty of the charges, but the fact remains. William had to flee from justice in Honduras, but he later returned to his homeland due to his wife's illness.

She was dying of tuberculosis. After the funeral, he appeared before the court, having come to the police voluntarily. He was sentenced to five years. In prison, his pharmaceutical knowledge came in handy. William was assigned to work in the prison pharmacy. On duty at night, Porter had the opportunity to actively write . Most famous works O.Henry:

• "The leader of the Redskins".
• and much more.

The first published story, he dedicated to his daughter. He began to write under the pseudonym O. Henry . After his release from prison, he devoted himself entirely to literary creativity. At the beginning of his career, O. Henry experienced financial difficulties. The time of fame and success came a little later, from 1903.

The writer died at the age of 47, all alone. In the last days of his life, he suffered from severe depression. O. Henry was buried on June 5, 1910. After himself, he left a huge literary legacy, including about 300 short stories. The Complete Works consists of 18 volumes!

O.Henry(Eng. O. Henry, real name William Sydney Porter, eng. William Sydney Porter) is a recognized master of the American short story. His short stories are characterized by subtle humor and unexpected endings.

William Sidney Porter Born September 11, 1862 in Greensboro, North Carolina. At the age of three, he lost his mother, who died of tuberculosis. Later he came under the care of his paternal aunt. After school, he studied to be a pharmacist, worked in a pharmacy with his uncle. Three years later he went to Texas, tried different professions- worked on a ranch, served in the land administration. Then he worked as a cashier and accountant in a bank in the Texas city of Austin.

The first literary experiments date back to the early 1880s. In 1894, Porter began publishing the humorous weekly Rolling Stone in Austin, filling it almost entirely with his own essays, jokes, poems, and drawings. A year later, the magazine closed, at the same time Porter was fired from the bank and sued in connection with the shortage, although it was reimbursed by his family.

After being accused of embezzlement, he hid from law enforcement officers in Honduras for six months, then in South America. Upon his return to the United States, he was convicted and sent to the Columbus prison in Ohio, where he spent three years (1898-1901).

In prison, Porter worked in the infirmary and wrote stories, looking for a pseudonym for himself. In the end, he settled on the O. Henry variant (often spelled incorrectly like the Irish surname O'Henry - O'Henry). Its origin is not entirely clear. The writer himself claimed in an interview that the name Henry was taken from the secular news column in the newspaper, and the initial O. was chosen as the simplest letter. He told one of the newspapers that O. stands for Olivier (the French name for Olivier), and indeed, he published several stories there under the name Olivier Henry. According to others, this is the name of the famous French pharmacist Etienne Ocean Henry, whose medical reference book was popular at that time. Another hypothesis was put forward by the writer and scientist Guy Davenport: “Oh. Henry" is nothing more than an abbreviation of the name of the prison where the author was imprisoned - Ohio Penitentiary. His first story under this pseudonym - "Dick the Whistler's Christmas Present", published in 1899 in McClure's Magazine - he wrote in prison.

O. Henry's only novel, Cabbages and Kings, was published in 1904. It was followed by collections of short stories: The four million (The four million, 1906), The burning lamp (The trimmed Lamp, 1907), Heart of the West (Heart of the West, 1907), The Voice of the City (The Voice of the City, 1908), The Gentle Grafter (1908), Roads of Destiny (1909), Selected (Options, 1909), Strictly Business (1910) and Rotation (Whirligigs, 1910).

At the end of his life, O. Henry suffered from cirrhosis of the liver and diabetes. The writer died on June 5, 1910 in New York.

The collection "Postscripts" (Postscripts), published after the death of O. Henry, included feuilletons, sketches and humorous notes written by him for the newspaper "Post" (Houston, Texas, 1895-1896). In total, O. Henry wrote 273 stories, the complete collection of his works is 18 volumes.