O. Henry: The Story of William Sydney Porter by Jeanette Covert Nolan.

O. Henry, aka William Sydney Porter, led a colorful life, but he was a retiring and secretive man. As his biographer says, “his autobiography, if set down, would probably have been scorned as a travesty on truth by the instructors of proper college writing classes.” Born and raised in North Carolina, he moved to Texas as a young man, married an Austin girl from a wealthy family, fathered a daughter, became a journalist, owned a newspaper for a short while, worked in a bank, was accused of embezzlement, fled the country, returned to be with his dying wife, and was convicted of a felony and imprisoned in Ohio. All this happened while he was still a young man, in his thirties, and before he began to make his reputation as a writer of exquisitely crafted short stories that became both popular with common readers and respected in literary circles.

Ms. Nolan’s biography of O. Henry/Porter, written for young adults, is obviously sympathetic to Porter, portraying him as wrongly convicted of embezzlement and mostly confused and mistaken in his decision to flee justice, deserting his wife and child for a brief time. His wife, Athol, seems unnaturally supportive, saying in her letters only that she believed in his innocence but that they would have to remain apart as long as he was a fugitive since she was too ill to join him in Honduras where he fled. And Nolan glosses over Porter’s alcoholism–he died of cirrhosis of the liver and other ailments—and says only that he drank heavily but was always a perfect gentleman. Porter comes across as a lonely and tragic figure, shrouded in mystery, but likable, jovial, and humorous with all who knew him in his after-prison days.

This approach to telling the story of Porter’s life makes the biography a gentle story, somewhat melancholy, but ultimately hopeful. Nolan describes Porter as a “rather stout and mild-mannered man, timidly smiling, respectably dressed–dark suit, blue tie, yellow gloves in his right hand, and maybe a malacca cane, too; and the buttonhole of his coat the little Cecil Brunner rosebud which he had bought that very morning at the flower-stand one the corner of Madison Square.” The entire book inclines one to think of Porter fondly, much as his short stories portray most of their characters, mistaken at times but “more sinned against.”

However, Ms. Nolan makes a strategic error when she includes in her story references to the Ku Klux Klan, apparently active in Porter’s boyhood hometown of Greensboro, North Carolina. I’m not sure why Ms. Nolan even felt it necessary to mention the Klan, but she does. And when she does, while she has Porter’s father argue that the “Klan is as hateful in theory as in practice,” she also has him say that “the average Negro is still an inarticulate creature, not far removed from the primitive; he doesn’t know what he’s doing or why.” In these first few chapters of the book about William Porter’s boyhood there’s a whole thread of apology for the Klan and for the hatred of Southerners for Reconstruction and the Northern interlopers it bought to the South. And the fear, pity, and contempt of Southerners for their formerly enslaved Black neighbors is quite evident and articulated plainly. It made me wonder: if Nolan could sympathize with the underlying fears and prejudices that gave rise to the Klan, what other dark episodes and secrets would she spin in a positive way? (And Nolan was Indiana born and bred, so it’s not as if she was a Southerner herself.)

At any rate, I still enjoyed reading this biography of William Sydney Porter, and it made me want to pull out some of his short stories and re-read them. Book does lead on to book in a never-ending chain.

Interesting side-note: William Porter made friends in New York City during the latter half of his life, mostly in the publishing world. One of those friends was Gelett Burgess, author of Goops and How To Be Them and its sequels, and also the famous ditty, “I Never Saw a Purple Cow.”

I never saw a Purple Cow,
I never hope to see one;
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one.