ereby in some
general way. At least it is true that the writer of a story of
complication of incident or of character cannot permit any
consideration of atmosphere to interfere with the events in the first
case or the persons in the other. Whatever totality of emotional effect
may reside in his work will be inherent in the conception, as it would
be inherent in such a spectacle for an observer, if the story should
happen in actuality.

The sensible--because the most profitable--way for the writer of fiction
to fit the matter of atmosphere into his general artistic philosophy is
to disregard it entirely, except where it constitutes a primary
consideration, that is, except in relation to the strict story of
atmosphere. The reason for this cavalier treatment of the matter has
been brought out. If any story is told so as to create the illusion of
reality, some general emotional effect will be produced on its reader,
will be inherent in the conception, as it would be inherent in the
spectacle, if actual. It all comes down to this: by telling his story
justly as a course of events involving real people in a definite
environment, the writer will produce on a reader whatever totality of
emotional effect is inherent in the conception. If there is no totality
of emotional effect inherent therein the writer cannot produce it except
by changing the whole conception and writing a different story. In the
case of the strict story of atmosphere the writer's attitude is
different. He sets out, not with a story, but with an emotional effect,
and devises people and events and setting to produce it.

The point can be made clearer by more specific discussion. Assume that a
writer has conceived a story with a definite plot, involving definite
people, set in a New England village. Anybody who knows New England or
has read Alice Brown or Mary E. Wilkins Freeman can testify that such a
story, justly told, will have a definite and peculiar atmospheric value.
But its atmosphere, its totality of emotional effect on a reader will
be inherent in its setting and people, perhaps even in its events. The
story itself will determine its atmosphere, which can be only the
peculiar impression that a New England village, its people and their
lives, produce on an observer. By choosing to write such a story, or by
choosing to write any definite story, a writer debars himself from
creating any atmosphere not involved in the story selected for writing.
On the