THE ESSENTIALS OF THE STORY.
IT would be a truism to suggest that dramatic instinct and dramatic
power of expression are naturally the first essentials for success in
the Art of Story-telling, and that, without these, no story-teller
would go very far; but I maintain that, even with these gifts, no
high standard of performance will be reached without certain other
qualities--among the first of which I place _apparent_ simplicity,
which is really the _art_ of _concealing_ the art.
I am speaking here of the public story-teller, or of the teachers with
a group of children--not the spontaneous (and most rare) power of
telling stories at the fireside by some gifted village grandmother,
such as Béranger gives us in his poem, _Souvenirs du Peuple_:
Mes enfants, dans ce village,
Suivi de rois, il passa;
Voilà bien longtemps de ça;
Je venais d'entrer en ménage.
A pied grimpant le côteau,
Où pour voir je m'étais mise.
Il avait petit chapeau
Avec redingote grise.
Près de lui je me troublai!
Il me dit: Bonjour, ma chère,
Bonjour, ma chère.
Il vous a parlé, grand'mère?
Il vous a parlé?
I am sceptical enough to think that it is not the spontaneity of the
grandmother but the art of Béranger which enhances the effect of the
story told in the poem.
This intimate form of narration, which is delightful in its special
surroundings, would fail to _reach_, much less _hold_, a large
audience, _not_ because of its simplicity but often because of the want
of skill in arranging material and of the artistic sense of selection
which brings the interest to a focus and arranges the sidelights. In
short, the simplicity we need for the ordinary purpose is that which
comes from ease and produces a sense of being able to let ourselves go,
because we have thought out our effects: it is when we translate our
instinct into art that the story becomes finished and complete.
I find it necessary to emphasise this point because people are apt
to confuse simplicity of delivery with carelessness of utterance,
loose stringing of sentences of which the only connections seem to be
the ever-recurring use of “and” and “so,” and “er ...”--this latter
inarticulate sound has done more to ruin a story and distract the
audience than many more glaring errors of dramatic form.
The real simplicity holds the audience because the lack of apparent
effort in the artist has the most comforting effect upon the listener.
It is like turning from the whirring machinery of process to the
finished article, bearing no trace of manufacture except in the harmony
and beauty of the whole, from which we realise that the individual
parts have received all proper attention.
And what really brings about this apparent simplicity which ensures the
success of the story? It has been admirably expressed in a passage from
Henry James's lecture on Balzac:
“The fault in the Artist which amounts most completely to a failure of
dignity is the absence of _saturation with his idea_. When saturation
fails, no other real presence avails, as when, on the other hand, it
operates, no failure of method fatally interferes.”
I now offer two illustrations of the effect of this saturation, one to
show that the failure of method does not prevent successful effect, the
other to show that when it is combined with the necessary secondary
qualities the perfection of art is reached.
In illustration of the first point, I recall an experience in the North
of England when the Head Mistress of an elementary school asked me to
hear a young, inexperienced girl tell a story to a group of very small
children.
When she began, I felt somewhat hopeless, because of the complete
failure of method. She seemed to have all the faults most damaging to
the success of a speaker. Her voice was harsh, her gestures awkward,
her manner was restless and melodramatic; but as she went on, I soon
began to discount all these faults and, in truth, I soon forgot
about them, for so absorbed was she in her story, so saturated with
her subject, that she quickly communicated her own interest to her
audience, and the children were absolutely spellbound.
The other illustration is connected with a memorable peep behind the
stage, when the late M. Coquelin had invited me to see him in the
green-room between the first and second Acts of “L'Abbé Constantin,”
one of the plays given during his last season in London, the year
before his death. The last time I had met M. Coquelin was at a
dinner-party, where I had been dazzled by the brilliant conversation
of this great artist in the rôle of a man of the world. But on this
occasion, I met the simple, kindly priest, so absorbed in his rôle
that he inspired me with the wish to offer a donation for his poor,
and on taking leave to ask for his blessing for myself. Whilst
talking to him, I had felt puzzled: it was only when I had left him
that I realised what had happened--namely, that he was too thoroughly
saturated with his subject to be able to drop his rôle during the
interval, in order to assume the more ordinary one of host and man of
the world.
Now, it is this spirit I would wish to inculcate into the would-be
story-tellers. If they would apply themselves in this manner to their
work, it would bring about a revolution in the art of presentation,
that is, in the art of teaching. The difficulty of the practical
application of this theory is the constant plea, on the part of the
teachers, that there is not the time to work for such a standard in an
art which is so apparently simple that the work expended on it would
never be appreciated.
My answer to this objection is that, though the counsel of perfection
would be to devote a great deal of time to the story, so as to prepare
the atmosphere quite as much as the mere action of the little drama
(just as photographers use time exposure to obtain sky effects, as well
as the more definite objects in the picture), yet it is not so much a
question of time as concentration on the subject which is one of the
chief factors in the preparation of the story.
So many story-tellers are satisfied with cheap results, and most
audiences are not critical enough to encourage a high standard.[11] The
method of “showing the machinery” has more immediate results, and it is
easy to become discouraged over the drudgery which is not necessary to
secure the approbation of the largest number. But, since I am dealing
with the essentials of really good story-telling, I may be pardoned for
suggesting the highest standard and the means for reaching it.
Therefore I maintain that capacity for work, and even drudgery, is
among the essentials of story work. Personally I know of nothing more
interesting than to watch the story grow gradually from mere outline
into a dramatic whole. It is the same pleasure, I imagine, which is
felt over the gradual development of a beautiful design on a loom.
I do not mean machine-made work, which has to be done under adverse
conditions, in a certain time, and is similar to thousands of other
pieces of work; but that work upon which we can bestow unlimited time
and concentrated thought.
The special joy in the slowly-prepared story comes in the exciting
moment when the persons, or even the inanimate objects, become alive
and move as of themselves.
I remember spending two or three discouraging weeks with Andersen's
story of the “Adventures of a Beetle.” I passed through times of
great depression, because all the little creatures--beetles, earwigs,
frogs, etc.--behaved in such a conventional, stilted way (instead of
displaying the strong individuality which Andersen had bestowed upon
them) that I began to despair of presenting a live company at all.
But one day the Beetle, so to speak, “took the stage,” and at once
there was life and animation among the minor characters. Then the main
work was done, and there remained only the comparatively easy task of
guiding the movement of the little drama, suggesting side issues and
polishing the details, always keeping a careful eye on the Beetle,
that he might “gang his ain gait” and preserve to the full his own
individuality.
There is a tendency in preparing stories to begin with detail work
(often a gesture or side issue which one has remembered from hearing
a story told), but if this is done before the contemplative period,
only scrappy, jerky and ineffective results are obtained, on which one
cannot count for dramatic effects. This kind of preparation reminds one
of a young peasant woman who was taken to see a performance of _Wilhelm
Tell_, and when questioned as to the plot, could only sum it up by
saying, “I know some fruit was shot at.”[12]
I realise the extreme difficulty for teachers to devote the necessary
time to the perfecting of the stories they tell in school, because
this is only one of the subjects they have to take in an already
over-crowded curriculum. To them I would offer this practical advice:
_Do not be afraid to repeat your stories_.[13] If you did not undertake
more than seven stories a year (chosen with infinite care), and if you
repeated these stories six times during the year of forty-two weeks,
you would be able to do artistic (and therefore lasting) work; you
would give a very great deal of pleasure to the children, who delight
in hearing a story many times. You would be able to avoid the direct
moral application (to which subject I shall return later on); for
each time a child hears a story artistically told, a little more of
the meaning underlying the simple story will come to him without any
explanation on your part. The habit of doing one's best, instead of
one's second-best, means, in the long run, that one has no interest
except in the preparation of the best, and the stories, few in number,
polished and finished in style, will have an effect of which one can
scarcely over-state the importance.
In the story of the Swineherd,[14] Hans Andersen says:
“On the grave of the Prince's father there grew a rose-tree. It only
bloomed once in five years, and only bore one rose. But what a rose!
Its perfume was so exquisite that whoever smelt it forgot at once all
his cares and sorrows.”
Lafcadio Hearn says: “Time weeds out the errors and stupidities of
cheap success, and presents the Truth. It takes, like the aloe, a
long time to flower, but the blossom is all the more precious when it
appears.”
FOOTNOTES:
[11] A noted Greek gymnast struck his pupil, though he was applauded
by the whole assembly. “You did it clumsily, and not as you ought, for
these people would never have praised you for anything really artistic.”
[12] For further details on the question of preparation of the story,
see chapter on “Questions asked by Teachers.”
[13] Sully says that children love exact repetition because of the
intense enjoyment bound up with the process of imaginative realisation.
[14] See p. 150.