THE ARTIFICES OF STORY-TELLING.
BY this term I do not mean anything against the gospel of simplicity
which I am so constantly preaching, but, for want of a better term,
I use the word “artifice” to express the mechanical devices by which
we endeavour to attract and hold the attention of the audience. The
art of telling stories is, in truth, much more difficult than acting
a part on the stage: first, because the narrator is responsible for
the whole drama and the whole atmosphere which surrounds it. He has to
live the life of each character and understand the relation which each
bears to the whole. Secondly, because the stage is a miniature one,
gestures and movements must all be so adjusted as not to destroy the
sense of proportion. I have often noticed that actors, accustomed to
the more roomy public stage, are apt to be too broad in their gestures
and movements when they tell a story. The special training for the
Story-teller should consist not only in the training of the voice and
in choice of language, but above all in power of _delicate_ suggestion,
which cannot always be used on the stage because this is hampered by
the presence of _actual things_. The Story-teller has to present these
things to the more delicate organism of the “inward eye.”
So deeply convinced am I of the miniature character of the
Story-telling Art that I do not believe you can ever get a perfectly
artistic presentation of this kind in a very large hall or before a
very large audience.
I have made experiments along this line, having twice told a story to
an audience exceeding five thousand, in the States,[15] but on both
occasions, though the dramatic reaction upon oneself from the response
of so large an audience was both gratifying and stimulating, I was
forced to sacrifice the delicacy of the story and to take from its
artistic value by the necessity of emphasis, in order to be heard by
all present.
Emphasis is the bane of all story-telling, for it destroys the
delicacy, and the whole performance suggests a struggle in conveying
the message; the indecision of the victory leaves the audience restless
and unsatisfied.
Then, again, as compared with acting on the stage, in telling a story
you miss the help of effective entrances and exits, the footlights, the
costume, the facial expression of your fellow-actor which interprets
so much of what you yourself say without further elaboration on your
part; for, in the story, in case of a dialogue which necessitates great
subtlety and quickness in facial expression and gesture, you have to be
both speaker and listener.
Now, of what artifices can we make use to take the place of all the
extraneous help offered to actors on the stage?
First and foremost, as a means of suddenly pulling up the attention of
the audience, is the judicious Art of Pausing.
For those who have not actually had experience in the matter, this
advice will seem trite and unnecessary, but those who have even a
little experience will realise with me the extraordinary efficacy of
this very simple means. It is really what Coquelin spoke of as a “high
light,” where the interest is focussed, as it were, to a point.
I have tried this simple art of _pausing_ with every kind of audience,
and I have very rarely known it to fail. It is very difficult to
offer a concrete example of this, unless one is giving a “live”
representation; but I shall make an attempt, and at least I shall hope
to make myself understood by those who have heard me tell stories.
In Hans C. Andersen's “Princess and the Pea,”[16] the King goes down to
open the door himself. Now, you may make this point in two ways. You
may either say: “And then the King went to the door, and at the door
there stood a real Princess,” or, “And then the King went to the door,
and at the door there stood--(pause)--a real Princess.”
It is difficult to exaggerate the difference of effect produced
by so slight a cause.[17] With children it means an unconscious
curiosity which expresses itself in a sudden muscular tension--there
is just time, during that instant's pause, to _feel_, though not
to _formulate_, the question: “What is standing at the door?” By
this means half your work of holding the attention is accomplished.
It is not necessary for me to enter into the psychological reason
of this, but I strongly recommend those who are interested in the
question to read the chapter in Ribot's work on this subject, _Essai
sur l'Imagination créatrice_, as well as Mr. Keatinge's work on
“Suggestion.”
I would advise all teachers to revise their stories with a view to
introducing the judicious Pause, and to vary its use according to the
age, the number and, above all, the mood of the audience. Experience
alone can ensure success in this matter. It has taken me many years to
realise the importance of this artifice.
Among other means of holding the attention of the audience and helping
to bring out the points of the story is the use of gesture. I consider,
however, it must be a sparing use, and not of a broad or definite
character. We shall never improve on the advice given by Hamlet to
the actors on this subject: “See that ye o'erstep not the modesty of
Nature.”
And yet, perhaps, it is not necessary to warn Story-tellers against
_abuse_ of gesture: it is more helpful to encourage them in the use
of it, especially in Anglo-Saxon countries, where we are fearful of
expressing ourselves in this way, and, when we do, the gesture often
lacks subtlety. The Anglo-Saxon, when he does move at all, moves in
solid blocks--a whole arm, a whole leg, the whole body--but if you
watch a Frenchman or an Italian in conversation, you suddenly realise
how varied and subtle are the things which can be suggested by the mere
turn of the wrist or the movement of a finger. The power of the hand
has been so wonderfully summed up in a passage from Quintilian that I
am justified in offering it to all those who wish to realise what can
be done by gesture:
“As to the hands, without the aid of which all delivery would be
deficient and weak, it can scarcely be told of what a variety of
motions they are susceptible, since they almost equal in expression
the power of language itself. For other parts of the body assist the
speaker, but these, I may almost say, speak themselves. With our hands
we ask, promise, call persons to us and send them away, threaten,
supplicate, intimate dislike or fear; with our hands we signify
joy, grief, doubt, acknowledgment, penitence, and indicate measure,
quantity, number and time. Have not our hands the power of inciting,
of restraining, or beseeching, of testifying approbation.... So that
amidst the great diversity of tongues pervading all nations and
peoples, the language of the hands appears to be a language common to
all men.” (From “Education of an Orator,” Book II, Chap. 3.)
One of the most effective artifices in telling stories to young
children is the use of mimicry--the imitation of animals' voices and
sounds in general is of never-ending joy to the listeners. Only, I
should wish to introduce a note of grave warning in connection with
this subject. This special artifice can only be used by such narrators
as have special aptitude and gifts in this direction. There are many
people with good imaginative power but wholly lacking in the power of
mimicry, whose efforts in this direction, however painstaking, would
remain grotesque and therefore ineffective. When listening to such
performances (of which children are strangely critical) one is reminded
of the French story in which the amateur animal painter is showing her
picture to an undiscriminating friend:
“Ah!” says the friend, “this is surely meant for a lion?”
“No,” says the artist, with some slight show of temper; “it is my
little lap-dog.”
Another artifice which is particularly successful with very small
children is to ensure their attention by inviting their co-operation
before you actually begin the story. The following has proved quite
effective as a short introduction to my stories when I was addressing
large audiences of children:
“Do you know that last night I had a very strange dream, which I am
going to tell you before I begin the stories. I dreamed that I was
walking along the streets of---- (here would follow the town in which
I happened to be speaking), with a large bundle on my shoulders, and
this bundle was full of stories which I had been collecting all over
the world in different countries; and I was shouting at the top of my
voice: ‘Stories! Stories! Stories! Who will listen to my stories?’
And the children came flocking round me in my dream, saying: ‘Tell
_us_ your stories. _We_ will listen to your stories.’ So I pulled out
a story from my big bundle and I began in a most excited way, ‘Once
upon a time there lived a King and a Queen who had no children, and
they----’ Here a little boy, _very_ much like that little boy I see
sitting in the front row, stopped me, saying: ‘Oh! I know _that_ old
story; it's Sleeping Beauty.’
“So I pulled out a second story, and began: ‘Once upon a time there was
a little girl who was sent by her mother to visit her grandmother----’
Then a little girl, so much like the one sitting at the end of the
second row, said: 'Oh! everybody knows that story! It's----’”
Here I would make a judicious pause, and then the children in the
audience would shout in chorus, with joyful superiority: “Little Red
Riding-Hood!” (before I had time to explain that the children in my
dream had done the same).
This method I repeated two or three times, being careful to choose very
well-known stories. By this time the children were all encouraged and
stimulated. I usually finished with congratulations on the number of
stories they knew, expressing a hope that some of those I was going to
tell that afternoon would be new to them.
I have rarely found this plan fail for establishing a friendly relation
between oneself and the juvenile audience.
It is often a matter of great difficulty, not to _win_ the attention of
an audience but to _keep_ it, and one of the most subtle artifices is
to let the audience down (without their perceiving it) after a dramatic
situation, so that the reaction may prepare them for the interest of
the next situation.
An excellent instance of this is to be found in Rudyard Kipling's story
of “The Cat that walked ...” where the repetition of words acts as a
sort of sedative until you realise the beginning of a fresh situation.
The great point is never to let the audience quite down, that is, in
stories which depend on dramatic situations. It is just a question
of shade and colour in the language. If you are telling a story in
sections, and spread over two or three occasions, you should always
stop at an exciting moment. It encourages speculation between whiles in
the children's minds, which increases their interest when the story is
taken up again.
Another very necessary quality in the mere artifice of story-telling is
to watch your audience, so as to be able to know whether its mood is
for action or reaction, and to alter your story accordingly. The moods
of reaction are rarer, and you must use them for presenting a different
kind of material. Here is your opportunity for introducing a piece of
poetic description, given in beautiful language, to which the children
cannot listen when they are eager for action and dramatic excitement.
Perhaps one of the greatest artifices is to take a quick hold of your
audience by a striking beginning which will enlist their attention from
the start; you can then relax somewhat, but you must be careful also
of the end, because that is what remains most vivid for the children.
If you question them as to which story they like best in a programme,
you will constantly find it to be the last one you have told, which has
for the moment blurred out the others.
Here are a few specimens of beginnings which seldom fail to arrest the
attention of the child:
“There was once a giant ogre, and he lived in a cave by himself.”
--_From_ “_The Giant and the Jackstraws_,” Starr Jordan.
“There were once twenty-five tin soldiers, who were all brothers,
for they had been made out of the same old tin spoon.”
--_From_ “_The Tin Soldier_,” Hans C. Andersen.
“There was once an Emperor who had a horse shod with gold.”
--_From_ “_The Beetle_,” Hans C. Andersen.
“There was once a merchant who was so rich that he could have paved
the whole street with gold, and even then he would have had enough
for a small alley.”
--_From_ “_The Flying Trunk_,” Hans C. Andersen.
“There was once a shilling which came forth from the mint springing
and shouting, 'Hurrah! Now I am going out into the wide world.'”
--_From_ “_The Silver Shilling_,” Hans C. Andersen.
“In the High and Far Off Times the Elephant, O Best Beloved, had no
trunk.”
--_From_ “_The Elephant's Child_”: _Just So Stories_, Rudyard
Kipling.
“Not always was the Kangaroo as now we behold him, but a Different
Animal with four short legs.”
--_From_ “_Old Man Kangaroo_”: _Just So Stories_, Rudyard Kipling.
“Whichever way I turn,” said the weather-cock on a high steeple,
“no one is satisfied.”
--_From_ “_Fireside Fables_,” Edwin Barrow.
“A set of chessmen, left standing on their board, resolved to alter
the rules of the game.”
--_From the same source._
“The Pink Parasol had tender whalebone ribs and a slender stick of
cherry-wood.”
--_From_ “_Very Short Stories_,” Mrs. W. K. Clifford.
“There was once a poor little Donkey on Wheels; it had never wagged
its tail, or tossed its head, or said ‘Hee-haw,’ or tasted a tender
thistle.”
--_From the same source._
Now, some of these beginnings are, of course, for very young children,
but they all have the same advantage, that of plunging _in medias res_,
and therefore are able to arrest attention at once, as distinct from
the stories which open on a leisurely note of description.
In the same way we must be careful about the endings of the stories;
in some way or other they must impress themselves either in a very
dramatic climax to which the whole story has worked up, such as we have
in the following:
“Then he goes out to the Wet Wild Woods, or up the Wet Wild Trees,
or on the Wet Wild Roofs, waving his Wild Tail, and walking by his
Wild Lone.”
--_From_ “_Just So Stories_,” Rudyard Kipling.
Or by an anti-climax for effect:
“We have all this straight out of the alderman's newspaper, but it
is not to be depended on.”
--_From_ “_Jack the Dullard_,” Hans C. Andersen.
Or by evading the point:
“Whoever does not believe this must buy shares in the Tanner's
yard.”
--_From_ “_A Great Grief_,” Hans C. Andersen.
Or by some striking general comment:
“He has never caught up with the three days he missed at the
beginning of the world, and he has never learnt how to behave.”
--_From_ “_How the Camel got his Hump_”: _Just So Stories_,
Rudyard Kipling.
FOOTNOTES:
[15] Once at the Summer School at Chatauqua, New York, and once in
Lincoln Park, Chicago.
[16] See p. 156.
[17] There must be no more emphasis in the second manner than the first.