The Telling of the Story
Having chosen the right story for telling, the next consideration is how
to tell it in the best manner possible.
Aside from all question of voice, enunciation, ease of manner—which,
though important, are more or less matters of personal habit or physical
endowment—there are two absolute essentials to successful story-telling:
a thorough knowledge of the story, and forgetfulness of self.
The best story may be spoiled by the manner of telling. A good story
told by a master of the art will be a source of delight, while the same
story told by a self-conscious, poorly prepared novice will be annoyingly
tiresome.
The first step in the preparation, then, must be a thorough assimilation
of the story. This does not involve memorizing, but the substance of the
story must be made your own. Formulate in your own mind its plan or
outline. What is its climax? What are the essential facts leading to this
climax? How do they follow, in order to bring about the final surprise or
culmination?
Having this outline well fixed in mind, begin to fill in details. Note
the bits of wit or of wisdom which strengthen the story; the apt phrases
or happy turns of expression which exactly fit the thought. Memorize
these, and these only. Think the story over, again and again, until it
becomes a personal possession—something which you _know_. Then begin
formulating it. You can do this mentally, inaudibly at first, following
the general mode of expression of the written story, so that you will
tell it in a manner which conforms to the literary style of the author.
This is not difficult, for if you have selected a well-written story,
the style in which it is written will be in keeping with its character
and will seem the natural mode of expression. This assimilation of style
as well as of substance takes the place of literal memorizing. It allows
full liberty in the telling, while memorizing only cramps and hampers.
Repeat the story mentally until you not only know its substance as a
personal experience, but until you are so familiar with its literary
style that you could scarcely tell that particular story in any other
form. This assimilation of style as well as of substance takes time, but
the ability to learn a story readily will come with practice. After you
have mastered the _method_ of learning, you will be able to acquire new
stories with little difficulty.
You are now ready to tell the story orally; not at once to an audience—at
least not until you have gained sufficient experience to know to just
what extent you can depend upon yourself—but to an imaginary assembly.
A doll makes a very good “practice auditor,” and is not inclined to
encourage you overmuch by her responsiveness. If your imagination is
good, a sofa pillow or a chair will do as well. You will probably make
your first audible effort at an opportune moment when you are left quite
alone in the house, and the first opening door will bring the rehearsal
to a definite close. But in time, if you persevere, the family will
become used to it. As for yourself, however, you will probably find that
an amused audience of one, even though unseen, is more conducive to
self-consciousness than an interested audience of one hundred.
A teacher presenting a story to her own class of pupils will not, of
course, have so many difficulties to overcome. She and the children
are on a familiar footing; she talks to them every day; she knows the
number and responsiveness of her audience, the size of the room, the
carrying power of her own voice. She is scarcely conscious that these
factors enter into the success of story-telling. But when a story-teller
addresses an unknown audience, these factors assume unexpected importance.
I have in mind an early experience when a story hour was arranged at one
of the branch libraries of a large city. I knew that the “fifty-seven
varieties” of childhood were accustomed to assemble there and that the
room was not large, but I was not prepared to find two hundred children
compressed within little more than two hundred square feet of space. My
natural voice proved wholly inadequate. I began, but saw at once that the
children at the farther end of the room could not hear, and I stopped.
Taking a more central position, I found an entirely new voice—one so
much higher pitched that I am sure I should never have recognized it as
my own, elsewhere—and I told the stories. The new voice carried, and
under the conditions sounded wholly normal. The children grew quiet,
and for nearly an hour we traveled together through fairy-land, across
western prairies, along the streets of Hamelin town, into the Empire of
Japan, and among the Korean folk. How we did enjoy it!
The incident taught me two things at least: one, the value of having an
intimate knowledge of the stories to be told, so that no unexpectedness
of conditions could cause them to take flight; the other, the necessity
of being able to adapt oneself to unexpected conditions.
The need of adapting the story, or the mode of telling, to the
requirements of the immediate occasion, can only be learned by watching
your audience.
Be sure your voice reaches the farthest child in the room. You need
not use a loud tone, but a little difference in the pitch will make a
great difference in the carrying quality. If the children must exert
themselves, hold themselves tense, in order to hear, they will soon
relax the effort and become restless and indifferent.
If a child becomes inattentive, address your story to him for a time, and
turn to him frequently afterward. Each child loves to feel that the story
is being told to _him_. For this reason, the story and the children are
the only things to be taken account of. The story should be told directly
to the _individual_ children, not to the _mass_ of children.
At a recent story hour the children were grouped upon the left hand
side of the large audience room, and the older people, of whom there
were a goodly number, upon the right hand side. A small cousin of the
story-teller—aged three—who had heard the stories until he could tell
them himself, sat upon his grandfather’s lap on the “grown-up” side of
the room.
The story-teller devoted her attention to the children’s side of the
room exclusively. She began with the story of “Raggylug,” by Ernest
Thompson-Seton. The moment the story was finished, a small voice from the
neglected side of the room demanded, “Now tell it to _me_!”
The incident is used to show that each child wants to feel that the
story is being told to him, and emphasizes the need of telling stories
with a personal directness of appeal.
I have said that the story and the children should be the only things of
which the story-teller takes note. A consciousness of one’s own self as
the actor upon the boards, spoils all.
This self-consciousness may be betrayed by a nervous twirling of a
handkerchief, a twisting of rings or bracelet, by an arranging of the
hair or the dress. It may be but a slight action in itself, but it
betrays the fault which will be felt, though probably not defined.
Forget yourself. Become so interested in your story that you can think of
nothing else—except the children who are drinking it in.
You may safely use as much dramatic action as springs spontaneously
from a vivid telling of the story, but it must never be a conscious
effort for dramatic effect. Give yourself perfect liberty. As you watch
your audience, interpolate, enlarge, omit, explain briefly, as you see
the need arise—but you can only do this if you _know_ your story. The
changes made should all be kept in harmony with the style of the original
narrative, and used only in order to stimulate or to arouse your hearers
to a quicker perception or a better understanding.
Take time to bring out the essence of the tale, to impress the beauty
of the description, to enhance the humor of a situation. A story should
never be hurriedly told, any more than it should be hurriedly prepared.
It is quite possible for the same story to be so told as to teach exactly
opposite lessons, and yet without any alteration of the essential facts.
This point is well illustrated by the story of “Robin Hood and Sir
Richard-at-the-Lea,” taken as an example. In this story it would be easy
to call undue attention to Robin Hood as the “robber outlaw.” On the
other hand, it is equally easy, by a few wise omissions, or a difference
in handling, to make prominent the characteristics which caused him to
be loved by all his “merrie men,” trusted by the poor and helpless, and
worshipped as a hero by the boys of all succeeding generations. This
difference in handling applies to nearly all of the Robin Hood stories,
and to many of the old nursery tales as well. They illustrate the point
which I have made, that the same story may be so written, or so told, as
to leave entirely different impressions upon the mind.
The story-teller may not as a rule require special training in the use
of the speaking voice, but it is essential that she enunciate easily,
clearly, and agreeably. A well modulated voice tires neither speaker nor
hearer.
To summarize—
Know your story; know it so thoroughly that it is flexible under your
handling, yielding easily to the varying conditions under which it
is told while retaining all its essential qualities of style and of
substance:
See that your voice carries:
Forget yourself:
Do not hurry:
Bring out the true essence of the tale:
Tell it with directness of appeal to your immediate audience:
Carry it to its climax:
“Let go.”