HOW TO TELL THE STORY
Selection, and, if necessary, adaptation--these are the preliminaries to
the act of telling. That, after all, is the real test of one's power. That
is the real joy, when achieved; the real bugbear, when dreaded. And that
is the subject of this chapter, "How to tell a story."
How to tell a story: it is a short question which demands a long answer.
The right beginning of the answer depends on a right conception of the
thing the question is about; and that naturally reverts to an earlier
discussion of the real nature of a story. In that discussion it was stated
that a story is a work of art,--a message, as all works of art are.
To tell a story, then, is to pass on the message, to share the work of
art. The message may be merely one of humour,--of nonsense, even; works of
art range all the way from the "Victory" to a "Dresden Shepherdess," from
an "Assumption" to a "Broken Pitcher," and farther. Each has its own
place. But whatever its quality, the story-teller is the passer-on, the
interpreter, the transmitter. He comes bringing a gift. Always he gives;
always he bears a message.
This granted, the first demand of the story-teller is not far to seek. No
one can repeat a message he has not heard, or interpret what he does not
understand. You cannot give, unless you first possess. The first demand of
the story-teller is that he possess. He must _feel_ the story. Whatever
the particular quality and appeal of the work of art, from the lightest to
the grandest emotion or thought, he must have responded to it, grasped it,
felt it intimately, before he can give it out again. Listen, humbly, for
the message.
I realise that this has an incongruous sound, when applied to such stories
as that of the little pig at the stile or of the greedy cat who ate up man
and beast. But, believe me, it does apply even to those. For the
transmittable thing in a story is the identifying essence, the
characterising savour, the peculiar quality and point of view of the
humour, pathos, or interest. Every tale which claims a place in good
fiction has this identifying savour and quality, each different from every
other. The laugh which echoes one of Seumas McManus's rigmaroles is not
the chuckle which follows one of Joel Chandler Harris's anecdotes; the
gentle sadness of an Andersen allegory is not the heart-searching tragedy
of a tale from the Greek; nor is any one story of an author just like any
other of the same making. Each has its personal likeness, its facial
expression, as it were.
And the mind must be sensitised to these differences. No one can tell
stories well who has not a keen and just feeling of such emotional values.
A positive and a negative injunction depend on this premise,--the
positive, cultivate your feeling, striving toward increasingly just
appreciation; the negative, never tell a story you do not feel.
Fortunately, the number and range of stories one can appreciate grow with
cultivation; but it is the part of wisdom not to step outside the range at
any stage of its growth.
I feel the more inclined to emphasise this caution because I once had a
rather embarrassing and pointed proof of its desirability,--which I relate
for the enlightening of the reader.
There is a certain nonsense tale which a friend used to tell with such
effect that her hearers became helpless with laughter, but which for some
reason never seemed funny to me. I could not laugh at it. But my friend
constantly urged me to use it, quoting her own success. At last, with much
curiosity and some trepidation, I included it in a programme before people
with whom I was so closely in sympathy that no chill was likely to emanate
from their side. I told the story as well as I knew how, putting into it
more genuine effort than most stories can claim. The audience smiled
politely, laughed gently once or twice, relapsed into the mildest of
amusement. The most one could say was that the story was not a hopeless
failure. I tried it again, after study, and yet again; but the audiences
were all alike. And in my heart I should have been startled if they had
behaved otherwise, for all the time I was telling it I was conscious in my
soul that it was a stupid story! At last I owned my defeat to myself, and
put the thing out of mind.
Some time afterward, I happened to take out the notes of the story, and
idly looked them over; and suddenly, I do not know how, I got the point of
view! The salt of the humour was all at once on my lips; I felt the tickle
of the pure folly of it; it _was_ funny.
The next afternoon I told the story to a hundred or so children and as
many mothers,--and the battle was won. Chuckles punctuated my periods;
helpless laughter ran like an under-current below my narrative; it was a
struggle for me to keep sober, myself. The nonsense tale had found its own
atmosphere.
Now of course I had known all along that the humour of the story emanated
from its very exaggeration, its absurdly illogical smoothness. But I had
not _felt_ it. I did not really "see the joke." And that was why I could
not tell the story. I undoubtedly impressed my own sense of its fatuity on
every audience to which I gave it. The case is very clear.
Equally clear have been some happy instances where I have found audiences
responding to a story I myself greatly liked, but which common
appreciation usually ignored. This is an experience even more persuasive
than the other, certainly more to be desired.
Every story-teller has lines of limitation; certain types of story will
always remain his or her best effort. There is no reason why any type of
story should be told really ill, and of course the number of kinds one
tells well increases with the growth of the appreciative capacity. But
none the less, it is wise to recognise the limits at each stage, and not
try to tell any story to which the honest inner consciousness says, "I do
not like you."
Let us then set down as a prerequisite for good story-telling, _a genuine
appreciation of the story_.
Now, we may suppose this genuine appreciation to be your portion. You have
chosen a story, have felt its charm, and identified the quality of its
appeal.
You are now to tell it in such wise that your hearers will get the same
kind of impression you yourself received from it. How?
I believe the inner secret of success is the measure of force with which
the teller wills the conveyance of his impression to the hearer.
Anyone who has watched, or has himself been, the teller of a story which
held an audience, knows that there is something approaching hypnotic
suggestion in the close connection of effort and effect, and in the
elimination of self-consciousness from speaker and listeners alike.
I would not for a moment lend the atmosphere of charlatanry, or of the
ultra-psychic, to the wholesome and vivid art of story-telling. But I
would, if possible, help the teacher to realise how largely success in
that art is a subjective and psychological matter, dependent on her
control of her own mood and her sense of direct, intimate communion with
the minds attending her. The "feel" of an audience,--that indescribable
sense of the composite human soul waiting on the initiative of your own,
the emotional currents interplaying along a medium so delicate that it
takes the baffling torture of an obstruction to reveal its
existence,--cannot be taught. But it can and does develop with use. And a
realisation of the immense latent power of strong desire and resolution
vitalises and disembarrasses the beginner.
That is, undoubtedly, rather an intangible beginning; it sets the root of
the matter somewhat in the realm of "spirits and influences." There are,
however, outward and visible means of arriving at results. Every art has
its technique. The art of story-telling, intensely personal and subjective
as it is, yet comes under the law sufficiently not to be a matter of sheer
"knack." It has its technique. The following suggestions are an attempt to
state what seem the foundation principles of that technique. The general
statements are deduced from many consecutive experiences; partly, too,
they are the results of introspective analysis, confirmed by observation.
They do not make up an exclusive body of rules, wholly adequate to produce
good work, of themselves; they do include, so far as my observation and
experience allow, the fundamental requisites of good work,--being the
qualities uniformly present in successful work of many story-tellers.
First of all, most fundamental of all, is a rule without which any other
would be but folly: _Know your story._
One would think so obvious a preliminary might be taken for granted. But
alas, even slight acquaintance with the average story-teller proves the
dire necessity of the admonition. The halting tongue, the slip in name or
incident, the turning back to forge an omitted link in the chain, the
repetition, the general weakness of statement consequent on imperfect
grasp: these are common features of the stories one hears told. And they
are features which will deface the best story ever told.
One must know the story absolutely; it must have been so assimilated that
it partakes of the nature of personal experience; its essence must be so
clearly in mind that the teller does not have to think of it at all in the
act of telling, but rather lets it flow from his lips with the unconscious
freedom of a vivid reminiscence.
Such knowledge does not mean memorising. Memorising utterly destroys the
freedom of reminiscence, takes away the spontaneity, and substitutes a
mastery of form for a mastery of essence. It means, rather, a perfect
grasp of the gist of the story, with sufficient familiarity with its form
to determine the manner of its telling. The easiest way to obtain this
mastery is, I think, to analyse the story into its simplest elements of
plot. Strip it bare of style, description, interpolation, and find out
simply _what happened_. Personally, I find that I get first an especially
vivid conception of the climax; this then has to be rounded out by a clear
perception of the successive steps which lead up to the climax. One has,
so, the framework of the story. The next process is the filling in.
There must be many ways of going about this filling in. Doubtless many of
my readers, in the days when it was their pet ambition to make a good
recitation in school, evolved personally effective ways of doing it; for
it is, after all, the same thing as preparing a bit of history or a
recitation in literature. But for the consideration of those who find it
hard to gain mastery of fact without mastery of its stated form, I give my
own way. I have always used the childlike plan of talking it out.
Sometimes inaudibly, sometimes in loud and penetrating tones which arouse
the sympathetic curiosity of my family, I tell it over and over, to an
imaginary hearer. That hearer is as present to me, always has been, as
Stevenson's "friend of the children" who takes the part of the enemy in
their solitary games of war. His criticism (though he is a most composite
double-sexed creature who should not have a designating personal pronoun)
is all-revealing. For talking it out instantly brings to light the weak
spots in one's recollection. "What was it the little crocodile said?"
"Just how did the little pig get into his house?" "What was that link in
the chain of circumstances which brought the wily fox to confusion?" The
slightest cloud of uncertainty becomes obvious in a moment. And as obvious
becomes one's paucity of expression, one's week-kneed imagination, one's
imperfect assimilation of the spirit of the story. It is not a flattering
process.
But when these faults have been corrected by several attempts, the method
gives a confidence, a sense of sureness, which makes the real telling to a
real audience ready and spontaneously smooth. Scarcely an epithet or a
sentence comes out as it was in the preliminary telling; but epithets and
sentences in sufficiency do come; the beauty of this method is that it
brings freedom instead of bondage.
A valuable exception to the rule against memorising must be noted here.
Especially beautiful and indicative phrases of the original should be
retained, and even whole passages, where they are identified with the
beauty of the tale. And in stories like _The Three Bears_ or _Red Riding
Hood_ the exact phraseology of the conversation as given in familiar
versions should be preserved; it is in a way sacred, a classic, and not to
be altered. But beyond this the language should be the teller's own, and
probably never twice the same. Sureness, ease, freedom, and the effect of
personal reminiscence come only from complete mastery. I repeat, with
emphasis: Know your story.
The next suggestion is a purely practical one concerning the preparation
of physical conditions. See that the children are seated in close and
direct range of your eye; the familiar half-circle is the best arrangement
for small groups of children, but the teacher should be at a point
_opposite_ the centre of the arc, _not in_ its centre: thus
[Illustration], not thus [Illustration]; it is important also not to have
the ends too far at the side, and to have no child directly behind
another, or in such a position that he has not an easy view of the
teacher's full face. Little children have to be physically close in order
to be mentally close. It is, of course, desirable to obtain a hushed quiet
before beginning; but it is not so important as to preserve your own mood
of holiday, and theirs. If the fates and the atmosphere of the day are
against you, it is wiser to trust to the drawing power of the tale itself,
and abate the irritation of didactic methods. And never break into that
magic tale, once begun, with an admonition to Ethel or Tommy to stop
squirming, or a rebuke to "that little girl over there who is not
listening." Make her listen! It is probably your fault if she is not. If
you are telling a good story, and telling it well, she can't help
listening,--unless she is an abnormal child; and if she is abnormal you
ought not to spoil the mood of the others to attend to her.
I say "never" interrupt your story; perhaps it is only fair to amend that,
after the fashion of dear little Marjorie Fleming, and say "never--if you
can help it." For, of course, there are exceptional occasions, and
exceptional children; some latitude must be left for the decisions of
good common sense acting on the issue of the moment.
The children ready, your own mood must be ready. It is desirable that the
spirit of the story should be imposed upon the room from the beginning,
and this result hangs on the clearness and intensity of the teller's
initiatory mood. An act of memory and of will is the requisite. The
story-teller must call up--it comes with the swiftness of thought--the
essential emotion of the story as he felt it first. A single volition puts
him in touch with the characters and the movement of the tale. This is
scarcely more than a brief and condensed reminiscence; it is the stepping
back into a mood once experienced.
Let us say, for example, that the story to be told is the immortal fable
of _The Ugly Duckling_. Before you open your lips the whole pathetic
series of the little swan's mishaps should flash across your mind,--not
accurately and in detail, but blended to a composite of undeserved
ignominy, of baffled innocent wonderment, and of delicious underlying
satire on average views. With this is mingled the feeling of Andersen's
delicate whimsicality of style. The dear little Ugly Duckling waddles,
bodily, into your consciousness, and you pity his sorrows and anticipate
his triumph, before you begin.
This preliminary recognition of mood is what brings the delicious
quizzical twitch to the mouth of a good raconteur who begins an anecdote
the hearers know will be side-splitting. It is what makes grandmother sigh
gently and look far over your heads, when her soft voice commences the
story of "the little girl who lived long, long ago." It is a natural and
instinctive thing with the born story-teller; a necessary thing for anyone
who will become a story-teller.
From the very start, the mood of the tale should be definite and
authoritative, beginning with the mood of the teller and emanating
therefrom in proportion as the physique of the teller is a responsive
medium.
Now we are off. Knowing your story, having your hearers well arranged, and
being as thoroughly as you are able in the right mood, you begin to tell
it. Tell it, then, simply, directly, dramatically, with zest.
_Simply_ applies both to manner and matter. As to manner, I mean without
affectation, without any form of pretence, in short, without posing. It is
a pity to "talk down" to the children, to assume a honeyed voice, to think
of the edifying or educational value of the work one is doing.
Naturalness, being oneself, is the desideratum. I wonder why we so often
use a preposterous voice,--a super-sweetened whine, in talking to
children? Is it that the effort to realise an ideal of gentleness and
affectionateness overreaches itself in this form of the grotesque? Some
good intention must be the root of it. But the thing is none the less
pernicious. A "cant" voice is as abominable as a cant phraseology. Both
are of the very substance of evil.
"But it is easier to _say,_ 'Be natural' than to _be_ it," said one
teacher to me desperately.
Beyond dispute. To those of us who are cursed with an over-abundant
measure of self-consciousness, nothing is harder than simple naturalness.
The remedy is to lose oneself in one's art. Think of the story so
absorbingly and vividly that you have no room to think of yourself. Live
it. Sink yourself in that mood you have summoned up, and let it carry you.
If you do this, simplicity of matter will come easily. Your choice of
words and images will naturally become simple.
It is, I think, a familiar precept to educators, that children should not
have their literature too much simplified for them. We are told that they
like something beyond them, and that it is good for them to have a sense
of mystery and power beyond the sense they grasp. That may be true; but if
so it does not apply to story-telling as it does to reading. We have
constantly to remember that the movement of a story told is very swift. A
concept not grasped in passing is irrevocably lost; there is no
possibility of turning back, or lingering over the page. Also, since the
art of story-telling is primarily an art of entertainment, its very
object is sacrificed if the ideas and images do not slip into the child's
consciousness smoothly enough to avoid the sense of strain. For this
reason short, familiar, vivid words are best.
Simplicity of manner and of matter are both essential to the right appeal
to children.
_Directness_ in telling is a most important quality. The story, listened
to, is like the drama, beheld. Its movement must be unimpeded,
increasingly swift, winding up "with a snap." Long-windedness, or talking
round the story, utterly destroys this movement. The incidents should be
told, one after another, without explanation or description beyond what is
absolutely necessary; and _they should be told in logical sequence._
Nothing is more distressing than the cart-before-the-horse
method,--nothing more quickly destroys interest than the failure to get a
clue in the right place.
Sometimes, to be sure, a side remark adds piquancy and a personal savour.
But the general rule is, great discretion in this respect.
Every epithet or adjective beyond what is needed to give the image, is a
five-barred gate in the path of the eager mind travelling to a climax.
Explanations and moralising are usually sheer clatter. Some few stories
necessarily include a little explanation, and stories of the fable order
may quaintly end with an obvious moral. But here again, the rule is--great
discretion.
It is well to remember that you have one great advantage over the writer
of stories. The writer must present a clear image and make a vivid
impression,--all with words. The teller has face, and voice, and body to
do it with. The teller needs, consequently, but one swiftly incisive verb
to the writer's two; but one expressive adjective to his three. Often,
indeed, a pause and an expressive gesture do the whole thing.
It may be said here that it is a good trick of description to repeat an
epithet or phrase once used, when referring again to the same thing. The
recurrent adjectives of Homer were the device of one who entertained a
childlike audience. His trick is unconscious and instinctive with people
who have a natural gift for children's stories. Of course this matter also
demands common sense in the degree of its use; in moderation it is a most
successful device.
Brevity, close logical sequence, exclusion of foreign matter, unhesitant
speech,--to use these is to tell a story directly.
After simplicity and directness, comes that quality which to advise, is to
become a rock of offence to many. It is the suggestion, "Tell the story
_dramatically_." Yet when we quite understand each other as to the meaning
of "dramatically," I think you will agree with me that a good
story-teller includes this in his qualities of manner. It means, not in
the manner of the elocutionist, not excitably, not any of the things which
are incompatible with simplicity and sincerity; but with a whole-hearted
throwing of oneself into the game, which identifies one in a manner with
the character or situation of the moment. It means responsively, vividly,
without interposing a blank wall of solid self between the drama of the
tale and the mind's eye of the audience.
It is such fun, pure and simple, so to throw oneself into it, and to see
the answering expressions mimic one's own, that it seems superfluous to
urge it. Yet many persons do find it difficult. The instant, slight but
suggestive change of voice, the use of onomatopoetic words, the response
of eyes and hands, which are all immediate and spontaneous with some
temperaments, are to others a matter of shamefacedness and labour. To
those, to all who are not by nature bodily expressive, I would reiterate
the injunction already given,--not to pretend. Do nothing you cannot do
naturally and happily. But lay your stress on the inner and spiritual
effort to appreciate, to feel, to imagine out the tale; and let the
expressiveness of your body grow gradually with the increasing freedom
from crippling self-consciousness. The physique will become more mobile
as the emotion does.
The expression must, however, always _remain suggestive rather than
illustrative_. This is the side of the case which those who are
over-dramatic must not forget. The story-teller is not playing the parts
of his stories; he is merely arousing the imagination of his hearers to
picture the scenes for themselves. One element of the dual consciousness
of the tale-teller remains always the observer, the reporter, the quiet
outsider.
I like to think of the story-teller as a good fellow standing at a great
window overlooking a busy street or a picturesque square, and reporting
with gusto to the comrade in the rear of the room what of mirth or sadness
he sees; he hints at the policeman's strut, the organ-grinder's shrug, the
schoolgirl's gaiety, with a gesture or two which is born of an
irresistible impulse to imitate; but he never leaves his fascinating post
to carry the imitation further than a hint.
The verity of this figure lies in the fact that the dramatic quality of
story-telling depends closely upon the _clearness and power with which the
story-teller visualises the events and characters he describes_. You must
hold the image before the mind's eye, using your imagination to embody to
yourself every act, incident and appearance. You must, indeed, stand at
the window of your consciousness and watch what happens.
This is a point so vital that I am tempted to put it in ornate type. You
must _see_ what you _say_!
It is not too much, even, to say, "You must see more than you say." True
vividness is lent by a background of picture realised by the listener
beyond what you tell him. Children see, as a rule, no image you do not
see; they see most clearly what you see most largely. Draw, then, from a
full well, not from a supply so low that the pumps wheeze at every pull.
Dramatic power of the reasonably quiet and suggestive type demanded for
telling a story will come pretty surely in the train of effort along these
lines; it follows the clear concept and sincerity in imparting it, and is
a natural consequence of the visualising imagination.
It is inextricably bound up, also, with the causes and results of the
quality which finds place in my final injunction, to tell your story _with
zest_. It might almost be assumed that the final suggestion renders the
preceding one superfluous, so direct is the effect of a lively interest on
the dramatic quality of a narration; but it would not of itself be
adequate; the necessity of visualising imagination is paramount. Zest is,
however, a close second to this clearness of mental vision. It is entirely
necessary to be interested in your own story, to enjoy it as you tell it.
If you are bored and tired, the children will soon be bored and tired,
too. If you are not interested your manner cannot get that vitalised
spontaneity which makes dramatic power possible. Nothing else will give
that relish on the lips, that gusto, which communicates its joy to the
audience and makes it receptive to every impression. I used to say to
teachers, "Tell your story with all your might," but I found that this by
a natural misconception was often interpreted to mean "laboriously." And
of course nothing is more injurious to the enjoyment of an audience than
obvious effort on the part of the entertainer. True zest can be--often
is--extremely quiet, but it gives a savour nothing else can impart.
"But how, at the end of a hard morning's work, can I be interested in a
story I have told twenty times before?" asks the kindergarten or primary
teacher, not without reason.
There are two things to be said. The first is a reminder of the wisdom of
choosing stories in which you originally have interest; and of having a
store large enough to permit variety. The second applies to those
inevitable times of weariness which attack the most interested and
well-stocked story-teller. You are, perhaps, tired out physically. You
have told a certain story till it seems as if a repetition of it must
produce bodily effects dire to contemplate, yet that happens to be the
very story you must tell. What can you do? I answer, "Make believe." The
device seems incongruous with the repeated warnings against pretence; but
it is necessary, and it is wise. Pretend as hard as ever you can to be
interested. And the result will be--before you know it--that you will _be_
interested. That is the chief cause of the recommendation; it brings about
the result it simulates. Make believe, as well as you know how, and the
probability is that you will not even know when the transition from
pretended to real interest comes.
And fortunately, the children never know the difference. They have not
that psychological infallibility which is often attributed to them. They
might, indeed, detect a pretence which continued through a whole tale; but
that is so seldom necessary that it needs little consideration.
So then: enjoy your story; be interested in it,--if you possibly can; and
if you cannot, pretend to be, till the very pretence brings about the
virtue you have assumed.
There is much else which might be said and urged regarding the method of
story-telling, even without encroaching on the domain of personal
variations. A whole chapter might, for example, be devoted to voice and
enunciation, and then leave the subject fertile. But voice and
enunciation are after all merely single manifestations of degree and
quality of culture, of taste, and of natural gift. No set rules can bring
charm of voice and speech to a person whose feeling and habitual point of
view are fundamentally wrong; the person whose habitual feeling and mental
attitude are fundamentally right needs few or no rules. As the whole
matter of story-telling is in the first instance an expression of the
complex personal product, so will this feature of it vary in perfection
according to the beauty and culture of the human mechanism manifesting it.
A few generally applicable suggestions may, however, be useful,--always
assuming the story-teller to have the fundamental qualifications of fine
and wholesome habit. These are not rules for the art of speaking; they are
merely some practical considerations regarding speaking to an audience.
First, I would reiterate my earlier advice, be simple. Affectation is the
worst enemy of voice and enunciation alike. Slovenly enunciation is
certainly very dreadful, but the unregenerate may be pardoned if they
prefer it to the affected mouthing which some over-nice people without due
sense of values expend on every syllable which is so unlucky as to fall
between their teeth.
Next I would urge avoidance of a fault very common with those who speak
much in large rooms,--the mistaken effort at loudness. This results in
tightening and straining the throat, finally producing nasal head-tones or
a voice of metallic harshness. And it is entirely unnecessary. There is no
need to speak loudly. The ordinary schoolroom needs no vocal effort. A
hall seating three or four hundred persons demands no effort whatever
beyond a certain clearness and definiteness of speech. A hall seating from
five to eight hundred needs more skill in aiming the voice, but still
demands no shouting.
It is indeed largely the psychological quality of a tone that makes it
reach in through the ear to the comprehension. The quiet, clear, restful,
persuasive tone of a speaker who knows his power goes straight home; but
loud speech confuses. Never speak loudly. In a small room, speak as gently
and easily as in conversation; in a large room, think of the people
farthest away, and speak clearly, with a slight separation between words,
and with definite phrasing,--aiming your _mind_ toward the distant
listeners.
If one is conscious of nasality or throatiness of voice, it certainly pays
to study the subject seriously with an intelligent teacher. But a good,
natural speaking-voice, free from extraordinary vices, will fill all the
requirements of story-telling to small audiences, without other attention
than comes indirectly from following the general principles of the art.
To sum it all up, then, let us say of the method likely to bring success
in telling stories, that it includes sympathy, grasp, spontaneity: one
must appreciate the story, and know it; and then, using the realising
imagination as a constant vivifying force, and dominated by the mood of
the story, one must tell it with all one's might,--simply, vitally,
joyously.