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 teacher with
a group of children, not the spontaneous (and most rare) power of
telling stories such as Beranger gives us in his poem, "Souvenirs du
Peuple":
Mes enfants, dans ce village,
Suivi de rois, il passa;
Voila; bien longtemps de cela!
Je venais d'entrer en menage,
A pied grimpant le coteau,
Ou pour voir je m'tais mise.
Il avait petit chapeau et redingote grise.
Il me dit: Bon jour, ma chere.
Il vous a parle, grand mere?
Il vous a parle?
I am skeptical enough to think that it is not the spontaneity of the
grandmother but the art of Beranger 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 side lights. 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 emphasize 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 having done more to ruin a story and distract the
audience than many more glaring errors of dramatic form.
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, which bears no traces of the making except the harmony and
beauty of the whole, which make one realize that the individual parts
have received all proper attention. What really brings about this
apparent simplicity which insures the success of the story? It has
been admirably expressed in a passage from Henry James' 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 the 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
greenroom between the first and second acts of "L'abbe 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 role of a man of the world. But on this occasion I met the simple,
kindly priest, so absorbed in his role 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. While talking to him, I had felt puzzled. It was
only when I had left him that I realized what had happened, namely, that
he was too thoroughly saturated with his subject to be able to drop his
role 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
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.[9]
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-telling. Personally, I know of nothing
more interesting than watching 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 which 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, ear-wigs, frogs, etc., behaved in such a
conventional 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 saying, "I know some fruit was shot at."[10]
I realize the extreme difficulty teachers have to devote the necessary
time to perfecting the stories they tell in school, because this is
only one of the subjects they have to teach in an already over-crowded
curriculum. To them I would offer this practical advice: Do not be
afraid to repeat your stories.[11] If you do 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 also be
able to avoid the direct moral application, 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
overstate the importance.
In the story of the "Swineherd," 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."