How to Tell a Story and other Essays, 1899 | Page 5

thinks it is unspeakably funny, and is trying
to repeat it to a neighbor. But he can't remember it; so he gets all mixed
up and wanders helplessly round and round, putting in tedious details
that don't belong in the tale and only retard it; taking them out
conscientiously and putting in others that are just as useless; making
minor mistakes now and then and stopping to correct them and explain
how he came to make them; remembering things which he forgot to put
in in their proper place and going back to put them in there; stopping
his narrative a good while in order to try to recall the name of the
soldier that was hurt, and finally remembering that the soldier's name
was not mentioned, and remarking placidly that the name is of no real
importance, anyway--better, of course, if one knew it, but not essential,
after all-- and so on, and so on, and so on.
The teller is innocent and happy and pleased with himself, and has to
stop every little while to hold himself in and keep from laughing
outright; and does hold in, but his body quakes in a jelly-like way with
interior chuckles; and at the end of the ten minutes the audience have
laughed until they are exhausted, and the tears are running down their
faces.
The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of the
old farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result is a performance
which is thoroughly charming and delicious. This is art and fine and
beautiful, and only a master can compass it; but a machine could tell
the other story.
To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering and
sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they are
absurdities, is the basis of the American art, if my position is correct.
Another feature is the slurring of the point. A third is the dropping of a
studied remark apparently without knowing it, as if one were thinking
aloud. The fourth and last is the pause.
Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal. He would
begin to tell with great animation something which he seemed to think
was wonderful; then lose confidence, and after an apparently
absent-minded pause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way;
and that was the remark intended to explode the mine--and it did.
For instance, he would say eagerly, excitedly, "I once knew a man in

New Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head"--here his animation would
die out; a silent, reflective pause would follow, then he would say
dreamily, and as if to himself, "and yet that man could beat a drum
better than any man I ever saw."
The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story, and
a frequently recurring feature, too. It is a dainty thing, and delicate, and
also uncertain and treacherous; for it must be exactly the right
length--no more and no less--or it fails of its purpose and makes trouble.
If the pause is too short the impressive point is passed, and [and if too
long] the audience have had time to divine that a surprise is
intended--and then you can't surprise them, of course.
On the platform I used to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause in
front of the snapper on the end, and that pause was the most important
thing in the whole story. If I got it the right length precisely, I could
spring the finishing ejaculation with effect enough to make some
impressible girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out of her seat
--and that was what I was after. This story was called "The Golden
Arm," and was told in this fashion. You can practise with it
yourself--and mind you look out for the pause and get it right.
THE GOLDEN ARM.
Once 'pon a time dey wuz a monsus mean man, en he live 'way out in
de prairie all 'lone by hisself, 'cep'n he had a wife. En bimeby she died,
en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her. Well,
she had a golden arm--all solid gold, fum de shoulder down. He wuz
pow'ful mean--pow'ful; en dat night he couldn't sleep, Gaze he want dat
golden arm so bad.
When it come midnight he couldn't stan' it no mo'; so he git up, he did,
en tuck his lantern en shoved out thoo de storm en dug her up en got de
golden arm; en he bent his head down 'gin de win', en plowed en
plowed en plowed thoo de snow. Den all on a sudden he stop (make a
considerable pause here, and look startled, and take a listening attitude)
en say: "My LAN', what's