The Art of the Story-Teller | Page 9

is presented from the educational point of
view. There are moments of relaxation in a child's life, as in that of an
adult, when a lighter taste can be gratified. I allude now to the
standard of story for school purposes.
There is one development of story-telling which seems to have been
very little considered, either in America or in our own country, namely,
the telling of stories to old people, and that not only in institutions or in

quiet country villages, but in the heart of the busy cities and in the
homes of these old people. How often, when the young people are able
to enjoy outside amusements, the old people, necessarily confined to
the chimney-corner and many unable to read much for themselves,
might return to the joy of their childhood by hearing some of the old
stories told them in dramatic form. Here is a delightful occupation for
those of the leisured class who have the gift, and a much more effective
way of reading aloud.
Lady Gregory, in talking to the workhouse folk in Ireland, was moved
by the strange contrast between the poverty of the tellers and the
splendors of the tale. She says:
"The stories they love are of quite visionary things; of swans that turn
into kings' daughters, and of castles with crowns over the doors, and of
lovers' flights on the backs of eagles, and music-loving witches, and
journeys to the other world, and sleeps that last for seven hundred
years."
I fear it is only the Celtic imagination that will glory in such romantic
material; but I am sure the men and women of the poorhouse are much
more interested than we are apt to think in stories outside the small
circle of their lives.
CHAPTER II.
THE ESSENTIALS OF THE STORY.
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