The Image in Story Telling
By Percival Chubb
Undoubtedly the element of fundamental importance in story telling, as in all forms of art, is structure; “the bones,” as a Japanese phrase has it; the bones of the limbs, properly joined together to form the well-knit skeleton of the living body of a work of art. “Let there be form!” is the first fiat of the artist. That form is literally the “embodiment” of the soul of intention which animates the creative process of the artist’s mind. Such is the meaning of Spencer’s, “the soul is form, and doth the body make.”
It is not, however, about form or the joinery of the story-teller’s craft that I would speak; but of what comes next in importance,—the clothing of the skeleton in a beautiful texture of bodily substance. That substance must be of imagination all compact. The language of which it is made must employ the image, must evoke imagery. Language, it has been said, is fossil poetry; and that is because in the first place the essential of poetry is the image; and, secondly, because language seizes upon the graphic qualities of things. So saving a quality is imagination, that the use of appropriate and vivid imagery will sometimes atone in a story teller for lack of structural soundness. This is true, for instance, of some Irish story tellers and stories. The joinery is often poor; for the architecture of form is not the Celt’s strong point. The skillful management of development and climax is frequently wanting in his work. He does not know just when to stop; he loves to talk on, and embroider, and gossip. And yet the winning charm of the genuine Celtic story is irresistible. It holds us by the charm of style; and the power of its style lies to a large extent in felicity of imagery, and what we must call by the larger phrase, imaginative power.
This view was again borne in upon the writer in reading recently a passage from one of the letters of the great French painter, Millet. Indeed, it is for the sake of using Millet’s delightful illustration to enforce once more the truth of a not unfamiliar principle that this brief article is written.
Millet’s illustration is taken from Theocritus. It is worth noting, in passing, what a wonderful instinct for greatness Millet had. He nurtured himself upon the great masters; took to them naturally from the first. This was true of the literature as well as the art which he came across. The peasant lad felt the distinction and power of the poetry of Virgil even while he learned to construe the difficult lines there on the farm in Normandy, with the aid of the priest who instructed him. Later on he took as naturally to Theocritus as to Virgil. He was always a pupil of the great spirits.
In the letter I quote from, he begins by expressing his enthusiasm for the Sicilian poet. He seizes upon the copy of the Idylls sent to him, and does not leave it till he has “devoured the contents.” But he adds, “It is when I take it word for word that I am most delighted.” He finds things in the original which are lacking in the translation; and he gives this one striking example:
“In the first idyl, on the vase upon which all kinds of things are sculptured, among others is a vine, full of ripe grapes, which a little fellow guards, sitting on a wall. But on both sides are two foxes; one surveys the rows, devouring the ripe grapes. Does not ‘surveys the rows’ show you the layout of a grape-vine? Does it not make it real? And can’t you see the fox trotting up and down, going from one row to another? It is a picture, an image! You are there. But in the translation this living image is so attenuated that it would hardly strike you. ‘Two foxes; one gets into the vineyard and devours the grapes.’ O translator, it is not enough to understand Greek: you must also know a vineyard to be struck by the accuracy of your poet’s image, that it may spur you to the exertion of rendering it well! And so on with everything. But I come back to that: I can’t see the fox trotting—in the translator’s vineyard.
Could there be a more convincing plea for the enlivening image than that? The image, in other words, is the condition of sight, visualization, realization. The story teller, on looking over a written draft of the story he is going to tell, can ask no more important question than this: “Where can I substitute for any weak abstract word one that arouses an image?” It is not enough to think in images one’s self, to have an image, one must be able to convey it by the use of an image-evoking word.
Another very good instance which I have frequently cited to students in talking about story telling is the expression employed in Shakespeare’s “Hamlet” when it is said,
“The cock that is the trumpet to the morn
Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat
Awake the god of day.” ...
Consider how the effect would have been weakened if, instead of the concrete, image-evoking word “throat,” Shakespeare had used the word which most of us would have employed, namely, the word “voice.” That word merely suggests a sound; “throat” flashes the visible image of that “bird of dawning.” We see. Not only do we hear that “shrill-sounding” trumpeter, but we see that straining throat. We are there with the bird.
Many other examples might be cited, but these must suffice to bring home once more, with fresh emphasis perchance the truth that, after structural form, after securing sequence, coherence, climax, unity, the most important factor in story telling is the apt and adequate employment of the image. Imagery is the magic of the story-teller’s art.
Endymion
By Frederick A. Child[2]
[2] Retold from Lyly’s “Endymion.”
Endymion is the name of a man who fell in love with the Moon, the beautiful, bright shining Moon whom the waves obey, and which sends her light silver down upon the earth to ripple across the tranquil waters and to shine upon the towers of sleeping cities, to creep peacefully into the bed-chambers of its inhabitants and kiss the tangled, golden ringlets of dreaming children. Now Endymion’s friends thought he was very foolish to fall in love with any one so far beyond his reach. Especially was this true of the Earth, who was, in fact, in love with Endymion. And altho Earth put forth her gayest and sweetest smelling flowers to attract Endymion, Endymion would not even take the trouble to look upon poor Earth, but always kept his eyes directed toward the shining Moon.
The Spirit of the Moon
At last poor Earth could stand it no longer, so she went to an old enchantress named Dipsas and asked her whether she could weave a charm that would bring Endymion’s thoughts back to Earth. Dipsas said that such was not her power, but she could bewitch Endymion so that a long sleep would fall upon him and therefore he couldn’t love the Moon any more. So one night when Endymion was out gazing longingly upon the Moon and sighing and calling for her to look down upon him and at least smile upon him, the enchantress Dipsas stole up behind him and waving a fan of hemlock above his head, put him in a sound sleep.
And there upon the bank he slept for twenty years, and finally even the Moon began to miss him and inquired where he was, and when she found that Endymion had been thrown into a long sleep she became interested in his welfare and perhaps sighed a little for his love, but try as she would she could find no one who could break the spell. Finally she sent Eumenides, a close friend of Endymion, to seek over the world for a remedy.
In his travels about the earth to find a remedy Eumenides met with an old man sitting beside a fountain, and he told the old man what he sought.
OH,” said the old man, “you need travel no farther, for he who can clearly see the bottom of this fountain has found remedy for anything.”
And so Eumenides looked and saw the bottom of the fountain clearly and read as follows: “When the bright, round Moon shall come and kiss Endymion, he shall rise from his sleep.”
Eumenides hastened back and told the Moon what he had read at the bottom of the fountain.
Now the Moon was much surprised when she heard of the remedy for Endymion’s long sleep, but finally she consented to kiss him, and—wonder upon wonders!—the sleeper of twenty years awoke. And so delighted was Endymion for the awakening that he immediately lost all traces of his twenty years’ sleep and stood before them a young man again. And so delighted was the Moon with this young man who had undergone so much because of his love for her that she said he might continue to worship her forever and ever.
And the writer of this story meant to represent by the Moon the Queen of England, Queen Elizabeth, whom all Englishmen loved and honored and some day when you study English history you will see what brave deeds these Englishmen performed for their Queen, the shining Moon, so bright, and beautiful, but so beyond their reach.
“GIVE ME LEAVE TO ENJOY MYSELF; THAT PLACE THAT DOES CONTAIN MY BOOKS, THE BEST COMPANIONS, IS TO ME A GLORIOUS COURT, WHERE HOURLY I CONVERSE WITH THE OLD SAGES AND PHILOSOPHERS; AND, SOMETIMES, FOR VARIETY, I CONFER WITH KINGS AND EMPERORS, AND WEIGH THEIR COUNSELS; CALLING THEIR VICTORIES, IF UNJUSTLY GOT, INTO A STRICT ACCOUNT, AND, IN MY FANCY, DEFACE THEIR ILL-PLACED STATUES.”—Beaumont and Fletcher.
The Story of Saint Christopher
As told by R. T. Wyche
The meaning and value of the story of Saint Christopher
St. Christopher, Memling
Royal Museum, Dresden
Reproduced by permission Braun et Cie.
The story of Saint Christopher is a story of the misunderstood boy. Many a child is misunderstood by parent and teacher, and, like St. Francis of Assisi, is driven from home and yet makes a great success in life.
The story is an epitome of a man’s life. Christopher in his boyhood had strength—he worshiped strength—he could not find normal means of recreation, so he did evil. His hero, the German Emperor, represents the interest of the child from eight to twelve years, with splendid physical health, with moral and religious nature undeveloped. Christopher followed the normal impulse in serving the German Emperor. The adolescent boy in high-school period, is represented, in a way, by the second hero that Christopher served, a devil, a mischief-maker, but as the boy grows out of that he catches a glimpse of the moral hero just as Christopher did when he heard of the man of Galilee.—Ed.
Once on a time, a long time ago, beyond the seas, there lived a boy named Christopher. As he grew up he was unusually strong and giant like. He drove the cattle to field and lived in the mountains and on the plains. Being alone much of his time he had little opportunity for play or sport with other children, and when he came home his parents did not play with him or entertain him, and so he sought recreation where he could find it in other places. He was full of energy and his parents frequently scolded him, which drove him off to himself in bad moods. On one occasion he tied the cows’ tails together, just to hear them bellow. On another occasion he set fire to a forest, all in sport, because he had no one to join him in better things. His stepmother scolded him and punished him so that he would frequently go away alone or join bad companions in mischief. Finally, one day, quarreling with a man, he killed him because of his greater strength.
Fearing to return home, he wandered in strange lands, sometimes working for his living, and sometimes living on what was given him. Wherever he went people admired his broad shoulders and manly form, for he was giantlike in size.
One day he heard of the Emperor of Germany, who was king and the mightiest man in all the world. As Christopher admired and worshiped strength, he wanted to see and to serve the Emperor. At last after long journeys he came and stood before the German Emperor and offered his services. The Emperor was at that time waging wars for his kingdom, and when he saw Christopher, giantlike and strong, he admired him and readily accepted his services, taking him along as a bodyguard. Christopher was delighted and threw his whole strength into the service of the Emperor and did many wonderful deeds.
So strong was Christopher that frequently he would bear on his shoulders great logs, place them across gullies and ravines and build a bridge for the army to pass over. The Emperor frequently talked with him and encouraged him, all of which immensely pleased Christopher, for he thought, “I have at last found him who is most worthy of worship and service.”
But on one occasion as the Emperor was riding near a forest, Christopher noticed that the Emperor made the sign of the cross and turned aside from the dark forest and went in another direction. Christopher said to the Emperor: “Why did you turn back from the forest?” The Emperor said: “The devil lives in that forest and I fear him.” “What,” said Christopher, “afraid? I thought that you were afraid of nothing!” But the Emperor said: “This demon of darkness is very strong and I fear him.” Then Christopher said: “If you are afraid I wish to leave your service and join myself to the devil, because I do not want to serve any but the strongest.” Whereupon the Emperor paid Christopher his wages and reluctantly parted with him.
Christopher turned his face toward the dark forest, plunged into its depths, and finally found a black altar, whereon the devil had sacrificed the bodies of people. Hard by he found the devil and offered his services to him. Right gladly the devil took him into his fellowship, and straightway took him on trips of deviltry and mischief. But one day they came along by a hill in an Eastern land. On the top of the hill there stood three crosses. The devil turned aside as if in fear. Christopher was quick to notice this and he said to the devil:
“Why are you afraid?”
Then the devil said: “On that middle cross was crucified a man who is greater than I, and I fear him.”
“What,” Christopher said, “you afraid? Why, then, I am done with you; I want to serve him who is not afraid.”
And so he parted from the devil and as he went away the devil laughed and mocked him. Christopher wandered a long time, inquiring here and there for the man who had died upon the cross. Finally, one day he found a priest, who lived in a cave that opened upon a beautiful river. Tired, footsore and weary, he sat down at the invitation of the priest, who brought him refreshing water from the spring and gave him food. After he had rested a moment, he said to the priest: “Can you tell me about the man who died on the cross?” for Christopher had never heard of this man until the devil had told him. “Yes,” said the priest, “right gladly will I tell you the story of his life.”
Then the priest told Christopher how the man of Galilee had lived, and toiled, and suffered to make the world better; how he was crucified, died, and rose again. The story was a new and beautiful one to Christopher, the wonder of it! The priest told him that though this man was dead, his spirit was still in the world to make the world better. Then Christopher said to the priest: “He is the one that I wish to serve. How can I serve him?” Then the priest said: “You see this river?—there is no bridge for the people to cross; it is wide and at times dangerous. If you would serve him, help those who try to cross the river. You are tall, with broad shoulders and mighty strength. Day after day people as they travel through this land come to this river but cannot cross—you can help them across, and in that way you will serve him who, though dead, still lives.”
That pleased Christopher so that he built a house of logs and boughs by the river’s side, and when people came to the river he would wade through the water, take them on his shoulders and bear them across. Years passed by; Christopher grew grey in the service of humanity and his Master. Those who saw him day after day admired him and looked for him and he became a friend of all the country, loved by all.
One dark night when Christopher lay upon his bed, he heard some one calling, like the voice of a child: “Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come help me across!” Christopher arose from his bed and seizing his great staff, waded through the water until he reached the other side of the river, but there he found no one; all was silent, save the ripple and murmur of the waves along the river’s margin. “Strange,” he said, “I thought I heard some one calling.”
After looking all around, he said: “I must have been mistaken,” and waded back through the water to the other side of the river and lay down upon his couch again. But soon thereafter he heard the same voice calling: “Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come help me across!” “Strange,” said Christopher to himself, “some one must be there,” and seizing his staff he again crossed the river.
But no one could he find, all was silent. Above his head the stars shone, and he said to himself: “Strange it is I cannot find him who called me.”
He went across the river and laid down upon his bed again. He had not been lying there long before he heard the voice calling him a third time: “Oh! Christopher, kind, good Christopher, come help me across!” Christopher sat upon his bed—he was troubled. “Strange,” he said, “some one calls me and yet I cannot find him.” But again seizing his staff he said: “I will make one more trip.” When he reached the other side of the river, there he saw a little boy, and he said: “My little man, where were you,—twice I crossed the river to find you?” The little boy said: “I was here.” And then Christopher bent low and took the little man upon his shoulders and waded through the water, but the boy grew heavier until he seemed as heavy as a man. When Christopher reached the other side and put him down and turned to look to see why, what seemed to be a little child should be so heavy—lo! he was more than a child; a young man in appearance, with a shining face, and he said to Christopher: “I am he whom you serve; bury your staff and after a certain number of days buds will appear thereon.” Then he disappeared, vanishing as a mist, or as a shadow, though Christopher saw not. He went and lay down upon his couch and slept in great peace of mind and body.
Years passed. Christopher was still beloved by all the people and faithful to his work, but his days were numbered. Though somewhat feeble, he still bore the people on his shoulders across the river. One dark stormy night, when the wind roared through the treetops and the rain fell, Christopher, lying upon his bed, heard a voice call. He tried to rise and answer; he did go in response to the voice, but it was his spirit only that went, the last call had come to him.
The next morning the storm was gone and the sky was blue. People came to cross the river and called as usual to Christopher, but there was no response. They thought perhaps he was asleep and went to the cottage. There they found him-— asleep, but it was the long sleep. And a smile was on his face. Because of his service to the people they afterwards called him Saint Christopher.
SOULS THAT HAVE TOIL’D AND WROUGHT AND THOUGHT WITH ME—
THAT EVER WITH A FROLIC WELCOME TOOK
THE THUNDER AND THE SUNSHINE, AND OPPOSED
FREE HEARTS, FREE FOREHEADS—YOU AND I ARE OLD;
OLD AGE HATH YET HIS HONOR AND HIS TOIL,
DEATH CLOSES ALL: BUT SOMETHING ERE THE END,
SOME WORK OF NOBLE NOTE MAY YET BE DONE,
NOT UNBECOMING MEN THAT STROVE WITH GODS.
THE LIGHTS BEGIN TO TWINKLE FROM THE ROCKS:
THE LONG DAY WANES: THE SLOW MOON CLIMBS: THE DEEP
MOANS ROUND WITH MANY VOICES.
Tennyson.
The Story of England’s First Poet[3]
By George Philip Krapp
[3] Reprinted by permission from “In Oldest England” by George Philip Krapp. Copyright, 1912, by Longmans, Green & Co.
On the northern coast of England in the town of Whitby (White-town) was built a monastery many centuries ago by a woman whose name was Hild; and when the monastery was completed she became the abbess. In this monastery ruled over by the Abbess Hild, there were not only monks and nuns, but also a number of servants and helpers who had not devoted themselves to the religious life. Among these was a poor herdsman whose name was Cadmon. He could neither read nor write, and his work in the monastery consisted in taking care of the cows and other cattle which were needed to supply the monastery table with milk and butter.
Now it was a common custom for Cadmon and his friends to entertain themselves, when the day’s work was done, by sitting around the fire telling stories and singing songs. Among other amusements they had one especially which is known as “passing the harp.” According to this custom, the harp was passed along from one person to another, and as it came each man’s turn, he took the harp and sang a song to its accompaniment. Most people in those days knew many stories which they could recite in this way, but unfortunately for Cadmon, this was an accomplishment which he could never learn. Consequently when he saw the harp approaching him, he would get up and leave the circle, ashamed to confess that he could not sing a song as the others had done.
It happened that one night Cadmon left the group of his friends in this way, as he had often done before, and went into the stable where he was to pass the night watching the cattle. After a time he fell asleep. As he lay sleeping, he heard a voice calling to him, which said: “Cadmon, sing for me.” Then Cadmon answered the voice, saying: “I cannot sing; and it is for that reason that I have left the company of my friends and have come hither.” “Nevertheless, I say you must sing for me,” the voice continued. “What shall I sing?” asked Cadmon. “Sing for me,” the voice answered, “the story of how all things were created.” And then Cadmon, greatly to his own astonishment, found that he was able to sing, and he began to sing the praises of God the Creator in verses which he had never heard before.
The next morning, when Cadmon awoke from the sleep in which he had had this dream or vision, the strangest part of it was that he remembered perfectly what he had sung in his sleep during the night, and better still, he was able to add other verses to these. He told what had happened to him to his master, and his master went directly to Abbess Hild and repeated the story to her. Hild immediately called Cadmon to her, and, sending for several learned monks, she bade them recite a passage of Scripture in English to Cadmon, and then she asked Cadmon to turn what he had heard into verse. The next morning Cadmon came back and recited to her in perfect and melodious verse all that he had been told by the learned monks. Then Hild immediately perceived that this poor cowherd in her monastery was possessed of a very precious gift. She gave orders that he should be accepted as a monk into her monastery, and that the other monks should teach him all the story of the Bible. This was so done, and being unable to read, Cadmon learned all the stories of the Bible by having them told to him, and then he turned them into poetical form. The monks were glad to write down the poems as Cadmon recited them, and thus together they put into verse the whole story of the creation of the world, of the fall of man, of the children of Israel and the Exodus out of Egypt into the Promised Land, and many other stories contained in the Bible.
“It was a common custom for Cadmon and his friends to sing songs.”
“The Singing Angels” Van Eyck
Royal Museum Berlin
For many years Cadmon continued to live in the monastery at Whitby, making noble use of this poet’s gift that had been granted to him. And it was here at Whitby that he finally died. He had been unwell for several weeks before his death, but it was not supposed that his sickness was serious. One night, however, the night on which he died, he asked his nurse to take him to the infirmary, which was the part of the monastery where those brothers who were dangerously sick and on the point of death were usually cared for together. The man was surprised that Cadmon should want to be taken to the infirmary, but he did as he was asked to do. Cadmon seemed to be bright and happy, and talked cheerfully with the other sick people in the infirmary. When it was about midnight, he asked if the Eucharist was there in the infirmary. “Why do you ask that?” his friends said. “You are not so near to death that you need ask for the Eucharist.” But Cadmon asked for the Eucharist again, and when he had it in his hand he inquired whether they were all kindly disposed and at peace with him. When they said they were, then Cadmon continued: “And I, too, am at peace with all men.” Having made his last communion, he asked if the time was near when the brothers of the monastery should arise and say the prayers known as nocturns. “It is almost time,” they answered. “Let us then wait for it,” he said; and blessing himself with the sign of the cross, he lay back upon his pillow, and so falling asleep, as peacefully and as gently as he had lived, he passed to his final rest.
This is the simple story of the blameless life of the first English poet whose name has come down to us. Other poets there must have been before Cadmon, poets who sang the stories of the bloody combats of English heroes before the days of Augustine and Aidan. From the very earliest times the English have had their bards or minstrels, whose task it was to keep alive the fame of the nation’s great men. But not even the names of any of these earlier heathen poets are known to us, and but a few fragments of their songs have survived to our day. These songs were of the kind which Cadmon could not sing, but which his companions, at their feasts and banquets, all sang so freely to the accompaniment of the harp. This heathen minstrelsy is now all lost and silent, while down through the ages the clear voice of Cadmon is heard, singing the old story of the Creation of the World and of the ways of God to man. From Cadmon to Milton it is a thousand years, but the poor cowherd who became the chief ornament of Hild’s ancient monastery on the cliff above Whitby sang his songs in the same spirit as the author of “Paradise Lost.”
The “Uncle Remus” Stories
Their Evolution and Place in the Curriculum
By Josephine Leach