The Art of Story-Telling

by Marie L. Shedlock

First and foremost, as a means of suddenly pulling up the attention of the audience, is the judicious Art of Pausing.

For those who have not actually had experience in the matter, this advice will seem trite and unnecessary, but those who have even a little experience will realise with me the extraordinary efficacy of this very simple means. It is really what Coquelin spoke of as a “high light,” where the interest is focussed, as it were, to a point.

I have tried this simple art of pausing with every kind of audience, and I have very rarely known it to fail. It is very difficult to offer a concrete example of this, unless one is giving a “live” representation; but I shall make an attempt, and at least I shall hope to make myself understood by those who have heard me tell stories.

In Hans C. Andersen's “Princess and the Pea,”[16] the King goes down to open the door himself. Now, you may make this point in two ways. You may either say: “And then the King went to the door, and at the door there stood a real Princess,” or, “And then the King went to the door, and at the door there stood—(pause)—a real Princess.”

It is difficult to exaggerate the difference of effect produced by so slight a cause.[17] With children it means an unconscious curiosity which expresses itself in a sudden muscular tension—there is just time, during that instant's pause, to feel, though not to formulate, the question: “What is standing at the door?” By this means half your work of holding the attention is accomplished. It is not necessary for me to enter into the psychological reason of this, but I strongly recommend those who are interested in the question to read the chapter in Ribot's work on this subject, Essai sur l'Imagination créatrice, as well as Mr. Keatinge's work on “Suggestion.”

I would advise all teachers to revise their stories with a view to introducing the judicious Pause, and to vary its use according to the age, the number and, above all, the mood of the audience. Experience alone can ensure success in this matter. It has taken me many years to realise the importance of this artifice.

Among other means of holding the attention of the audience and helping to bring out the points of the story is the use of gesture. I consider, however, it must be a sparing use, and not of a broad or definite character. We shall never improve on the advice given by Hamlet to the actors on this subject: “See that ye o'erstep not the modesty of Nature.”

And yet, perhaps, it is not necessary to warn Story-tellers against abuse of gesture: it is more helpful to encourage them in the use of it, especially in Anglo-Saxon countries, where we are fearful of expressing ourselves in this way, and, when we do, the gesture often lacks subtlety. The Anglo-Saxon, when he does move at all, moves in solid blocks—a whole arm, a whole leg, the whole body—but if you watch a Frenchman or an Italian in conversation, you suddenly realise how varied and subtle are the things which can be suggested by the mere turn of the wrist or the movement of a finger. The power of the hand has been so wonderfully summed up in a passage from Quintilian that I am justified in offering it to all those who wish to realise what can be done by gesture:

“As to the hands, without the aid of which all delivery would be deficient and weak, it can scarcely be told of what a variety of motions they are susceptible, since they almost equal in expression the power of language itself. For other parts of the body assist the speaker, but these, I may almost say, speak themselves. With our hands we ask, promise, call persons to us and send them away, threaten, supplicate, intimate dislike or fear; with our hands we signify joy, grief, doubt, acknowledgment, penitence, and indicate measure, quantity, number and time. Have not our hands the power of inciting, of restraining, or beseeching, of testifying approbation.... So that amidst the great diversity of tongues pervading all nations and peoples, the language of the hands appears to be a language common to all men.” (From “Education of an Orator,” Book II, Chap. 3.)

One of the most effective artifices in telling stories to young children is the use of mimicry—the imitation of animals' voices and sounds in general is of never-ending joy to the listeners. Only, I should wish to introduce a note of grave warning in connection with this subject. This special artifice can only be used by such narrators as have special aptitude and gifts in this direction. There are many people with good imaginative power but wholly lacking in the power of mimicry, whose efforts in this direction, however painstaking, would remain grotesque and therefore ineffective. When listening to such performances (of which children are strangely critical) one is reminded of the French story in which the amateur animal painter is showing her picture to an undiscriminating friend: