The Art of Story-Telling

by Marie L. Shedlock

In the first case, it is wise to persevere, in hopes of developing the dormant imagination. If the child resents the apparent want of truth, we can teach him how many-sided truth is, as I suggested in my answer to the first question. In the other cases, we must try to make it clear that the delight he may venture to take now will increase, not decrease, with years; that the more you bring to a thing (in the way of experience and knowledge) the more you will draw out of it.

Let us take as a concrete example the question of Santa Claus. This joy has almost disappeared, for we have torn away the last shred of mystery about that personage by allowing him to be materialised in the Christmas shops and bazaars.

But the original myth need never have disappeared; the link could easily have been kept by gradually telling the child that the Santa Claus they worshipped as a mysterious and invisible power is nothing but the Spirit of Charity and Kindness that makes us remember others, and that this spirit often takes the form of material gifts. We can also lead them a step higher and show them that this spirit of kindness can do more than provide material things; so that the old nursery tale has laid a beautiful foundation which need never be pulled up: we can build upon it and add to it all through our lives.

Is not one of the reasons that children reject Fairy Tales because such very poor material is offered them? There is a dreary flatness about all except the very best which revolts the child of literary appreciation and would fail to strike a spark in the more prosaic.

Question IV. Do I recommend learning a story by heart, or telling it in one's own words?

This would largely depend on the kind of story. If the style is classic or if the interest of the story is closely connected with the style, as in Andersen, Kipling or Stevenson, then it is better to commit it absolutely to memory. But if this process should take too long (I mean for those who cannot afford the time to specialise), or if it produces a stilted effect, then it is wiser to read the story many times over, let it soak in, taking notes of certain passages which would add to the dramatic interest of the story, and not trouble about the word accuracy of the whole.

For instance, for very young children the story of Pandora, as told in the Wonder-Book, could be shortened so as to leave principally the dramatic dialogue between the two children, which would be easily committed to memory by the narrator and would appeal most directly to the children. Again, for older children: in taking a beautiful mediæval story such as “Our Lady's Tumbler,” the original text could hardly be presented so as to hold an audience; but whilst giving up a great deal of the elaborate material, we should try to present many of the characteristic passages which seem to sum up the situation. For instance, before his performance, the Tumbler cries: “What am I doing? For there is none here so caitiff but who vies with all the rest in serving God after his trade.” And after his act of devotion: “Lady, this is a choice performance. I do it for no other but for you; so aid me God, I do not—for you and for your Son. And this I dare avouch and boast, that for me it is no play-work. But I am serving you, and that pays me.”

On the other hand, there are some very gifted narrators who can only tell the story in their own words. I consider that both methods are necessary to the all-round story-teller.

Question V. How do I set about preparing a story?

Here again the preparation depends a great deal on the kind of story: whether it has to be committed to memory or re-arranged to suit a certain age of child, or told entirely in one's own words. But there is one kind of preparation which is the same for any story, that is, living with it for a long time, until you have really obtained the right atmosphere, and then bringing the characters actually to life in this atmosphere, most especially in the case of inanimate objects. This is where Hans C. Andersen reigns supreme. Horace Scudder says of him: “By some transmigration, souls have passed into tin soldiers, balls, tops, money-pigs, coins, shoes and even such attenuated things as darning-needles, and when, in forming these apparent dead and stupid bodies, they begin to make manifestations, it is always in perfect consistency with the ordinary conditions of the bodies they occupy, though the several objects become, by the endowment of souls, suddenly expanded in their capacity.”[49]