CHAPTER SEVEN
Telling the Story
Since story-telling, like music, is an art, it is no more possible for every mother, teacher, or librarian to become a Scheherazade than it is possible for every child who takes music lessons to blossom into a Mozart or a Mendelssohn. The inspiration, the creative fire that beguiles the wrath of a sultan or gives birth to a symphony, emanates from within, from the fairy germs planted somewhere in the soul and nurtured into fruition through unceasing effort. Yet it is possible for every worker with children, provided he be willing to devote some time and labor to the study of technique, to learn to tell stories convincingly and entertainingly, although not with the artistry of the professional.
First of all, whenever possible, he should choose stories that appeal to him, those he will enjoy giving his listeners because they fit his own moods, for he cannot hope to tell every variety of tale with consummate excellence any more than an actor can be supreme in all types of rôles. The genius of Sothern displays itself to best advantage in the tragedies of Shakespeare, while that of Henry Miller, Forbes-Robertson, or David Warfield is suited to dramas of another kind. Each of these artists tried various rôles until he found his forte. Then he kept to the field in which he could excel, concentrating all his effort upon it. So it should be with the story-teller. He should experiment with every kind of narrative, then make a specialty of the one in which he can be at his best, and use it to accomplish his most far-reaching results. Of course the mother or teacher cannot confine herself to one variety of story. Her interests being varied and many, she cannot hope to reach the height of specialization attained by the artist who has but one purpose, one aim, and never swerves from it. She must endeavor to acquire a fair degree of proficiency in the rendition of every type of story, that she may not be found wanting by her youthful auditors; but she should specialize with the kind of tale that is nearest an expression of her own moods, because in this way she can obtain the most gratifying results.
Perhaps she is particularly skilled in presenting humorous material. Then let her use that ability as a magnet to draw her hearers to the story period and to hold them through it to the end. A good plan is to begin the program with a merry tale to put the group into a happy, receptive mood, follow it with a serious one containing the message or information the children should receive, and then give another humorous one. The serious narrative may be difficult for her to handle, and may not be given with the skill and charm that mark her rendition of another type of conte, but the children, understanding that one of her delightful “funny” stories is to follow, will listen through the less desired number and unconsciously receive its lesson, because of their eagerness to hear the succeeding one. Thus, by knowing her field of excellence and making the most of it, she can carry children into other fields because of their delight in meeting her in the one in which she is most at home.
After the story is selected, the atmosphere and setting should be studied. The teller should have a clear idea of the topography of the country in which the events occur, of the customs of the people who move through it, of their homes, their modes of life, and their manner of dress, because the more into the spirit of the tale he can put himself, the more effectively will he give it. If it be a narrative of Scotland in the days of Bruce, he should try to hear the bagpipes, see the lochs and glens of the Highlands, and walk side by side with the heroes of that time. This means gleaning many fields for materials and giving something of an artist’s labor to preparation, in which, of course, he will be limited by the time at his disposal. But according to the preparation will be the result, and to believe previous thought and study unnecessary because one has natural facility for story-telling is to be gravely mistaken. Artists of the stage discovered long ago that no matter how gifted they may be, nothing can take the place of preparation. Adrienne Lecouvreur demonstrated the truth of this statement several centuries ago when she revolutionized acting, and theatrical folk are still demonstrating it, for in just this respect lies the difference between the third- and fourth-rate player and the great dramatic star. The leading man or woman who is satisfied to learn lines and do nothing more, does not get beyond stock. But one ambitious to climb to the top rung of the histrionic ladder will travel every bypath that may possibly yield him a fuller and richer comprehension of the part he has to play. Geraldine Farrar read everything obtainable about Japan and Japanese life before attempting to create the rôle of “Madame Butterfly,” and Maude Adams spent months studying the life of the Maid of Orleans, following every step of her career from the hills of Domrémy to the pyre at Rouen, before being satisfied to present “Jeanne d’Arc” at the Harvard Stadium. So it must be with the story-teller. Only the professional can devote weeks, or even days, to the preparation of one program, but every one who attempts to tell stories must know more than the plot of the tale and must have felt its events in all their possibilities, if his hearers in their turn are to feel them.
The amount of preparation necessary varies with the individual. Those possessing natural facility and those who heard much story-telling in childhood need less than those whom Nature has not gifted, or who were not so fortunate in early environment. But every one needs some preparation, and there is much slovenly, valueless story-telling because this fact is not generally recognized. Many teachers do not regard story-telling seriously enough, and devote far less thought to it than to other branches of their work, because the idea is prevalent that any one can spin a yarn or two. Consequently they accomplish little through the medium of the story. But there is another group of workers who believe that story-telling means as much today as it meant centuries ago, and its members are sending children into the libraries. As nearly as time and the conditions of their work will permit them, they are following in the footsteps of the medieval narrator. Like him, they are giving an artist’s labor to their work because they realize that great results come only through great effort. But the number of these story-tellers, compared with the workers with children, is very small, and consequently results are not yet gratifying. They can become gratifying only when child leaders cease to think that the story period is the one period of the day for which no preparation need be made, and realize that every minute devoted to previous thought and study will make the language come more spontaneously and fluently and will bring before the eyes of the listeners pictures that are clear because they first have been clear before the eyes of the teller.
Every scene in a story should be visualized until it is as vivid as a painting on a canvas. It must be studied and imagined until it shifts smoothly and rapidly into the succeeding one. Then there will be no danger of the teller having to pause and think what comes next, or of having to interpolate something that should have been introduced at an earlier stage of the tale. This is not equally easy for every one. Those who are imaginative by nature will find it no task, while for others it will be difficult at first. But no one need be discouraged. Each succeeding attempt will bring clearer pictures and smoother shifting of scenes, and gratifying results will follow labor and perseverance. It is a good plan for the beginner to jot down in outline form the successive events of the story and study them until he can carry the sequence in his mind.
When the pictures are clear and the order of events is fixed, the story should be practiced. This does not mean that it should be learned verbatim. Untrained narrators often make the mistake of memorizing paragraph by paragraph and sentence by sentence, and then giving the tale like a recitation, which is not story-telling at all. Story-telling is a constructive, creative art, and the tale that grips and convinces and inspires must be told in a manner that makes it seem like the teller’s own. Practicing the story means facing an imaginary audience and describing so vividly and clearly what is seen that others may see the pictures that pass before the mind’s eye.