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