HOW TO TELL A STORY
The Humorous Story an American Development.--Its Difference from Comicand Witty Stories
I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I onlyclaim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost dailyin the company of the most expert story-tellers for many years.
There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind--thehumorous. I will talk mainly about that one. The humorous story isAmerican, the comic story is English, the witty story is French. Thehumorous story depends for its effect upon the _manner _of the telling;the comic story and the witty story upon the _matter_.
The humorous story may be spun out to great length, and may wanderaround as much as it pleases, and arrive nowhere in particular; but thecomic and witty stories must be brief and end with a point. The humorousstory bubbles gently along, the others burst.
The humorous story is strictly a work of art--high and delicate art--andonly an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling the comicand the witty story; anybody can do it. The art of telling a humorousstory--understand, I mean by word of mouth, not print--was created inAmerica, and has remained at home.
The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best to concealthe fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny aboutit; but the teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that it isone of the funniest things he has ever heard, then tells it with eagerdelight, and is the first person to laugh when he gets through. Andsometimes, if he has had good success, he is so glad and happy thathe will repeat the "nub" of it and glance around from face to face,collecting applause, and then repeat it again. It is a pathetic thing tosee.
Very often, of course, the rambling and disjointed humorous storyfinishes with a nub, point, snapper, or whatever you like to call it.Then the listener must be alert, for in many cases the teller willdivert attention from that nub by dropping it in a carefully casual andindifferent way, with the pretense that he does not know it is a nub.
Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal; then when the belated audiencepresently caught the joke he would look up with innocent surprise, as ifwondering what they had found to laugh at. Dan Setchell used it beforehim, Nye and Riley and others use it today.
But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub; he shouts it atyou--every time. And when he prints it, in England, France, Germany, andItaly, he italicizes it, puts some whopping exclamation-points afterit, and sometimes explains it in a parenthesis. All of which is verydepressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a betterlife.
Let me set down an instance of the comic method, using an anecdote whichhas been popular all over the world for twelve or fifteen hundred years.The teller tells it in this way:
THE WOUNDED SOLDIER
In the course of a certain battle a soldier whose leg had been shotoff appealed to another soldier who was hurrying by to carry him to therear, informing him at the same time of the loss which he had sustained;whereupon the generous son of Mars, shouldering the unfortunate,proceeded to carry out his desire. The bullets and cannon-balls wereflying in all directions, and presently one of the latter took thewounded man's head off--without, however, his deliverer being aware ofit. In no long time he was hailed by an officer, who said:
"Where are you going with that carcass?"
"To the rear, sir--he's lost his leg!"
"His leg, forsooth?" responded the astonished officer; "you mean hishead, you booby."
Whereupon the soldier dispossessed himself of his burden, and stoodlooking down upon it in great perplexity. At length he said:
"It is true, sir, just as you have said." Then after a pause he added,"_But he TOLD me IT WAS HIS LEG!!!!!_"
Here the narrator bursts into explosion after explosion of thunderoushorse-laughter, repeating that nub from time to time through his gaspingand shriekings and suffocatings.
It takes only a minute and a half to tell that in its comic-story form;and isn't worth the telling, after all. Put into the humorous-storyform it takes ten minutes, and is about the funniest thing I have everlistened to--as James Whitcomb Riley tells it.
He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who has justheard it for the first time, thinks it is unspeakably funny, and istrying to repeat it to a neighbor. But he can't remember it; so he getsall mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round, putting in tediousdetails that don't belong in the tale and only retard it; taking themout conscientiously and putting in others that are just as useless;making minor mistakes now and then and stopping to correct them andexplain how he came to make them; remembering things which he forgotto put in in their proper place and going back to put them in there;stopping his narrative a good while in order to try to recall the nameof the soldier that was hurt, and finally remembering that the soldier'sname was not mentioned, and remarking placidly that the name is of noreal importance, anyway--better, of course, if one knew it, but notessential, after all--and so on, and so on, and so on.
The teller is innocent and happy and pleased with himself, and hasto stop every little while to hold himself in and keep from laughingoutright; and does hold in, but his body quakes in a jelly-like way withinterior chuckles; and at the end of the ten minutes the audience havelaughed until they are exhausted, and the tears are running down theirfaces.
The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of theold farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result is a performancewhich is thoroughly charming and delicious. This is art--and fine andbeautiful, and only a master can compass it; but a machine could tellthe other story.
To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering andsometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that theyare absurdities, is the basis of the American art, if my position iscorrect. Another feature is the slurring of the point. A third is thedropping of a studied remark apparently without knowing it, as if onewhere thinking aloud. The fourth and last is the pause.
Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal. He would beginto tell with great animation something which he seemed to think waswonderful; then lose confidence, and after an apparently absent-mindedpause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way; and that was theremark intended to explode the mine--and it did.
For instance, he would say eagerly, excitedly, "I once knew a man in NewZealand who hadn't a tooth in his head"--here his animation woulddie out; a silent, reflective pause would follow, then he would saydreamily, and as if to himself, "and yet that man could beat a drumbetter than any man I ever saw."
The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story, anda frequently recurring feature, too. It is a dainty thing, and delicate,and also uncertain and treacherous; for it must be exactly the rightlength--no more and no less--or it fails of its purpose and makestrouble. If the pause is too short the impressive point is passed, andthe audience have had time to divine that a surprise is intended--andthen you can't surprise them, of course.
On the platform I used to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause infront of the snapper on the end, and that pause was the most importantthing in the whole story. If I got it the right length precisely, Icould spring the finishing ejaculation with effect enough to make someimpressible girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out of herseat--and that was what I was after. This story was called "TheGolden Arm," and was told in this fashion. You can practice with ityourself--and mind you look out for the pause and get it right.
THE GOLDEN ARM
Once 'pon a time dey wuz a monsus mean man, en he live 'way out in deprairie all 'lone by hisself, 'cep'n he had a wife. En bimeby she died,en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her. Well,she had a golden arm--all solid gold, fum de shoulder down. He wuzpow'ful mean--pow'ful; en dat night he couldn't sleep, caze he want datgolden arm so bad.
When it come midnight he couldn't stan' it no mo'; so he git up, he did,en tuck his lantern en shoved out thoo de storm en d
ug her up en got degolden arm; en he bent his head down 'gin de win', en plowed en ploweden plowed thoo de snow. Den all on a sudden he stop (make a considerablepause here, and look startled, and take a listening attitude) en say:"My _lan'_, what's dat?"
En he listen--en listen--en de win' say (set your teeth together andimitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind), "Bzzz-z-zzz"--enden, way back yonder whah de grave is, he hear a _voice_!--he heara voice all mix' up in de win'--can't hardly tell 'em 'part--"Bzzz--zzz--W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n _arm?_" (You must begin toshiver violently now.)
En he begin to shiver en shake, en say, "Oh, my! _Oh_, my lan'!" en dewin' blow de lantern out, en de snow en sleet blow in his face en mos'choke him, en he start a-plowin' knee-deep toward home mos' dead, he sosk'yerd--en pooty soon he hear de voice agin, en (pause) it 'us comin_after _him! "Bzzz--zzz--zzz W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n--_arm_?"
When he git to de pasture he hear it agin--closter now, en_a-comin'!_--a-comin' back dah in de dark en de storm--(repeat the windand the voice). When he git to de house he rush upstairs en jump in debed en kiver up, head and years, en lay da shiverin' en shakin'--enden way out dah he hear it _agin!_--en a-_comin'_! En bimeby he hear(pause--awed, listening attitude)--pat--pat--pat _Hit's a-comin'upstairs!_ Den he hear de latch, en he _know _it's in de room!
Den pooty soon he know it's a-_stannin' by de bed!_ (Pause.) Den--heknow it's a-_bendin' down over him_--en he cain't skasely git hisbreath! Den--den--he seem to feel someth'n' _c-o-l-d_, right down 'mostagin his head! (Pause.)
Den de voice say, _right at his year_--"W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y g-o-l-d-e-n_arm?_" (You must wail it out very plaintively and accusingly; thenyou stare steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-goneauditor--a girl, preferably--and let that awe-inspiring pause begin tobuild itself in the deep hush. When it has reached exactly the rightlength, jump suddenly at that girl and yell, "_You've_ got it!")
If you've got the _pause _right, she'll fetch a dear little yelp andspring right out of her shoes. But you _must _get the pause right; andyou will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertainthing you ever undertook.