The Art of Story-Telling · Part VII

In modern times, the nurse, who is now receiving such complete training for her duties with the children, should be ready to imitate the “dreamer” of the Indian tribe. I rejoice to find that regular instruction in Story-telling is being given in many of the institutions where the nurses are trained.

Some years ago there appeared a book by Dion Calthrop called “King Peter,” which illustrates very fully the effect of story-telling. It is the account of the education of a young prince which is carried on at first by means of stories, and later he is taken out into the arena of Life to be shown what is happening there--the dramatic appeal being always the means used to awaken his imagination. The fact that only one story a year is told him prevents our seeing the effect from day to day, but the time matters little. We only need faith to believe that the growth, though slow, was very sure.

There is something of the same idea in the “Adventures of Telemachus,” written by Fénélon for his royal pupil, the young Duke of Burgundy; but whereas Calthrop trusts to the results of indirect teaching by means of dramatic stories, Fénélon, on the contrary, makes use of the somewhat heavy, didactic method, so that one would think the attention of the young prince must have wandered at times; and I imagine Telemachus was in the same condition when he was addressed at some length by Mentor, who, being Minerva (though in disguise), should occasionally have displayed that sense of humour which must always temper true wisdom:

Take, for instance, the heavy reproof conveyed in the following passage:

“Death and shipwreck are less dreadful than the pleasures that attack Virtue.... Youth is full of presumption and arrogance, though nothing in the world is so frail: it fears nothing, and vainly relies on its own strength, believing everything with the utmost levity and without any precaution.”

And on another occasion, when Calypso hospitably provides clothes for the shipwrecked men, and Telemachus is handling a tunic of the finest wool and white as snow, with a vest of purple embroidered with gold, and displaying much pleasure in the magnificence of the clothes, Mentor addresses him in a severe voice, saying: “Are these, O Telemachus, the thoughts that ought to occupy the heart of the son of Ulysses? A young man who loves to dress vainly, as a woman does, is unworthy of wisdom or glory.”

I remember, as a schoolgirl of thirteen, having to commit to memory several books of these adventures, so as to become familiar with the style. Far from being impressed by the wisdom of Mentor, I was simply bored, and wondered why Telemachus did not escape from him. The only part in the book that really interested me was Calypso's unrequited love for Telemachus, but this was always the point where we ceased to learn by heart, which surprised me greatly, for it was here that the real human interest seemed to begin.

Of all the effects which I hope for from the telling of stories in the schools, personally I place first the dramatic joy we bring to the children and to ourselves. But there are many who would consider this result as fantastic, if not frivolous, and not to be classed among the educational values concocted with the introduction of stories into the school curriculum. I therefore propose to speak of other effects of story-telling which may seem of more practical value.

The first, which is of a purely negative character, is that through means of a dramatic story we can counteract some of the sights and sounds of the streets which appeal to the melodramatic instinct in children. I am sure that all teachers whose work lies in the crowded cities must have realised the effect produced on children by what they see and hear on their way to and from school. If we merely consider the hoardings, with their realistic representations, quite apart from the actual dramatic happenings in the street, we at once perceive that the ordinary school interests pale before such lurid appeals as these. How can we expect the child who has stood open-mouthed before a poster representing a woman chloroformed by a burglar, whilst that hero escapes in safety with her jewels, to display any interest in the arid monotony of the multiplication-table? The illegitimate excitement created by the sight of the depraved burglar can only be counteracted by something equally exciting along the realistic but legitimate side; and this is where the story of the right kind becomes so valuable, and why the teacher who is artistic enough to undertake the task can find the short path to results which theorists seek for so long in vain. It is not even necessary to have an exceedingly exciting story; sometimes one which will bring about pure reaction may be just as suitable.

I remember in my personal experience an instance of this kind. I had been reading with some children of about ten years old the story from Cymbeline, of Imogen in the forest scene, when the brothers strew flowers upon her, and sing the funeral dirge,

“Fear no more the heat of the sun.”

Just as we had all taken on this tender, gentle mood, the door opened and one of the prefects announced in a loud voice the news of the relief of Mafeking. The children were on their feet at once, cheering lustily, and for the moment the joy over the relief of the brave garrison was the predominant feeling. Then, before the Jingo spirit had time to assert itself, I took advantage of a momentary reaction and said: “Now, children, don't you think we can pay England the tribute of going back to England's greatest poet?” In a few minutes we were back in the heart of the Forest, and I can still hear the delightful intonation of those subdued voices repeating:

Golden lads and girls all must Like chimney-sweepers come to dust.

It is interesting to note that the same problem that is exercising us to-day was a source of difficulty to people in remote times. The following is taken from an old Chinese document, and has particular interest for us to-day.

“The Philosopher Mentius (born 371 B. C.) was left fatherless at a very tender age and brought up by his mother Changsi. The care of this prudent and attentive mother has been cited as a model for all virtuous parents. The house she occupied was near that of a butcher: she observed at the first cry of the animals that were being slaughtered, the little Mentius ran to be present at the sight, and that, on his return, he sought to imitate what he had seen. Fearful lest his heart might become hardened, and accustomed to the sights of blood, she removed to another house which was in the neighbourhood of a cemetery. The relations of those who were buried there came often to weep upon their graves, and make their customary libations. The lad soon took pleasure in their ceremonies and amused himself by imitating them. This was a new subject of uneasiness to his mother: she feared her son might come to consider as a jest what is of all things the most serious, and that he might acquire a habit of performing with levity, and as a matter of routine merely, ceremonies which demand the most exact attention and respect. Again therefore she anxiously changed the dwelling, and went to live in the city, opposite to a school, where her son found examples the most worthy of imitation, and began to profit by them. This anecdote has become incorporated by the Chinese into a proverb, which they constantly quote: The Mother of Mentius seeks a neighbourhood.”

Another influence we have to counteract is that of newspaper headings which catch the eye of children in the streets and appeal so powerfully to their imagination.

Shakespeare has said:

Tell me where is Fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes With gazing fed: and Fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring Fancy's knell. I'll begin it--ding, dong, bell. “Merchant of Venice.”

If this be true, it is of importance to decide what our children shall look upon as far as we can control the vision, so that we can form some idea of the effect upon their imagination.

Having alluded to the dangerous influence of the street, I should hasten to say that this influence is very far from being altogether bad. There are possibilities of romance in street life which may have just the same kind of effect on children as the telling of exciting stories. I am indebted to Mrs. Arnold Glover (Hon. Sec. of the National Organisation of Girls' Clubs), one of the most widely informed people on this subject, for the two following experiences gathered from the streets which bear indirectly on the subject of story-telling:

Mrs. Glover was visiting a sick woman in a very poor neighbourhood, and found, sitting on the doorstep of the house, two children, holding something tightly grasped in their little hands, and gazing with much expectancy towards the top of the street. She longed to know what they were doing, but not being one of those unimaginative and tactless folk who rush headlong into the mysteries of children's doings, she passed them at first in silence. It was only when she found them still in the same silent and expectant posture half-an-hour later that she said tentatively: “I wonder whether you would tell me what you are doing here?” After some hesitation, one of them said, in a shy voice: “We're waitin' for the barrer.” It then transpired that, once a week, a vegetable-and flower-cart was driven through this particular street, on its way to a more prosperous neighbourhood, and on a few red-letter days, a flower, or a sprig, or even a root sometimes fell out of the back of the cart; and those two little children were waiting there in hope, with their hands full of soil, ready to plant anything which might by golden chance fall that way, in their secret garden of oyster-shells.

This seems to me as charming a fairy-tale as any that our books can supply.

Another time Mrs. Glover was collecting the pennies for the Holiday Fund Savings Bank from the children who came weekly to her house. She noticed on three consecutive Mondays that one little lad deliberately helped himself to a new envelope from her table. Not wishing to frighten or startle him, she allowed this to continue for some weeks, and then one day, having dismissed the other children, she asked him quite quietly why he was taking the envelopes. At first he was very sulky, and said: “I need them better than you do.” She quite agreed this might be, but reminded him that, after all, they belonged to her. She promised, however, that if he would tell her for what purpose he wanted the envelopes, she would endeavour to help him in the matter. Then came the astonishing announcement: “I am building a navy.” After a little more gradual questioning, Mrs. Glover drew from the boy the information that the Borough Water Carts passed through the side street once a week, flushing the gutter; that then the Envelope Ships were made to sail on the water and pass under the covered ways which formed bridges for wayfarers and tunnels for the “navy.” Great was the excitement when the ships passed out of sight and were recognised as they arrived safely at the other end. Of course the expenses in raw material were greatly diminished by the illicit acquisition of Mrs. Glover's property, and in this way she had unconsciously provided the neighbourhood with a navy and a Commander. Her first instinct, after becoming acquainted with the whole story, was to present the boy with a real boat, but on second thought she collected and gave him a number of old envelopes with names and addresses upon them, which added greatly to the excitement of the sailing, because they could be more easily identified as they came out of the other side of the tunnel, and had their respective reputations as to speed.

Here is indeed food for romance, and I give both instances to prove that the advantages of street life are to be taken into consideration as well as the disadvantages; though I think we are bound to admit that the latter outweigh the former.

One of the immediate results of dramatic stories is the escape from the commonplace, to which I have already alluded in quoting Mr. Goschen's words. The desire for this escape is a healthy one, common to adults and children. When we wish to get away from our own surroundings and interests, we do for ourselves what I maintain we ought to do for children; we step into the land of fiction. It has always been a source of astonishment to me that, in trying to escape from our own every-day surroundings, we do not step more boldly into the land of pure romance, which would form a real contrast to our every-day life, but in nine cases out of ten the fiction which is sought after deals with the subjects of our ordinary existence--namely, frenzied finance, sordid poverty, political corruption, fast society, and religious doubts.

There is the same danger in the selection of fiction for children: namely, a tendency to choose very utilitarian stories, both in form and substance, so that we do not lift the children out of the commonplace. I remember once seeing the titles of two little books, the contents of which were being read or told to small children of the poorer class: one was called “Tom the Boot-black,” the other, “Dan the News-boy.” My chief objection to these stories was the fact that neither of the heroes rejoiced in their work for the work's sake. Had Tom even invented a new kind of blacking, or if Dan had started a splendid newspaper, it might have been encouraging for those among the listeners who were thinking of engaging in similar professions. It is true, both gentlemen amassed large fortunes, but surely the school age is not to be limited to such dreams and aspirations as these! One wearies of the tales of boys who arrive in a town with one cent in their pockets, and leave it as millionaires, with the added importance of a Mayoralty, not to speak of a Knighthood. It is true that the romantic prototype of these boys is Dick Whittington, for whom we unconsciously cherish the affection which we often bestow on a far-off personage. Perhaps--who knows?--it is the picturesque adjunct of the cat--lacking to modern millionaires.[38]

I do not think it Utopian to present to children a fair share of stories which deal with the importance of things “untouched by hand.” They too can learn at an early age that “the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are unseen are spiritual.” To those who wish to try the effect of such stories on children, I present for their encouragement the following lines from Whitcomb Riley:

THE TREASURE OF THE WISE MAN.[39]

Oh, the night was dark and the night was late, When the robbers came to rob him; And they picked the lock of his palace-gate, The robbers who came to rob him-- They picked the lock of the palace-gate, Seized his jewels and gems of State His coffers of gold and his priceless plate,-- The robbers that came to rob him.

But loud laughed he in the morning red!-- For of what had the robbers robbed him? Ho! hidden safe, as he slept in bed, When the robbers came to rob him,-- They robbed him not of a golden shred Of the childish dreams in his wise old head-- “And they're welcome to all things else,” he said, When the robbers came to rob him.

There is a great deal of this romantic spirit, combined with a delightful sense of irresponsibility, which I claim above all things for small children, to be found in our old Nursery Rhymes. I quote from the following article written by the Rev. R. L. Gales for the Nation.

After speaking on the subject of Fairy Stories being eliminated from the school curriculum, the writer adds:

“This would be lessening the joy of the world and taking from generations yet unborn the capacity for wonder, the power to take a large unselfish interest in the spectacle of things, and putting them forever at the mercy of small private cares.

A Nursery Rhyme is the most sane, the most unselfish thing in the world. It calls up some delightful image,--a little nut-tree with a silver walnut and a golden pear; some romantic adventure only for the child's delight and liberation from the bondage of unseeing dulness: it brings before the mind the quintessence of some good thing:

'The little dog laughed to see such sport'--there is the soul of good humour, of sanity, of health in the laughter of that innocently wicked little dog. It is the laughter of pure frolic without unkindness. To have laughed with the little dog as a child is the best preservative against mirthless laughter in later years--the horse laughter of brutality, the ugly laughter of spite, the acrid laughter of fanaticism. The world of Nursery Rhymes, the old world of Mrs. Slipper-Slopper, is the world of natural things, of quick, healthy motion, of the joy of living.

In Nursery Rhymes the child is entertained with all the pageant of the world. It walks in Fairy Gardens, and for it the singing birds pass. All the King's horses and all the King's men pass before it in their glorious array. Craftsmen of all sorts, bakers, confectioners, silversmiths, blacksmiths are busy for it with all their arts and mysteries, as at the court of an Eastern King.”

In insisting on the value of this escape from the commonplace, I cannot prove the importance of it more clearly than by showing what may happen to a child who is deprived of his birthright by having none of the Fairy Tale element presented to him. In “Father and Son,” Mr. Edmund Gosse says:

“Meanwhile, capable as I was of reading, I found my greatest pleasure in the pages of books. The range of these was limited, for story-books of every description were sternly excluded. No fiction of any kind, religious or secular, was admitted into the house. In this it was to my Mother, not to my Father, that the prohibition was due. She had a remarkable, I confess, to me somewhat unaccountable impression that to ‘tell a story,’ that is, to compose fictitious narrative of any kind, was a sin.... Nor would she read the chivalrous tales in the verse of Sir Walter Scott, obstinately alleging that they were not true. She would read nothing but lyrical and subjective poetry.... As a child, however, she had possessed a passion for making up stories, and so considerable a skill in it, that she was constantly being begged to indulge others with its exercise.... ‘When I was a very little child,’ she says, ‘I used to amuse myself and my brothers with inventing stories such as I had read. Having, as I suppose, naturally a restless mind and busy imagination, this soon became the chief pleasure of my life. Unfortunately, my brothers were always fond of encouraging this propensity, and I found in Taylor, my maid, a still greater tempter. I had not known there was any harm in it, until Miss Shore (a Calvinistic governess), finding it out, lectured me severely and told me it was wicked. From that time forth I considered that to invent a story of any kind was a sin.... But the longing to invent stories grew with violence. The simplicity of Truth was not enough for me. I must needs embroider imagination upon it, and the folly and wickedness which disgraced my heart are more than I am able to express....’ This (the Author, her son, adds) is surely a very painful instance of the repression of an instinct.”

In contrast to the stifling of the imagination, it is good to recall the story of the great Hermits who, having listened to the discussion of the Monday sitting at the Académie des Sciences (Institut de France) as to the best way to teach the young how to shoot in the direction of mathematical genius, said: “Cultivez l'imagination, messieurs. Tout est là. Si vous voulez des mathématiciens, donnez à vos enfants à lire--des Contes de Fées.”

Another important effect of the story is to develop at an early age sympathy for children of other countries where conditions are different from our own. There is a book used in American schools called “Little Citizens of other Lands,” dealing with the clothes, the games and occupations of those little citizens. Stories of this kind are particularly necessary to prevent the development of insular notions, and are a check on that robust form of Philistinism, only too prevalent, alas! among grown-ups, which looks askance at new suggestions and makes the withering remark: “How un-English! How queer!”--the second comment being, it would seem, a natural corollary to the first.[40]

I have so constantly to deal with the question of confusion between Truth and Fiction in the mind of children that it might be useful to offer here an example of the way they make the distinction for themselves.

Mrs. Ewing says on this subject:

“If there are young intellects so imperfect as to be incapable of distinguishing between Fancy and Falsehood, it is most desirable to develop in them the power to do so, but, as a rule, in childhood, we appreciate the distinction with a vivacity which as elders our care-clogged memories fail to recall.”

Mr. P. A. Barnett, in his book on the “Commonsense of Education,” says, alluding to Fairy Tales:

“Children will act them but not act upon them, and they will not accept the incidents as part of their effectual belief. They will imagine, to be sure, grotesque worlds, full of admirable and interesting personages to whom strange things might have happened. So much the better; this largeness of imagination is one of the possessions that distinguish the better nurtured child from others less fortunate.”

The following passage from Stevenson's essay on Child Play[41] will furnish an instance of children's aptitude for creating their own dramatic atmosphere:

“When my cousin and I took our porridge of a morning, we had a device to enliven the course of a meal. He ate his with sugar, and explained it to be a country continually buried under snow. I took mine with milk, and explained it to be a country suffering gradual inundation. You can imagine us exchanging bulletins; how here was an island still unsubmerged, here a valley not yet covered with snow; what inventions were made; how his population lived in cabins on perches and travelled on stilts, and how mine was always in boats; how the interest grew furious as the last corner of safe ground was cut off on all sides and grew smaller every moment; and how, in fine, the food was of altogether secondary importance, and might even have been nauseous, so long as we seasoned it with these dreams. But perhaps the most exciting moments I ever had over a meal, were in the case of calves' feet jelly. It was hardly possible not to believe, and you may be quite sure, so far from trying it, I did all I could to favour the illusion--that some part of it was hollow, and that sooner or later my spoon would lay open the secret tabernacle of that golden rock. There, might some Red-Beard await this hour; there might one find the treasures of the Forty Thieves. And so I quarried on slowly, with bated breath, savouring the interest. Believe me, I had little palate left for the jelly; and though I preferred the taste when I took cream with it, I used often to go without because the cream dimmed the transparent fractures.”

In his work on Imagination, Ribot says: “The free initiative of children is always superior to the imitations we pretend to make for them.”

The passage from Robert Stevenson becomes more clear from a scientific point of view when taken in connection with one from Karl Groos' book on the “Psychology of Animal Play”:

“The Child is wholly absorbed in his play, and yet under the ebb and flow of thought and feeling like still water under wind-swept waves, he has the knowledge that it is pretence after all. Behind the sham ‘I’ that takes part in the game, stands the unchanged ‘I’ which regards the sham ‘I’ with quiet superiority.”

Queyrat speaks of play as one of the distinct phases of a child's imagination; it is “essentially a metamorphosis of reality, a transformation of places and things.”

Now to return to the point which Mrs. Ewing makes, namely, that we should develop in normal children the power of distinguishing between Truth and Falsehood.

I should suggest including two or three stories which would test that power in children, and if they fail to realise the difference between romancing and telling lies then it is evident that they need special attention and help along this line. I give the titles of two stories of this kind in the collection at the end of the book.[42]

So far we have dealt only with the negative results of stories, but there are more important effects, and I am persuaded that if we are careful in our choice of stories, and artistic in our presentation (so that the truth is framed, so to speak, in the memory), we can unconsciously correct evil tendencies in children which they only recognise in themselves when they have already criticised them in the characters of the story. I have sometimes been misunderstood on this point, therefore I should like to make it quite clear. I do not mean that stories should take the place entirely of moral or direct teaching, but that on many occasions they could supplement and strengthen moral teaching, because the dramatic appeal to the imagination is quicker than the moral appeal to the conscience. A child will often resist the latter lest it should make him uncomfortable or appeal to his personal sense of responsibility: it is often not in his power to resist the former, because it has taken possession of him before he is aware of it.