How to tell a (humorous) story
The Humorous Story, an American Development.-- Its Difference from
Comic and Witty Stories.
by Mark Twain
I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I only
claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost
daily in the company of the most expert story-tellers for many years.
There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind--the
humorous. I will talk mainly about that one. The humorous story is
American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French. The
humorous 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 wander
around as much as it pleases, and arrive nowhere in particular; but
the comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a point. The
humorous story bubbles gently along, the others burst.
The humorous story is strictly a work of art--high and delicate art--and
only an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling the
comic and the witty story; anybody can do it. The art of telling a
humorous story--understand, I mean by word of mouth, not print--was
created in America, and has remained at home.
The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best to conceal
the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny
about it; but the teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that
it is one of the funniest things he has ever heard, then tells it
with eager delight, and is the first person to laugh when he gets
through. And sometimes, if he has had good success, he is so glad
and happy that he 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 story
finishes with a nub, point, snapper, or whatever you like to call
it. Then the listener must be alert, for in many cases the teller
will divert attention from that nub by dropping it in a carefully
casual and indifferent way, with the pretence that he does not know
it is a nub.
Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal; then when the belated audience
presently caught the joke he would look up with innocent surprise,
as if wondering what they had found to laugh at. Dan Setchell used
it before him, Nye and Riley and others use it to-day.
But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub; he shouts
it at you--every time. And when he prints it, in England, France,
Germany, and Italy, he italicizes it, puts some whooping exclamation-points
after it,and sometimes explains it in a parenthesis. All of which
is very depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead
a better life.
Let me set down an instance of the comic method, using an anecdote
which has 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 shot
off appealed to another soldier who was hurrying by to carry him to
the rear, 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 were
flying in all directions, and presently one of the latter took the
wounded 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 his head, you booby."
Whereupon the soldier dispossessed himself of his burden, and stood
looking 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 thunderous
horse-laughter, repeating that nub from time to time through his gaspings
and 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-story
form it takes ten minutes, and is about the funniest thing I have
ever listened to--as James Whitcomb Riley tells it.
He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who has just
heard it for the first time, thinks it is unspeakably funny, and is
trying to repeat it to a neighbor. But he can't remember it; so he
gets all mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round, putting
in tedious details that don't belong in the tale and only retard it;
taking them out conscientiously and putting in others that are just
as useless; making minor mistakes now and then and stopping to correct
them and explain how he came to make them; remembering things which
he forgot to 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 name of the soldier that was hurt, and finally remembering that
the soldier's name was not mentioned, and remarking placidly that
the name is of no real importance, anyway--better, of course, if one
knew it, but not essential, after all--and so on, and so on, and so
on.
The teller is innocent and happy and pleased with himself, and has
to stop every little while to hold himself in and keep from laughing
outright; and does hold in, but his body quakes in a jelly-like way
with interior chuckles; and at the end of the ten minutes the audience
have laughed until they are exhausted, and the tears are running down
their faces.
The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of
the old farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result is a performance
which is thoroughly charming and delicious. This is art and fine and
beautiful,and only a master can compass it; but a machine could tell
the other story.
To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering and
sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they are
absurdities, is the basis of the American art, if my position is correct.
Another feature is the slurring of the point. A third is the dropping
of a studied remark apparently without knowing it, as if one were
thinking aloud. The fourth and last is the pause.
Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal. He would
begin to tell with great animation something which he seemed to think
was wonderful; then lose confidence, and after an apparently absent-minded
pause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way; and that was
the remark intended to explode the mine--and it did.
For instance, he would say eagerly, excitedly, "I once knew a
man in New Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head"--here his
animation would die out; a silent, reflective pause would follow,
then he would say dreamily, and as if to himself, "and yet that
man could beat a drum better than any man I ever saw."
The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story,
and a frequently recurring feature, too. It is a dainty thing, and
delicate, and also uncertain and treacherous; for it must be exactly
the right length--no more and no less--or it fails of its purpose
and makes trouble. If the pause is too short the impressive point
is passed, and [and if too long] the audience have had time to divine
that a surprise is intended--and then you can't surprise them, of
course.
On the platform I used to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause
in front of the snapper on the end, and that pause was the most important
thing in the whole story. If I got it the right length precisely,
I could spring the finishing ejaculation with effect enough to make
some impressible girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out
of her seat--and that was what I was after. This story was called
"The Golden Arm,"and was told in this fashion. You can practise
with it yourself--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
de prairie 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 wuz pow'ful mean--pow'ful; en dat night he couldn't sleep, Gaze
he want dat golden 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 dug her up
en got de golden arm; en he bent his head down 'gin de win', en plowed
en plowed en plowed thoo de snow. Den all on a sudden he stop (make
a considerable pause 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 and
imitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind), "Bzzz-z-zzz"---en
den, way back yonder whah de grave is, he hear a voice! he hear a
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? --zzz--zzz-- W-h-o g-o-t m-y g-o-l-d-e-n arm!" (You must
begin to shiver violently now.)
En he begin to shiver en shake, en say, "Oh, my! OH, my lan'!
"en de win' blow de lantern out, en de snow en sleet blow in
his face en mos' choke him, en he start a-plowin' knee-deep towards
home mos' dead, he so sk'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 wind and the voice).
When he git to de house he rush up-stairs en jump in de bed en kiver
up, head and years, en lay dah shiverin' en shakin'--en den way out
dah he hear it agin! --en a-comin'! En bimeby he hear (pause--awed,
listening attitude)--pat--pat--pat --hit's acomin' up-stairs! 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--he
know it's a-bendin' down over him--en he cain't skasely git his breath!
Den--den--he seem to feel someth'n c-o-l-d, right down 'most agin
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;
then you stare steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone
auditor--a girl, preferably --and let that awe-inspiring pause begin
to build itself in the deep hush. When it has reached exactly the
right length, 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 and
spring right out of her shoes. But you must get the pause right; and
you will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertain
thing you ever undertook.