I am skeptical enough to think that it is not the spontaneity of the
grandmother but the art of Beranger which enhances the effect of the
story told in the poem.

This intimate form of narration, which is delightful in its special
surroundings, would fail to _reach_, much less _hold_, a large audience,
not because of its simplicity, but often because of the want of skill in
arranging material and of the artistic sense of selection which brings
the interest to a focus and arranges the side lights. In short, the
simplicity we need for the ordinary purpose is that which comes from
ease and produces a sense of being able to let ourselves go, because we
have thought out our effects. It is when we translate our instinct into
art that the story becomes finished and complete.

I find it necessary to emphasize this point because people are apt to
confuse simplicity of delivery with carelessness of utterance, loose
stringing of sentences of which the only connections seem to be the
ever-recurring use of "and" and "so," and "er . . .," this latter
inarticulate sound having done more to ruin a story and distract the
audience than many more glaring errors of dramatic form.


Real simplicity holds the audience because the lack of apparent effort
in the artist has the most comforting effect upon the listener. It is
like turning from the whirring machinery of process to the finished
article, which bears no traces of the making except the harmony and
beauty of the whole, which make one realize that the individual parts
have received all proper attention. What really brings about this
apparent simplicity which insures the success of the story? It has
been admirably expressed in a passage from Henry James' lecture