and movements when they tell a story. The special training for the
story-teller should consist not only in the training of the voice and
in choice of language, but above all in power of delicate suggestion,
which cannot always be used on the stage because this is hampered by
the presence of actual things. The story-teller has to present
these things to the more delicate organism of the "inward eye."

So deeply convinced am I of the miniature character of the story-
telling art that I believe one never gets a perfectly artistic
presentation of this kind in a very large hall or before a very
large audience.

I have made experiments along this line, having twice told a story to
an audience in America[12] exceeding five thousand, but on both
occasions, though the dramatic reaction upon oneself from the response
of so large an audience was both gratifying and stimulating, I was
forced to sacrifice the delicacy of the story and to take from its
artistic value by the necessity of emphasis, in order to be heard by
all present.

Emphasis is the bane of all story-telling, for it destroys the
delicacy, and the whole performance suggests a struggle in conveying
the message. The indecision of the victory leaves the audience
restless and unsatisfied.

Then, again, as compared with acting on the stage, in telling a story
one misses the help of effective entrances and exits, the footlights,
the costume, the facial expression of your fellow-actor which interprets
so much of what you yourself say without further elaboration on your
part; for, in the story, in case of a dialogue which necessitates great