On Reading Aloud

THE CONTRIBUTORS’ CLUB

There appears to be a generally cherished household belief that reading aloud is of itself a virtuous domestic exercise It has, no doubt, its value as a social expedient for “keeping the boys at home,” or for mitigating the ennui of such as must sew or darn of an evening. It affords a practical method of diffusing information among the greater number at the expense of one pair of eyes; as well as of lulling the aged or infirm to that luxurious slumber which is likely to be insured by the assiduous wakefulness of somebody else. That is a charming picture of the united family gathered about the hearth while paterfamilias reads aloud. It really does not matter, so far as the attractiveness of the group is concerned, what he is reading; it may be the Rise and Fall of the Dutch Republic, or Paradise Lost, or Sherlock Holmes, or the latest number of the Ladies’ Domestic Twaddler. Never mind. The fact remains that father is reading aloud.

Now I do not wish to scoff at any institution, or even at any theory, so venerable. I do wish to suggest, however, that comparatively few books are fit to be read aloud. One may make a reasonable contention to the effect that all literature should have a vocable and audible quality; but the fact remains that outside of poetry there are few forms of literature which are not as well or better off without the interposition of the voice. The reason appears to be that a printed page empowers the ear with a faculty of rapid hearing. The inward ear may receive an impression quite as surely as the outward ear, and far more rapidly. Printed words represent sound rather than form to most people; and this is at first an obstacle to the attainment of pace in reading. Many persons never lose the sense of literature as printed speech, and consequently read a book aloud almost as fast as they read it to themselves. They would like to read it quite as fast, and their attempt results in that hurrying monotone which is characteristic of most family reading. The voice is not really called upon to exert itself intelligently. It is merely made use of to suggest print ; an odd retaliation of the eye. Such reading is nothing better than a labor-saving makeshift. It does not interpret, it only makes a clumsy conveyance. The process is amusingly complicated, if we follow it from the first conception of the author’s mind to the final interpretation of the reader. A sentence, we will say, suggests itself to some person’s mind as speech. He makes a record of it in writing, which is rendered more legible and available by print. This record the eye is able to reconvert into material for the inward ear to deal with. But the eye acts rapidly, and is all the time urging the inward ear to shake off the sloth of the outward ear, and to get on with the business in hand. Consequently, the inward ear becomes impatient of its clumsier fellow, and prefers to rely directly on that brisk official, the eye. The voice is first embarrassed by this impatience, then discouraged. It finds that a rough and hasty appeal to the outward ear serves; thence an impression is communicated to the inward eye, by means of which, in turn, the inward ear is able to make a satisfactorily rapid interpretation of what the original speaker was saying.

I am afraid this sounds a good deal like a bit of amateur psychology; but I lean toward the hope that there is common sense in the speculation, notwithstanding. I should draw two deductions from it: the first, that no literature is worth reading aloud which will endure a markedly greater pace than the voice is capable of making intelligible; the second, that only persons who are capable of interpreting literature by means of the voice ought, unless for social or practical purposes, to read aloud at all. Literature has a right to be interpreted, and not merely made vocal.

It is clear that poetry most naturally lends itself to reading aloud; for it is essentially musical and compact, and so pregnant in substance as to make hurried reading out of the question. Beyond this, the briefer prose forms are most amenable. Whatever is most compact, whatever is most dramatic, or, better, most lyrical, is made for viva voce treatment. A letter, an entry or two in some diary, a chapter of autobiography, a few pages of Jane Austen, a humorous short story, a chapter of the Autocrat,— these offer the readiest voice-hold to the family interpreter. A half hour of such reading may be one of the happiest of daily episodes. It sets no premium upon mere indolence; it interferes in no serious way with the liberties of the family circle. It does absolutely the best that can be done for the interpretation of the purer forms of literature. It reserves the other forms (and the modern reader has, also, to concern himself largely with these) for the individual reader, who may profitably decide for himself whether the special instance calls upon him to peruse, to skim, or to skip; and at what pace. The experienced reader, in short, is an artist, and, like other artists, attains his highest powers only when he has learned what to subordinate, to slight, or to omit. The unhappy person whose conscience will not let him refuse an equally deliberate consideration of every six inches of black and white that comes his way may be an excellent husband and father, a meritorious lawyer or merchant, a model citizen : he is certainly not a good reader.