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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fb324b9 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #67645 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67645) diff --git a/old/67645-0.txt b/old/67645-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 842829d..0000000 --- a/old/67645-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,1223 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dialogue, by Anthony Hope Hawkins - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Dialogue - -Author: Anthony Hope Hawkins - -Release Date: March 17, 2022 [eBook #67645] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet - Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIALOGUE *** - - - - - - THE ENGLISH ASSOCIATION - - - Dialogue - - By - Anthony Hope Hawkins, M.A. - Sometime Scholar of Balliol College, Oxford - - - (Privately Printed) - November, 1909 - - - - -As this leaflet is privately printed by special permission of the -Author, no additional copies can be sold. - - - - - DIALOGUE[1] - - [1] An address delivered to the members of the English Association, - October 28, 1909. - - -Although it is probable that the subject I have chosen to speak about -this evening is rather outside the ordinary scope of your proceedings, -I have thought it better to take that risk than to attempt to address -you on some topic which I, as a working novelist and one who has made -experiments in the dramatic line also, have had less occasion to -study, and therefore should be less likely to be able to say anything -deserving of your attention――not that I am at all confident of doing -that even as matters stand. Yet perhaps it is not altogether alien to -the spirit of this Association to consider sometimes a more or less -technical aspect of literature itself, even though its main object may -be to promote the study of literature; such a discussion, undertaken -from time to time, may foster that interest in literature, on which in -the end the spread of its study must depend. With that much said by way -of justification, or of apology, as you will, I proceed to my task. - - * * * * * - -Some months ago I happened to read a novel in the whole course of which -nobody said anything――not one of the characters was represented in -the act of speaking to another with the living voice. One remark was -indeed quoted in a letter as having been made viva voce on a previous -occasion, but this sudden breach of consistency did not command my -belief――it seemed like an assertion that in an assembly of veritable -mutes somebody had suddenly shouted. The book was not in the main in -the form of letters――it was almost pure narrative. The effect was worse -than unreal. An intense sense of lifelessness was produced; you moved -among the dead――or even the shadows of the dead. It was a lesson in the -importance of dialogue in fiction which no writer could ever forget. - -What, then, is this dialogue? Formally defined it includes, I suppose, -any conversation――any talk in which two or more persons take part; -while it excludes a monologue, which one delivers while others -listen, and a soliloquy, which one delivers when there is nobody to -listen――unless, perchance, behind the arras. But some dialogues are, if -I may coin a word, much more thoroughly dialogic than others――there is -much more of what is the real essence of the matter. That real essence -I take to be the meeting of minds in talk――the reciprocal exhibition -of mind to mind. The most famous compositions in the world to which -the title of dialogues is expressly given――Plato’s own――vary greatly -in this essential quality. Some have it in a high degree: others -become in great measure merely an exposition, punctuated by assents or -admissions which tend to become almost purely a matter of form. Later -philosophical dialogues, like Landor’s, give, to my mind, even less the -impression of conversation――though an exception may well be made to -some extent for Mr. Mallock’s _New Republic_. But speeches are not true -dialogue, and you cannot make them such by putting in a succession of -them. For an instance, see Mr. Lowes Dickinson’s _Modern Symposium_. -One is inclined to say that unstinted liberty of interruption is -essential to the full nature of dialogue――to give it its true character -of reciprocity, of exchange, and often of combat. Without that it -inclines towards the monologue――towards an exposition by one, and away -from a contribution by several. - -Thus it is that not all good talk can be cited as a good or typical -example of dialogue. I have taken philosophical examples――let me -turn hastily to something which, I hope at least, I know rather more -about. We all know, and doubtless all love, Sam Weller’s talk, but -Sam’s creator is, naturally enough, too much enamoured of him to give -his interlocutors much of a chance. The whole is designed for the -better exhibition of Sam――the other party is, in the slang of the -stage, ‘feeding him’――giving him openings. It’s one-sided. A quite -modern instance of the same kind, and one which, at its best, is not -unworthy of being mentioned in the same breath, is to be found in _The -Conversations of Mr. Dooley_. ‘Hinnissey’ gets no chance, he is merely -a ‘feeder’; the whole aim is the exhibition of the mind of Mr. Dooley. -Contrast with these the conversations in _Tristram Shandy_――to my mind -some of the finest and, scientifically regarded, most perfect dialogue -in English literature. Every character who speaks contributes――really -contributes, and is not merely a feeder or a foil. Each has his own -mind, his own point of view, and manfully and independently maintains -it. Uncle Toby is the author’s pet perhaps, but I think he is hardly -less fond of Mr. Shandy――while Mrs. Shandy, Dr. Slop, Corporal Trim, -and the rest, are all sharply defined and characterized out of -their own mouths, and have their independent value as well as their -independent views. If you would seek good modern examples of these -dialogic virtues, you might turn to Mr. Anstey’s _Voces Populi_ or to -Mr. Jacobs’s stories. In the latter the things that make you laugh most -are often not in themselves remarkable――certainly not witty and indeed -not aiming at wit; but they suddenly exhibit and light up conflicting -points of view――and irresistible humour springs full-born from the -clash of outlook and of temperament. - -It is precisely this power inherent in dialogue――the power of bringing -into sharp vision the conflict of characters and points of view――which -favours the increased use of it in modern novels. Serious modern novels -tend to deal with matters of debate more than their predecessors of -corresponding rank did――at once to treat more freely of matters open to -question, and to find open to question more matters than our ancestors -thought――or at all events admitted――to come within that category. It -is both more efficacious and less tedious to let A and B reveal their -characters and views to one another than for the author to tell the -reader A’s character and views, and then B’s character and views, and -to add the obvious statement that the two characters and views differ. -We do not want merely to be told they differ; the drama lies in seeing -them differing, and in seeing the difference gradually disclose and -establish itself until it culminates in a struggle and ends in a drawn -battle, or a hard-won victory. Of course, when a man is fighting alone -in his own soul, you must rely on analysis――on analytic narrative -(unless indeed you resort to an allegorical device), but where there is -a conflict between two men――representing perhaps two types of humanity, -or two sides of a disputed case――dialogue comes more and more to be -used as the most technically effective medium at the writer’s disposal. - -But its increased use is not limited to this function. It is found -possible to employ it more and more in the direct interest of literary -form and technique. There are very many facts which the author of a -novel desires to convey to his readers. A considerable proportion of -them must be conveyed by narrative――so considerable a proportion that -it is all gain if the number can be cut down. Here a skilful use of -dialogue comes to the author’s aid. To take an example. The author -wishes to acquaint the reader with the heroine’s personal appearance, -since the reader is required to understand the hero’s passion and the -villain’s wiles. We all recollect how in many old novels――even in those -of the great masters of the craft――the fashion was to catalogue the -lady’s charms on her first appearance on the scene. There they all -were――the raven locks, the flashing eyes, the short curling upper lip, -et cetera. You read them――and according to my experience you were in no -small danger of entirely forgetting what manner of woman she was by the -time you had turned half a dozen pages. But if you can see her beauty -in action, so to speak, it’s a different thing. Say that her eyes are -the feature on which special stress is desirable. Merely to state that -‘she had beautiful blue eyes’――well, you accept the fact, but it leaves -you cold. But if the hero, by a dexterous compliment, gallant yet not -obtrusive, can, first, tell _you_ about the eyes, secondly exhibit to -you the effect the eyes are having on him, thirdly, get a step forward -in his relations with the lady, and fourthly, aided by her reply to the -compliment, show you how she is disposed to receive his advances――the -result is that the author has done more and has done it better. I have -purposely chosen a simple――almost a trivial――instance, but it is not -therefore, I think, a bad example of how the use of dialogue can not -merely avoid tedium, though that is a supremely desirable and indeed a -vital thing in itself, but can also give a natural effect instead of -an unnatural, and add to the dramatic value of a fact by showing it -in actual operation, producing results, instead of merely chronicling -its existence, almost as an item in a list. Novelists have realized -this, and the realization of it unites with the reasons which I have -already touched upon to make them try to work more and more through -dialogue――more and more to make the characters speak for themselves, -and less and less to speak for them except when they must. There is -a gain all round――in naturalness, in drama, in conciseness, and in -shapeliness. - -It remains, while we are on this point of the technical usefulness -of dialogue, to note two or three other ways in which it serves the -novelist’s turn. He finds it exceedingly to his purpose if he wishes -to be impersonal, to be impartial, to keep a secret, or to hold a -situation in suspense. It enables him to withdraw behind the curtain, -and leave his characters alone with the reader. It enables him to get -rid of the air of omniscience which narrative forces upon him, and to -assume the limitations of his _dramatis personae_. By so doing he adds -reality to them――they are less puppets. Speaking through A’s mouth, he -sees only A’s point of view, and when he speaks through B’s mouth his -knowledge of the state of events is only B’s knowledge, and no greater. -He may often desire to do this, for much the same reasons as sometimes -lead a writer to assume, altogether and throughout the book, the garb -of one of the characters, to write in the first person, to see only -what the hero sees, to know only what he knows, and to feel only what -he feels. The use of dialogue is in this aspect of it a less drastic -form of the same device. - -I have tried to indicate the uses of dialogue to the writers of -books――I must say a word or two about the stage later on――but it -would be a mistake to suppose that its employment has no limits. -One we have already touched upon――a man can’t talk dialogue to -himself――well, unless he’s a ventriloquist, and in these days his right -to soliloquize, or even to say ‘Hallo!’ when he’s by himself――except -into the telephone, of course――is keenly canvassed or sternly denied. -But even apart from this necessary limitation on dialogue, there are, -I think, no doubt others. In the first place, dialogue, so excellent -a means of exhibiting character and opinion, is on the whole not the -most appropriate or effective mode of exhibiting action――unless, that -is, the whole importance of the action depends on how it is received by -one of the parties to the dialogue. Take the case of a murder. If the -object is to tell an ingenious and thrilling story of a murder, it is -in nine cases out of ten far better for the author to tell it himself. -He gains nothing by putting it into the mouth of a character, and he -probably loses directness and effect. But if the import of the murder -lies not so much in itself as in the effect the news of it may have on -A, B, then it is good to tell it to A, B; the reader can see the effect -in operation. But with this exception I think it may be taken that -books containing much external action, and much rapid action, will tend -to rely less on dialogue, and more on narration. Not only is dialogue -less quick-moving and direct, but when action is in the case, it loses -just that naturalness which is so pre-eminently its own where it is -dealing with a clash of temperaments or with contrasted views of life. -It seems to come at second hand, and the reader feels that he would -sooner have been with A, who really saw the thing done, than merely -with B, who is only being told about it by the actual witness. - -Again, I think there is little doubt that the ordinary reader is -fatigued by too much talking, and that a long novel, mainly relying -on dialogue and reducing narrative to a merely subordinate position, -is in great danger of becoming tedious. This it may do in one of two -ways――or, if it is very unfortunate, in both――at different places. The -writer may try to tell too much by dialogue, with the result that his -characters speak at great length, and he topples over the line which -divides dialogue from speech-making. Or, on the other hand, alive to -the perils of speech-making, he may try to cut it all up into question -and answer, and to enliven it by constant epigrams or some other form -of wit. This latter expedient may not bore the reader so much as the -speech-making, but it will probably fatigue him more. Dialogue does, -in fact, make a greater claim on the reader than narrative. I think -this is true even when it is good dialogue. Something may be done to -help him by skilful comment or description――clever stage-directions -in effect――but none the less he is deprived, or curtailed, of much -of the assistance on his way which the narrative form can give him. -I think that probably the best advice to offer to a novice would be: -As few long conversations as possible――but as many short ones. Let -the dialogue break up the narrative, and the narrative cut short any -tendency to prolixity in the dialogue. - -Just now I referred to the possibility of assisting dialogue by -comment or description, much as when you read a play you are assisted -to follow and appreciate the lines written to be spoken on the stage -by the directions inserted to guide the actor. This reference, I dare -say, raised in your minds the thought that the dialogue I have been -speaking of――dialogue as it is used in novels――is very rarely pure -dialogue at all. The objection is well founded, and its application -is wide, though the degree of its application varies immensely. You -may find pure dialogue, without stage-directions, here and there, -even in novels. George Borrow, for instance, is fond of it, and is -a master of a peculiar quality of it. But far the more general form -is dialogue assisted by comment and description――a hybrid kind of -composition, in which the author plays a double part, speaking through -the characters’ mouths at one moment, describing their actions, -gestures, even their unspoken thoughts, at the next. This is the normal -form of novel dialogue. The variations occur in the relative amount -of this description or comment――of this stage-direction, as I have -called it. And I call it that because this comment or description takes -the place of what they call ‘business’ on the stage. The actor’s task -is divided between his words and his ‘business’, and the playwright -is entitled to rely on the ‘business’ to help out the words, just as -the novelist describes or comments on the actions and gestures of his -speakers, in order to assist and elucidate the meaning of the actual -words they use. If you read a play――not seeing the actors――and if -the author has given no stage-directions as to how the characters -look or speak――as to whether they show anger or fright, or pleasure, -or surprise, for instance, you will find, I think, that you have to -read with an increased degree of attention――perhaps I may say of -sympathetic imagination――and that, even with this brought to bear, -you will sometimes be in doubt. So with novel dialogue. If the author -denied himself description or comment interlarded with the actual -words spoken, he would set a harder task both to his own skill and -to the reader’s intelligence. The comments of the novelist, like the -‘business’ of the playwright, clothe the skeleton of the actually -spoken words with a living form, expressing itself in action, in -gesture, by frowns or smiles, by tears or laughter. I have little doubt -that if we possessed not only Shakespeare’s words, but Shakespeare’s -‘business’, many a controversy as to the exact meaning of this passage -or that, many a question as to the precise character or mental -condition of this or that of his _dramatis personae_, could never have -arisen――and many learned, and possibly some tedious, books would have -gone unwritten. - -Now, so far as I know――but I hasten to add that I am not a wide reader -of plays, though I am much addicted to seeing them acted――Mr. Bernard -Shaw was the first among English dramatists to see and exploit fully -the possibilities of stage-directions in helping the imagination of -those who read, as distinct from those who see, his plays. Some of his -stage-directions are, in my humble opinion, among the best things he -has ever done――terse, humorous, incisive, complete――see, for example, -his description of Mrs. Warren. But novelists were quicker to see -the possibility of their stage-directions, their comments on moods, -their descriptions of the actions or the gestures accompanying the -spoken words. When you talk to a man or woman, you don’t shut your -eyes and merely listen to the voice. You do listen carefully to the -voice――since he may say ‘Yes’ as if he really meant it, or as if he -only half-meant it, or as if he meant just the opposite――but you also -watch his eyes and his mouth――and in moments of strong excitement it -is recorded of many a villain that his fingers twitched, and of many a -heroine that her bosom heaved; so fingers and bosoms are worth watching -too. Now the point is that a skilful use of these stage-directions -can not only immensely assist the meaning of novel dialogue, but can -also add enormously to its artistic value and merit. It can diffuse -an atmosphere, impart a hint, create an interest by a dexterous -suspending of the answer. This last is, from a professional point of -view, a particularly pretty trick――it’s not much more than a trick, -but let us call it a literary device――and Sterne brought it to great -perfection――and knew well what he was doing. I will make bold to quote -a passage of his which bears on the whole subject, and shows both his -method and the absolute consciousness with which he employed it――to -say nothing of the shameless candour with which he laughs at his own -trick. Corporal Trim is discoursing to his fellow servants on the death -of Tristram’s brother, Master Bobby. ‘Are we not here now?’ continued -the Corporal (striking the end of his stick perpendicularly upon the -floor, so as to give an emblem of health and stability) ‘and’ (dropping -his hat upon the ground) ‘gone in a minute?’ Then Sterne digresses, and -repeats――as his manner is. But he comes back――and is good enough to -explain: ‘Let us only carry back our minds to the mortality of Trim’s -hat,’ he says. ‘Are we not here now――and gone in a moment? There was -nothing in the sentence――’twas one of your self-evident truths we have -the advantage of hearing every day: and if Trim had not trusted more -to his hat than to his head, he had made nothing at all of it.’ And -he proceeds: ‘Ten thousand and ten thousand times ten thousand (for -matter and motion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat may be -dropped on the ground without any effect. Had he flung it, or thrown -it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or squirted it, or let it slip or fall -in any possible direction under heaven――had he dropped it like a goose, -like a puppy, like an ass――or in doing it or even after he had done -it, had looked like a fool, like a ninny, like a nincompoop――it had -failed, and the effect upon the heart had been lost.’ And he ends――most -justifiably――‘Meditate, I beseech you, upon Trim’s hat!’ Trim’s hat -may certainly stand as an instance of the value of stage-directions to -novel dialogue. - -Returning to actually spoken words――the real talk between the -interlocutors――we may note the great adaptability and elasticity of -the dialogue form. The hesitation, the aposiopesis, the interruption, -are all ready and flexible devices, apt to convey hints, innuendoes, -doubts, objections, apt to convey the sense of a balance inclining -now this way, now that, to show one mind feeling its way towards a -knowledge of the other, while sedulously guarding its own secrets. Or -you may seek the broader effects of comedy with the sudden betrayal -of irreconcilable divergence, or of an agreement as complete as it is -paradoxical, or of the mutual helplessness which results from total -misunderstanding of the one by the other, or, finally, of the well-worn -but still effective device――a favourite one in the theatre――of two -people talking at cross-purposes, one meaning one thing, the other a -different one, and the pair arriving at an harmonious agreement from -utterly inharmonious premises――the false accord of a hundred scenes of -comedy. - -Such are some of the arts of dialogue, as they are employed sometimes -in the task of serious and delicate analysis, as for example by -Mr. Henry James, sometimes in the cause of pure comedy, as by Gyp. -That lady made an interesting experiment. She tried to indicate the -gestures, wherein her countrymen are so eloquent, by a system of -notation――so many notes of interrogation, or so many of exclamation, -being B’s response to A’s spoken observation. But here, I think, -she must be held to have resorted to ‘business’ as we have already -discussed it, and to have passed beyond true dialogue. An ‘Oh’, an -‘Ah!’ or a ‘Humph!’ constitute about the irreducible minimum of that -articulate speech which makes dialogue. Notes of exclamation won’t -quite do. - -One other function of dialogue deserves especial mention. Unless an -author adopts the drastic course I have already alluded to――that of -sinking himself absolutely in the personality of one of his characters -and writing in the name and garb of that character――as for example -did Defoe――and as, for example, does Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, when -he plays Dr. Watson to Sherlock Holmes’s ‘lead’ as they say in the -theatre――unless he does this, dialogue alone will enable him to impart -‘local colour’, in other words, to set before his reader the speech and -the mind of races or classes far different in their thoughts, in their -modes of expression, and in their actual vocabulary and pronunciation, -from what we may term the ordinary educated reader. Scores of Dickens’s -cockney characters, Mr. Hardy’s Wessex rustics, Mr. Kipling’s soldiers, -live and move and have their being for us solely in virtue of what they -say and the way they say it. In fact they couldn’t be described――they -must be seen and heard. They must be on the stage. Therefore they must -use――their creators must use for them――that literary form which is, -in the end, the link between novels and the stage――the form common to -both――the form of dialogue. - -That last observation leads me naturally to pass on to the literary -vehicle in which dialogue is in its glory――in which it is the sovereign -instrument, in which it reaches its highest level of independence, in -which it leans its lightest on any other aid than that inherent in its -own capacity. This is the drama――and the drama written for the actual -stage. I do not think that what are called ‘plays for the study’ need -detain us. It is really only a question of degree in each case. They -either approximate closely to the true stage-play or, on the other -hand, they are really books in which, by artifice and often by an -effort which is rather too visible, those parts that would naturally -assume a narrative form, are presented in the guise of dialogue――or -rather not so much of dialogue as we are now discussing it, but, as I -should say, of speeches which are, in essence, either narrative, or -argumentative, or reflective, or hortative in character. - -We may come then to the theatre itself――but before I attempt to say -anything on the relations between stage dialogue and book dialogue, I -should like to remind you again that even this greater independence -of stage dialogue is very far indeed from being absolute. We have -already referred to the stage-directions. These are amplified by the -actor, of his own motion or in pursuit of the instructions he receives -at rehearsal. The result is his ‘business’――everything he does on -the stage except what he does with his tongue. The ‘business’ counts -for much, but what counts for even more is that the words are spoken -there on the stage by living man to living man. I think it is hard to -exaggerate the effect of this――the immense help it gives to the words. -It is not merely a question of vividness, though that is important -enough. It is equally, or even more, a question of appropriateness, -of the words matching the personality from which they proceed. The -novelist can make his words match the personality which he has created -in his own mind. Where he is at a disadvantage compared with the -playwright is that it is infinitely harder for him, in spite of all -_his_ stage-directions, and his descriptions, and his analysis, to -set that personality as completely before his reader as the corporeal -presence of the actor sets it before the audience in the theatre. Hence -the match――the harmony――between the words and the personality――though -it may exist, is apt not to be nearly so effective in the book as on -the stage, and a line that misses its mark as written in the one may -triumph in the other, thanks to the man who speaks it――to his skill, -to his emotional power, not seldom, and especially in comedy, even -to his personal appearance. In a word the independence of dialogue -on the stage is qualified by its dependence on the actor. He has to -do what the novelist does by descriptions and comments. He has to -clothe the skeleton; and if it has been one’s fortune to see two or -three great or accomplished actors play the same part, especially, -say, in a classic play, where they are not guided――or trammelled――by -too many stage-directions, and are not instructed――perhaps sometimes -over-instructed――by the author, one will not, I think, doubt that the -clothes they put on the skeleton may very considerably affect the -appearance of its anatomy, sometimes seeming to alter the very shape of -the bones. - -Still, all allowances made, it remains true that the stage offers the -fullest, the fairest, and the most independent opportunity for pure -dialogue――and it is necessary to ask the question――however hard the -answer may be――what effect the medium of the theatre has upon dialogue. -I admit at once that I think the question is very hard to answer. We -are in presence of the indisputable fact that dialogue which is highly -moving or amusing in a book may fall quite flat on the stage――while on -the other hand dialogue which is very effective on the stage may sound -either obvious or bald in a book. This is not to say, of course, that -some dialogue will not be found good for both. Practical experiments -are constantly being tried, owing to the habit of dramatizing novels -which have achieved a popular success. The temptation is to carry over -into the play as much of the dialogue of the novel as you can contrive -to use; the object is to preserve as far as possible both the literary -flavour and the commercial goodwill of the original. The result is -interesting. The novelist, whether he acts as his own dramatist or not, -will almost always notice, I think, that passages of dialogue which are -most effective in the book are least effective on the stage――often -that they need complete remodelling before they can be used at all. -On the other hand, passages which he has little esteemed in the -book――regarded perhaps almost as mere machinery, part of the necessary -traffic of the story――make an immediate hit with audiences in the -theatre. - -It is a commonplace in the theatrical world that there is no telling -what ‘they’ will like――‘they’ means the public――not even what plays -they will or will not like, much less what particular scenes or -passages――and nobody with even the least practical experience would -care to back his opinion save at very favourable odds. If then it is -impossible to tell what they will or won’t like, it seems still more -hopeless to inquire why they will or won’t like it; but that is, in -reality, not quite the case. It is not, I think, so much that the -playwright does not know what he has to do to please them, as that it -happens to be rather difficult to do it, and quite as difficult to know -when you have done it. Happily, however, we are to-night not on the -hard highroad of practice, but in the easy pastures of criticism, and -may therefore be bold to try to suggest what are the main features of -good theatrical dialogue――features which, though they may be found in -and may assist novel dialogue, yet are not indispensable to it, but -which must characterize theatrical dialogue and are indispensable to -success on the stage. These indispensable qualities may in the end be -reduced to two――practicality and universality. - -By practicality――not a happy term, I confess, and one which I use only -because I cannot think of any other single word――I mean the quality -of helping the play forward, either by getting on with the evolution -of the situations, or by exhibiting the drama which is the result of -the situations (I must add, parenthetically, that by situations I do -not mean merely external happenings――the term properly includes both -characters and events, and their reciprocal action on one another). A -play is a very short thing; a very solid four-act play――I am talking of -the modern theatre now――will not cover more than 140 to 150 ordinary -type-written sheets; a novel of the ordinary length will cover from -three to four hundred. The obvious result is that the author has not, -to put it colloquially, much time to play about. He may allow himself -a little of what is technically termed ‘relief’. A good line pays for -its place. But broadly speaking, all the dialogue has to work――each -line has its task of advancing action or exhibiting character. Now -only so many lines being possible between the rise and the fall of -the curtain, it is clear that there is no room for digression or for -rambling――things that are often most delightful in a book, where space -and time are practically unlimited. More than this. Not only is there -no space for rambling and irrelevant talk, but the necessary talk――the -talk that is helpful and pertinent――must at the same time carefully -consult the limits of space. There are a lot of points to be made in -every act――aye, in every scene. The playwright cannot afford too much -space to any one point. And the point must not only be made with all -possible brevity――it must be made with all possible certainty, so that -there may be no need of going back to it, no need of repetition; it -should be stuck straight into the audience’s mind, as one sticks a pin -into a chart. Hence there is need of directness――a certain quality of -unmistakableness――one might almost say bluntness, when one compares -theatrical dialogue with some of the minutely wrought novel dialogue -to which I have referred to-night. But what then――I’m afraid you will -be beginning to ask――what then, if you are right, is to become not only -of the literary graces of style, but also of the intellectual quality -of your work――of its profundity, of its subtlety, of its delicacy? -Well, I can make only one answer――and being to-night, as I say, in -the happy pastures of theory――I can give it light-heartedly. You must -keep all those, and manage to harmonize them with your brevity and -your certainty. That is one of the reasons――not the only one――why -it is distinctly difficult to write good plays, not very easy to -write even what are often contemptuously referred to as commercially -successful plays――and not absolutely easy to write anything that can -be called in any serious sense a play at all. There is a great deal -of difference between just being a bad play and not being a play at -all. The real playwright sometimes writes a bad play――but it is a play -that he writes. Yes, your beauty, your profundity, your subtlety, your -delicacy, must submit to drill――they must toe the line――they must -accept the strait conditions of this most exacting medium. Conciseness -and certainty――a quality of clean-cut outline――is demanded by stage -conditions. The writer must know with accuracy where he is going at -every minute and just how far. He ought to do the same in a book, -you’ll say, and I admit it. But in the latter it is an ideal, and many -a successful and even many a delightful book has been written without -the ideal being reached――or perhaps even aimed at. On the stage the -ideal is also the indispensable――for there a writer in the least of a -mist wraps his audience in the densest fog. - -The second quality which I suggest as pre-eminently required by stage -dialogue and which I have called universality really goes deeper and -affects more than the mere dialogue, though strictly speaking we are -this evening concerned with its effect in that sphere only. Consider -for a moment the different aim which a writer of novels and a writer -of plays respectively may set before himself. Of course the novelist -may set out to please the whole British public――and the American -and Continental too, if you like, though for simplicity’s sake we -may confine ourselves to these islands. A certain number no doubt -start with that aim. A few may have succeeded――very few. But such an -ambitious task is in no way incumbent on the novelist. Whether he looks -to his pride or his pocket, to fame or to a sufficient circulation, it -is quite enough for him to please a section of the public. He may be a -famous literary man and enjoy a large income, as fame and incomes go in -authorship, without three-quarters of the adult population――let alone -the boys and girls――knowing or caring one jot about him. And he may -be quite content to have it so――content deliberately and voluntarily, -and not merely perforce, to limit the extent of his appeal, finding -compensation in the intenser, though narrower, appeal he makes to his -chosen audience, and in the increased liberty to indulge and to develop -his own bent――to go his own way, in short, happy in the knowledge that -he has a select but sufficient body of devoted followers. For example, -I don’t suppose that Mr. Meredith expected or tried to please the -boys who worshipped Mr. Henty, or that Mr. Henty, in his turn, had -any idea of poaching on the preserves of Mr. Pett Ridge. In a word, -a novelist can, if he likes or if he must (often the latter is the -case), specialize in his audience just as he can in his subject or his -treatment. If he pleases the class he tries to please, all is well with -him; he can let the others go, with just as much regret and just as -much politeness as his circumstances and his temperament may dictate. - -Now, of course, this is true to some degree of the theatre also――at any -rate in the great centres of population like London, where there are -many neighbourhoods and many theatres. You would not expect to fill a -popular ‘low price’ house with the same bill that might succeed at the -St. James’s or, in recent days, at the Court Theatre. Nevertheless, -it is immensely less true of the theatre than it is of the novel. -Take the average West End theatre――it has to cater for all of us. The -fashionable folk go, you and I go, our growing boys and girls go, our -relations from the country go, our servants go, our butchers, bakers, -and candlestick-makers go, the girls from the A.B.C. shops, and the -young gentlemen from Marshall & Snelgrove’s go――we have all to be -catered for――we have all to be pleased with the same dinner! Across the -footlights lies a miniature world, in which wellnigh every variety that -exists in the great world outside has paid its money and sits in its -seat. Is this to say that the theatre must rely on the commonplace and -obvious? Not at all――but it is to say that it must in the main rely on -the universal――on that which appeals to all the varieties in virtue of -the common humanity that underlies the variations. It must find, so to -say, the least common denominator, and work through and appeal to that. -The things that will do it differ profoundly―― - - ‘To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, - Creeps in this petty pace from day to day - To the last syllable of recorded time, - And all our yesterdays have lighted fools - The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!’ - -That does it. Or Congreve’s ‘Though Marriage makes man and wife -one flesh, it leaves them still two fools!’――That does it, though -obviously in quite a different way――or ‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art -thou Romeo?’――again in a different way. Or again something quite -elementary――even schoolboyish if one may dare to use the word of -Shakespeare――may win its way by its absolute naturalness, as when -Jacques says to Orlando――of Rosalind, ‘I do not like her name’――‘There -was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened’――an unanswerable -retort to an impertinent observation which I have never known to fail in -pleasing the house. The thing may or may not be simple, it may or may -not be profound, it may or may not be witty, but it must have a wide -appeal――it must touch a common chord. I imagine that very few -plays――though I think I have known a few――get produced and then please -nobody――absolutely nobody in the house. I have known some failures that -have pleased very highly people whom any author should be proud to -please. But they haven’t pleased enough people――not merely not enough to -succeed, but not enough to establish them as good plays, however much -good literary stuff and good literary form there might be contained and -exhibited in them. - -Now this need for universality――for the thing with a wide appeal -not limited to this or that class or character of intellect――has -its effect, I think, on the actual form of the dialogue, though I -freely admit that is an effect extremely hard to measure and define -with any approach to accuracy. It in no way excludes individuality -or even whimsicality, whether in situation or dialogue. The writer -who is probably the most successful living British dramatist to-day -is also probably the most individual and the most whimsical. It in -no way demands undue concession to the commonplace――but it does, I -think, require that the dialogue shall be in some sense in the vulgar -tongue――that it shall be understanded of the people. The thing need -not be seen or put as the audience would see or put it, but it must -be seen and put as the audience can understand that character seeing -and putting it. It must not be perverse, or too mannered, or too -obscure. It may not be allowed so much licence in this respect as -book-dialogue, if only for the reason that its effect has to be much -more immediate――there can be no such thing as reading the speech over -again the better to grasp its meaning――a necessity not unknown in novel -reading. Its appeal is immediate, or it is nothing at all. It must also -be, above all things, natural――and this again is on the stage even -more pre-eminently requisite than in the written page――if only for the -reason that the speaker is more vividly realized on the stage, and -the author less vividly remembered――so that any discrepancy between -the speaker as he lives before you and the particular thing he says -is more glaringly apparent. And, as a corollary to this necessity for -naturalness, follows the need for full and distinct differentiation of -character. The dialogue must clearly attach to each character in the -play his point of view and must consistently maintain it. On the whole -therefore we may say that the universality of appeal which the stage -demands operates on the form of the dialogue by way of imposing upon it -certain obligations of straightforwardness of effect, of lucidity and -immediateness in appeal, and of naturalness and exact appropriateness -to the speaker――obligations which exist for book-dialogue also, but are -less stringent and less peremptory there than in the theatre. - -This question of naturalness, which is germane to the whole subject -of dialogue and not merely to stage dialogue, is one of the most -difficult things to lay down any rule about. It is not easy even -to get any working formula which is helpful. On the one side there -seems to lie the obvious rule――that all dialogue ought to be natural, -appropriate to the person in whose mouth it is put――not merely what -in substance he would say, but also said in the way he would say it. -On the other side is the obvious fact that no two writers of any -considerable merit do, as a fact, write dialogue in the same way, even -when they are presenting the same sort of characters. Comparatively -impersonal as the dialogue form is, when set beside the narrative, yet -the writer’s idiosyncrasy will have its way, and in greater or less -degree the author’s accent is heard from the lips of his imaginary -interlocutors――and of each and all of them, however widely different -they may be supposed to be, and really are, from one another. This -appears to land us in an _impasse_; the obvious fact seems to conflict -with the obvious rule. If it be so, I suppose the rule must go to the -wall, for all its obviousness. But I fancy that some approach to a -solution may be found in the suggestion that no two authors of creative -power do, in fact, ever create characters of quite the same sort, and -that we got into a seeming _impasse_ by being guilty of a fallacy. -When an author sits down at his desk to contemplate, criticize, and -reproduce the world about him, it is natural at the first thought to -regard the author as subject contemplating and reproducing the world -as object――pure subject as against pure object. Here is the fallacy -as I conceive. The author as subject does not and cannot contemplate -the world as pure object. What he sees is object-subject――that is to -say, he consciously sets himself to contemplate and describe a world -which is already modified for him by the unconscious projection of -his own personality into it――or, in more homely language, he always -looks through his own spectacles. It follows that when two creative -minds――say Dickens and Thackeray――both set out to describe a duke or -a costermonger, it is never the same duke or costermonger――it is not -the abstract idea of duke or costermonger, laid up in heaven――but -it is a duke-Dickens or a duke-Thackeray――a costermonger-Dickens -or a costermonger-Thackeray. Consequently again it is not in the -end natural――and, therefore, as the Admirable Crichton would remind -us, it is not in the end right――that these two dukes or these two -costermongers should speak in exactly the same way――though no doubt -both of the pairs ought still to speak as dukes and costermongers of -some sort――be it Dickensian or Thackerayan as the case may be. Of -course, if an author’s idiosyncrasy is so peculiar that the subjective -infusion of himself which he pours into the objective costermonger -is so powerful as to cause the human race at large to object that no -costermonger of any kind whatsoever ever did or could speak in that -way――well, then the world will say that the picture of the costermonger -is untrue and the language of the costermonger is inappropriate and -unnatural――a conclusion summed up by saying that the author can’t draw -a costermonger. His personality won’t blend with costermongers――perhaps -it will with dukes――he had better confine himself to the latter. The -author may take comfort in the thought that there are sure to be a -few persons enamoured of singularity, and perhaps liking to be wiser -than their neighbours, who will declare that his costermongers are -of a superior brand to all others, and are indeed the only complete -and veritable revelation of the quiddity of the costermonger ever set -before the world since that planet began its journey round the sun. - -We arrive, then――as we draw near the close of these remarks――rather -rambling remarks, I am afraid――at the conclusion, perhaps a conclusion -with a touch of the paradoxical in it――that in dialogue the writer is -always trying to do what in the nature of the case he can never do -completely. He is always trying to present objectively a personality -other than his own. He never fully succeeds, and it would be to the -ruin of his work as literature, if he did. The creator is always there -in the created, and it is probably true to say that he is there in -greater degree just in proportion to the force of his personality and -the power of his creative faculty. Is the greater writer then less -true to life than the smaller? I am not going to be as surprising as -that――for, though he puts in more of himself, the greater writer sees -and puts in a lot more of the objective costermonger also. But it is, -I think, true to say that what we get from him is not, in the strict -use of words, anything that exists. It is a hypothetical person, if -I may so put it――it is a compound of what the author takes from the -world outside and what he himself contributes. The result is, then――to -take an instance or two――in Diana of the Crossways, not an actual -historical character, but what Mr. Meredith would have been had he been -that lady――not an actual skipper of a coastwise barge, but what Mr. -Jacobs would have been had he been skipper of a barge――not an actual -detective, but what Gaboriau, or Wilkie Collins, or Sir Arthur Conan -Doyle would have been had he been a detective, or, to take extreme -cases, not the inhabitants of the jungle, but all the varieties which -Mr. Kipling’s fertile genius would have assumed if he had had to people -the jungle all off his own bat. True as this is of all imaginative -writing, it is most true of dialogue. That is an attempt at direct -impersonation, as direct as the actor’s on the stage――and it is and -can be successful only within the limits indicated. The author, like -the actor, must go on trying to do what he never can and never ought -to succeed in doing――namely, obliterating his own personality. The -real process is not obliteration but transformation or translation――a -fusion of himself with each of his speakers――he modifies each of them -and is himself in each case modified by the fusion. And we may probably -measure a man’s genius in no small degree just by his susceptibility -to this fusion. We talk of Shakespeare’s universal genius, and say -that he ‘understands’ everybody; that is to say, that he is at home -in speaking in any man’s mask――that he can fuse himself with anybody. -Lesser writers can fuse only with people of a certain type, or a -certain class, or a certain period, or a certain way of thinking. Some -very clever people and accomplished writers fail in the novel or the -play because they are deficient in the power of fusing at all, and -their own personality is always the overpowering ingredient, so that -they can preach, or teach, or criticize, but they cannot, as the saying -goes, get into another man’s skin――a popular way of putting the matter -which will express the truth about what is needful very well, if we add -the proviso that when the author gets in he must not drive the original -owner out, but the two must dwell together in unity. - -Thus we see dialogue fall into its place among the varieties of -literary expression, as the most imitative and the least personal, yet -not as entirely imitative nor as wholly impersonal. It carries the -imitative and impersonal much further than the lyric coming straight -from the poet’s own heart, much further than the philosophic poem with -its questioning of a man’s own thoughts about the universe, further -than narrative with its frankly personal record of how things appear -to the narrator, and its unblushing attempt to make them appear in -the same light to the reader. At its best it carries imitation to -such a point that its own excellence alone convinces us that there is -something more than imitation after all, and more than the insight -which makes imitation possible――that among all the infinitely diverse -creations of a rich imagination and an unerring penetration there is -still a point of unity, which determines the exact attitude of each -character towards the life which it is his to lead and the world which -he has to live in. The point of unity is the author’s voice, veiled and -muffled, but audible still, however various, however fantastic, however -transformed, the accents in which it speaks. The unity in multiplicity -for which poetry yearns, philosophy labours, and science untiringly -seeks――this is also the aim and ideal of dialogue, and of drama, its -completest form――so that out of the infinite diversity of types and -of individuals which pour forth from the mind of a great creator there -shall still emerge something that we know to be his, something that he -has given to, as well as all that he has taken from, the great scene -about him, his view of life as it must present itself to all sorts and -conditions of men, his criticism of a world in which all these sorts -and conditions of men exist. - - - - -The following Publications have been issued by the Association, and -can be purchased only by members on application to the Secretary, Miss -ELIZABETH LEE, 8 Mornington Avenue Mansions, West Kensington, London:―― - - - 1907. - - No. 1. Types of English Curricula in Boys’ Secondary Schools. - Price 6d. - - No. 2. The Teaching of Shakespeare in Secondary Schools - (Provisional suggestions). Price 1d. - - No. 3. A Short List of Books on English Literature from the beginning - to 1832, for the use of Teachers. - Price 6d. (to Associate Members, 1s.) - - - 1908. - - No. 4. Shelley’s View of Poetry. A Lecture by Professor A. C. Bradley, - Litt.D. Price 1s. - - No. 5. English Literature in Secondary Schools. By J. H. Fowler, M.A. - (Reprinted.) Price 6d. - - No. 6. The Teaching of English in Girls’ Secondary Schools. - By Miss G. Clement, B.A. (Out of print.) Price 6d. - - No. 7. The Teaching of Shakespeare in Schools. Price 6d. - - No. 8. Types of English Curricula in Girls’ Secondary Schools. - (Out of print.) Price 6d. - - - 1909. - - No. 9. Milton and Party. By Professor O. Elton, M.A. - (Out of print.) Price 6d. - - No. 10. Romance. By W. P. Ker. Price 6d. - - No. 11. What still remains to be done for the Scottish Dialects. - By W. Grant. Price 6d. - - No. 12. Summary of Examinations in English affecting Schools. - Price 6d. - - No. 13. The Impersonal Aspect of Shakespeare’s Art. By - Sidney Lee, D.Litt. Price 1s. - - - * * * * * - - - Transcriber’s Notes: - - ――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). - - ――Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. - - ――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. - - ――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIALOGUE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -.author { - font-size: 1.25em; - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - -.works { - font-size: .75em; - text-align: center; - clear: both; -} - - </style> - </head> -<body> -<p style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dialogue, by Anthony Hope Hawkins</p> -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Dialogue</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Anthony Hope Hawkins</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 17, 2022 [eBook #67645]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DIALOGUE ***</div> - - -<div class="figcenter" id="cover"> - <img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="cover" title="cover" /> - <div class="caption"> - <p class="noic">Transcriber’s Note: The cover image was created from -the title page by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.</p> - </div> -</div> - - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="noi publisher">THE ENGLISH ASSOCIATION</p> - -<h1 class="p2 nobreak">Dialogue</h1> - -<p class="p2 noic">By</p> - -<p class="noi author">Anthony Hope Hawkins, M.A.</p> - -<p class="noi works">Sometime Scholar of Balliol College, Oxford</p> - -<p class="p6 noic">(Privately Printed)</p> - -<p class="noic">November, 1909</p> -</div> - - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p>As this leaflet is privately printed by special permission of -the Author, no additional copies can be sold.</p> -</div> - - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_1"></a>[1]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="DIALOGUE1">DIALOGUE<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></h2> -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p class="noi"><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> An address delivered to the members of the English Association, October 28, 1909.</p> -</div> - - -<p class="p2">Although it is probable that the subject I have chosen to speak -about this evening is rather outside the ordinary scope of your proceedings, -I have thought it better to take that risk than to attempt -to address you on some topic which I, as a working novelist and one -who has made experiments in the dramatic line also, have had less -occasion to study, and therefore should be less likely to be able to say -anything deserving of your attention—not that I am at all confident -of doing that even as matters stand. Yet perhaps it is not altogether -alien to the spirit of this Association to consider sometimes a more -or less technical aspect of literature itself, even though its main object -may be to promote the study of literature; such a discussion, undertaken -from time to time, may foster that interest in literature, on -which in the end the spread of its study must depend. With that -much said by way of justification, or of apology, as you will, I proceed -to my task.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>Some months ago I happened to read a novel in the whole course -of which nobody said anything—not one of the characters was represented -in the act of speaking to another with the living voice. One -remark was indeed quoted in a letter as having been made viva voce -on a previous occasion, but this sudden breach of consistency did not -command my belief—it seemed like an assertion that in an assembly -of veritable mutes somebody had suddenly shouted. The book was -not in the main in the form of letters—it was almost pure narrative. -The effect was worse than unreal. An intense sense of lifelessness -was produced; you moved among the dead—or even the shadows of -the dead. It was a lesson in the importance of dialogue in fiction -which no writer could ever forget.</p> - -<p>What, then, is this dialogue? Formally defined it includes, I suppose, -any conversation—any talk in which two or more persons take -part; while it excludes a monologue, which one delivers while others -listen, and a soliloquy, which one delivers when there is nobody to -listen—unless, perchance, behind the arras. But some dialogues are, -if I may coin a word, much more thoroughly dialogic than others—there -is much more of what is the real essence of the matter. That -real essence I take to be the meeting of minds in talk—the reciprocal -exhibition of mind to mind. The most famous compositions in the -world to which the title of dialogues is expressly given—Plato’s own—vary -greatly in this essential quality. Some have it in a high degree: -others become in great measure merely an exposition, punctuated by -assents or admissions which tend to become almost purely a matter<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_2"></a>[2]</span> -of form. Later philosophical dialogues, like Landor’s, give, to my -mind, even less the impression of conversation—though an exception -may well be made to some extent for Mr. Mallock’s <cite>New Republic</cite>. -But speeches are not true dialogue, and you cannot make them such -by putting in a succession of them. For an instance, see Mr. Lowes -Dickinson’s <cite>Modern Symposium</cite>. One is inclined to say that unstinted -liberty of interruption is essential to the full nature of dialogue—to -give it its true character of reciprocity, of exchange, and often of -combat. Without that it inclines towards the monologue—towards -an exposition by one, and away from a contribution by several.</p> - -<p>Thus it is that not all good talk can be cited as a good or typical -example of dialogue. I have taken philosophical examples—let me turn -hastily to something which, I hope at least, I know rather more about. -We all know, and doubtless all love, Sam Weller’s talk, but Sam’s creator -is, naturally enough, too much enamoured of him to give his interlocutors -much of a chance. The whole is designed for the better -exhibition of Sam—the other party is, in the slang of the stage, ‘feeding -him’—giving him openings. It’s one-sided. A quite modern instance -of the same kind, and one which, at its best, is not unworthy of being -mentioned in the same breath, is to be found in <cite>The Conversations of -Mr. Dooley</cite>. ‘Hinnissey’ gets no chance, he is merely a ‘feeder’; -the whole aim is the exhibition of the mind of Mr. Dooley. Contrast -with these the conversations in <cite>Tristram Shandy</cite>—to my mind some -of the finest and, scientifically regarded, most perfect dialogue in -English literature. Every character who speaks contributes—really -contributes, and is not merely a feeder or a foil. Each has his own -mind, his own point of view, and manfully and independently maintains -it. Uncle Toby is the author’s pet perhaps, but I think he is -hardly less fond of Mr. Shandy—while Mrs. Shandy, Dr. Slop, Corporal -Trim, and the rest, are all sharply defined and characterized out of -their own mouths, and have their independent value as well as their -independent views. If you would seek good modern examples of -these dialogic virtues, you might turn to Mr. Anstey’s <cite>Voces Populi</cite> -or to Mr. Jacobs’s stories. In the latter the things that make you -laugh most are often not in themselves remarkable—certainly not -witty and indeed not aiming at wit; but they suddenly exhibit and -light up conflicting points of view—and irresistible humour springs -full-born from the clash of outlook and of temperament.</p> - -<p>It is precisely this power inherent in dialogue—the power of bringing -into sharp vision the conflict of characters and points of view—which -favours the increased use of it in modern novels. Serious modern -novels tend to deal with matters of debate more than their predecessors -of corresponding rank did—at once to treat more freely of -matters open to question, and to find open to question more matters -than our ancestors thought—or at all events admitted—to come -within that category. It is both more efficacious and less tedious to -let A and B reveal their characters and views to one another than for -the author to tell the reader A’s character and views, and then B’s -character and views, and to add the obvious statement that the two -characters and views differ. We do not want merely to be told they -differ; the drama lies in seeing them differing, and in seeing the -difference gradually disclose and establish itself until it culminates in -a struggle and ends in a drawn battle, or a hard-won victory. Of<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_3"></a>[3]</span> -course, when a man is fighting alone in his own soul, you must rely -on analysis—on analytic narrative (unless indeed you resort to an -allegorical device), but where there is a conflict between two men—representing -perhaps two types of humanity, or two sides of a disputed -case—dialogue comes more and more to be used as the most technically -effective medium at the writer’s disposal.</p> - -<p>But its increased use is not limited to this function. It is found -possible to employ it more and more in the direct interest of literary -form and technique. There are very many facts which the author -of a novel desires to convey to his readers. A considerable proportion -of them must be conveyed by narrative—so considerable a proportion -that it is all gain if the number can be cut down. Here a skilful use -of dialogue comes to the author’s aid. To take an example. The -author wishes to acquaint the reader with the heroine’s personal -appearance, since the reader is required to understand the hero’s -passion and the villain’s wiles. We all recollect how in many old -novels—even in those of the great masters of the craft—the fashion -was to catalogue the lady’s charms on her first appearance on the -scene. There they all were—the raven locks, the flashing eyes, the -short curling upper lip, et cetera. You read them—and according -to my experience you were in no small danger of entirely forgetting -what manner of woman she was by the time you had turned half -a dozen pages. But if you can see her beauty in action, so to speak, -it’s a different thing. Say that her eyes are the feature on which -special stress is desirable. Merely to state that ‘she had beautiful -blue eyes’—well, you accept the fact, but it leaves you cold. But if -the hero, by a dexterous compliment, gallant yet not obtrusive, can, -first, tell <em>you</em> about the eyes, secondly exhibit to you the effect the eyes -are having on him, thirdly, get a step forward in his relations with -the lady, and fourthly, aided by her reply to the compliment, show -you how she is disposed to receive his advances—the result is that the -author has done more and has done it better. I have purposely -chosen a simple—almost a trivial—instance, but it is not therefore, -I think, a bad example of how the use of dialogue can not merely avoid -tedium, though that is a supremely desirable and indeed a vital thing -in itself, but can also give a natural effect instead of an unnatural, -and add to the dramatic value of a fact by showing it in actual operation, -producing results, instead of merely chronicling its existence, -almost as an item in a list. Novelists have realized this, and the -realization of it unites with the reasons which I have already touched -upon to make them try to work more and more through dialogue—more -and more to make the characters speak for themselves, and -less and less to speak for them except when they must. There is -a gain all round—in naturalness, in drama, in conciseness, and in -shapeliness.</p> - -<p>It remains, while we are on this point of the technical usefulness -of dialogue, to note two or three other ways in which it serves the -novelist’s turn. He finds it exceedingly to his purpose if he wishes -to be impersonal, to be impartial, to keep a secret, or to hold a situation -in suspense. It enables him to withdraw behind the curtain, -and leave his characters alone with the reader. It enables him to -get rid of the air of omniscience which narrative forces upon him, -and to assume the limitations of his <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">dramatis personae</i>. By so doing<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_4"></a>[4]</span> -he adds reality to them—they are less puppets. Speaking through -A’s mouth, he sees only A’s point of view, and when he speaks through -B’s mouth his knowledge of the state of events is only B’s knowledge, -and no greater. He may often desire to do this, for much the same -reasons as sometimes lead a writer to assume, altogether and throughout -the book, the garb of one of the characters, to write in the first -person, to see only what the hero sees, to know only what he knows, -and to feel only what he feels. The use of dialogue is in this aspect -of it a less drastic form of the same device.</p> - -<p>I have tried to indicate the uses of dialogue to the writers of books—I -must say a word or two about the stage later on—but it would be -a mistake to suppose that its employment has no limits. One we -have already touched upon—a man can’t talk dialogue to himself—well, -unless he’s a ventriloquist, and in these days his right to soliloquize, -or even to say ‘Hallo!’ when he’s by himself—except into -the telephone, of course—is keenly canvassed or sternly denied. But -even apart from this necessary limitation on dialogue, there are, -I think, no doubt others. In the first place, dialogue, so excellent -a means of exhibiting character and opinion, is on the whole not -the most appropriate or effective mode of exhibiting action—unless, -that is, the whole importance of the action depends on how it is received -by one of the parties to the dialogue. Take the case of a murder. -If the object is to tell an ingenious and thrilling story of a murder, -it is in nine cases out of ten far better for the author to tell it himself. -He gains nothing by putting it into the mouth of a character, and -he probably loses directness and effect. But if the import of the -murder lies not so much in itself as in the effect the news of it may -have on A, B, then it is good to tell it to A, B; the reader can see -the effect in operation. But with this exception I think it may be -taken that books containing much external action, and much rapid -action, will tend to rely less on dialogue, and more on narration. -Not only is dialogue less quick-moving and direct, but when action -is in the case, it loses just that naturalness which is so pre-eminently -its own where it is dealing with a clash of temperaments or with -contrasted views of life. It seems to come at second hand, and the -reader feels that he would sooner have been with A, who really saw -the thing done, than merely with B, who is only being told about it -by the actual witness.</p> - -<p>Again, I think there is little doubt that the ordinary reader is fatigued -by too much talking, and that a long novel, mainly relying on dialogue -and reducing narrative to a merely subordinate position, is in great -danger of becoming tedious. This it may do in one of two ways—or, -if it is very unfortunate, in both—at different places. The writer -may try to tell too much by dialogue, with the result that his characters -speak at great length, and he topples over the line which divides -dialogue from speech-making. Or, on the other hand, alive to the -perils of speech-making, he may try to cut it all up into question and -answer, and to enliven it by constant epigrams or some other form -of wit. This latter expedient may not bore the reader so much as -the speech-making, but it will probably fatigue him more. Dialogue -does, in fact, make a greater claim on the reader than narrative. -I think this is true even when it is good dialogue. Something may -be done to help him by skilful comment or description—clever stage-directions<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_5"></a>[5]</span> -in effect—but none the less he is deprived, or curtailed, of -much of the assistance on his way which the narrative form can give -him. I think that probably the best advice to offer to a novice would -be: As few long conversations as possible—but as many short ones. -Let the dialogue break up the narrative, and the narrative cut short -any tendency to prolixity in the dialogue.</p> - -<p>Just now I referred to the possibility of assisting dialogue by comment -or description, much as when you read a play you are assisted -to follow and appreciate the lines written to be spoken on the stage -by the directions inserted to guide the actor. This reference, I dare -say, raised in your minds the thought that the dialogue I have been -speaking of—dialogue as it is used in novels—is very rarely pure -dialogue at all. The objection is well founded, and its application -is wide, though the degree of its application varies immensely. You -may find pure dialogue, without stage-directions, here and there, even -in novels. George Borrow, for instance, is fond of it, and is a master -of a peculiar quality of it. But far the more general form is dialogue -assisted by comment and description—a hybrid kind of composition, -in which the author plays a double part, speaking through the characters’ -mouths at one moment, describing their actions, gestures, even -their unspoken thoughts, at the next. This is the normal form of -novel dialogue. The variations occur in the relative amount of this -description or comment—of this stage-direction, as I have called it. -And I call it that because this comment or description takes the place -of what they call ‘business’ on the stage. The actor’s task is divided -between his words and his ‘business’, and the playwright is entitled -to rely on the ‘business’ to help out the words, just as the novelist -describes or comments on the actions and gestures of his speakers, -in order to assist and elucidate the meaning of the actual words they -use. If you read a play—not seeing the actors—and if the author -has given no stage-directions as to how the characters look or speak—as -to whether they show anger or fright, or pleasure, or surprise, for -instance, you will find, I think, that you have to read with an increased -degree of attention—perhaps I may say of sympathetic imagination—and -that, even with this brought to bear, you will sometimes be in -doubt. So with novel dialogue. If the author denied himself description -or comment interlarded with the actual words spoken, he would -set a harder task both to his own skill and to the reader’s intelligence. -The comments of the novelist, like the ‘business’ of the playwright, -clothe the skeleton of the actually spoken words with a living form, -expressing itself in action, in gesture, by frowns or smiles, by tears -or laughter. I have little doubt that if we possessed not only Shakespeare’s -words, but Shakespeare’s ‘business’, many a controversy as -to the exact meaning of this passage or that, many a question as to -the precise character or mental condition of this or that of his <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">dramatis -personae</i>, could never have arisen—and many learned, and possibly -some tedious, books would have gone unwritten.</p> - -<p>Now, so far as I know—but I hasten to add that I am not a wide -reader of plays, though I am much addicted to seeing them acted—Mr. -Bernard Shaw was the first among English dramatists to see and -exploit fully the possibilities of stage-directions in helping the imagination -of those who read, as distinct from those who see, his plays. -Some of his stage-directions are, in my humble opinion, among the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_6"></a>[6]</span> -best things he has ever done—terse, humorous, incisive, complete—see, -for example, his description of Mrs. Warren. But novelists were -quicker to see the possibility of their stage-directions, their comments -on moods, their descriptions of the actions or the gestures accompanying -the spoken words. When you talk to a man or woman, you don’t -shut your eyes and merely listen to the voice. You do listen carefully -to the voice—since he may say ‘Yes’ as if he really meant it, or as -if he only half-meant it, or as if he meant just the opposite—but -you also watch his eyes and his mouth—and in moments of strong -excitement it is recorded of many a villain that his fingers twitched, -and of many a heroine that her bosom heaved; so fingers and bosoms -are worth watching too. Now the point is that a skilful use of these -stage-directions can not only immensely assist the meaning of novel -dialogue, but can also add enormously to its artistic value and merit. -It can diffuse an atmosphere, impart a hint, create an interest by -a dexterous suspending of the answer. This last is, from a professional -point of view, a particularly pretty trick—it’s not much more than -a trick, but let us call it a literary device—and Sterne brought it to -great perfection—and knew well what he was doing. I will make -bold to quote a passage of his which bears on the whole subject, and -shows both his method and the absolute consciousness with which he -employed it—to say nothing of the shameless candour with which -he laughs at his own trick. Corporal Trim is discoursing to his fellow -servants on the death of Tristram’s brother, Master Bobby. ‘Are -we not here now?’ continued the Corporal (striking the end of his -stick perpendicularly upon the floor, so as to give an emblem of -health and stability) ‘and’ (dropping his hat upon the ground) ‘gone -in a minute?’ Then Sterne digresses, and repeats—as his manner is. -But he comes back—and is good enough to explain: ‘Let us only -carry back our minds to the mortality of Trim’s hat,’ he says. ‘Are -we not here now—and gone in a moment? There was nothing in -the sentence—’twas one of your self-evident truths we have the -advantage of hearing every day: and if Trim had not trusted more -to his hat than to his head, he had made nothing at all of it.’ And -he proceeds: ‘Ten thousand and ten thousand times ten thousand -(for matter and motion are infinite) are the ways by which a hat -may be dropped on the ground without any effect. Had he flung it, -or thrown it, or cast it, or skimmed it, or squirted it, or let it slip -or fall in any possible direction under heaven—had he dropped it like -a goose, like a puppy, like an ass—or in doing it or even after he had -done it, had looked like a fool, like a ninny, like a nincompoop—it -had failed, and the effect upon the heart had been lost.’ And he -ends—most justifiably—‘Meditate, I beseech you, upon Trim’s hat!’ -Trim’s hat may certainly stand as an instance of the value of stage-directions -to novel dialogue.</p> - -<p>Returning to actually spoken words—the real talk between the -interlocutors—we may note the great adaptability and elasticity of -the dialogue form. The hesitation, the aposiopesis, the interruption, -are all ready and flexible devices, apt to convey hints, innuendoes, -doubts, objections, apt to convey the sense of a balance inclining -now this way, now that, to show one mind feeling its way towards -a knowledge of the other, while sedulously guarding its own secrets. -Or you may seek the broader effects of comedy with the sudden<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_7"></a>[7]</span> -betrayal of irreconcilable divergence, or of an agreement as complete -as it is paradoxical, or of the mutual helplessness which results from -total misunderstanding of the one by the other, or, finally, of the -well-worn but still effective device—a favourite one in the theatre—of -two people talking at cross-purposes, one meaning one thing, the -other a different one, and the pair arriving at an harmonious agreement -from utterly inharmonious premises—the false accord of a hundred -scenes of comedy.</p> - -<p>Such are some of the arts of dialogue, as they are employed sometimes -in the task of serious and delicate analysis, as for example by -Mr. Henry James, sometimes in the cause of pure comedy, as by -Gyp. That lady made an interesting experiment. She tried to indicate -the gestures, wherein her countrymen are so eloquent, by a system -of notation—so many notes of interrogation, or so many of exclamation, -being B’s response to A’s spoken observation. But here, I think, -she must be held to have resorted to ‘business’ as we have already -discussed it, and to have passed beyond true dialogue. An ‘Oh’, -an ‘Ah!’ or a ‘Humph!’ constitute about the irreducible minimum -of that articulate speech which makes dialogue. Notes of exclamation -won’t quite do.</p> - -<p>One other function of dialogue deserves especial mention. Unless -an author adopts the drastic course I have already alluded to—that -of sinking himself absolutely in the personality of one of his characters -and writing in the name and garb of that character—as for example -did Defoe—and as, for example, does Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, when -he plays Dr. Watson to Sherlock Holmes’s ‘lead’ as they say in the -theatre—unless he does this, dialogue alone will enable him to impart -‘local colour’, in other words, to set before his reader the speech -and the mind of races or classes far different in their thoughts, in -their modes of expression, and in their actual vocabulary and pronunciation, -from what we may term the ordinary educated reader. -Scores of Dickens’s cockney characters, Mr. Hardy’s Wessex rustics, -Mr. Kipling’s soldiers, live and move and have their being for us -solely in virtue of what they say and the way they say it. In fact -they couldn’t be described—they must be seen and heard. They -must be on the stage. Therefore they must use—their creators must -use for them—that literary form which is, in the end, the link between -novels and the stage—the form common to both—the form of dialogue.</p> - -<p>That last observation leads me naturally to pass on to the literary -vehicle in which dialogue is in its glory—in which it is the sovereign -instrument, in which it reaches its highest level of independence, in -which it leans its lightest on any other aid than that inherent in its -own capacity. This is the drama—and the drama written for the -actual stage. I do not think that what are called ‘plays for the -study’ need detain us. It is really only a question of degree in each -case. They either approximate closely to the true stage-play or, on -the other hand, they are really books in which, by artifice and often -by an effort which is rather too visible, those parts that would naturally -assume a narrative form, are presented in the guise of dialogue—or -rather not so much of dialogue as we are now discussing it, but, -as I should say, of speeches which are, in essence, either narrative, -or argumentative, or reflective, or hortative in character.</p> - -<p>We may come then to the theatre itself—but before I attempt to<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_8"></a>[8]</span> -say anything on the relations between stage dialogue and book dialogue, -I should like to remind you again that even this greater independence -of stage dialogue is very far indeed from being absolute. We have -already referred to the stage-directions. These are amplified by the -actor, of his own motion or in pursuit of the instructions he receives -at rehearsal. The result is his ‘business’—everything he does on -the stage except what he does with his tongue. The ‘business’ -counts for much, but what counts for even more is that the words -are spoken there on the stage by living man to living man. I think -it is hard to exaggerate the effect of this—the immense help it gives -to the words. It is not merely a question of vividness, though that -is important enough. It is equally, or even more, a question of -appropriateness, of the words matching the personality from which -they proceed. The novelist can make his words match the personality -which he has created in his own mind. Where he is at a disadvantage -compared with the playwright is that it is infinitely harder for him, -in spite of all <em>his</em> stage-directions, and his descriptions, and his analysis, -to set that personality as completely before his reader as the corporeal -presence of the actor sets it before the audience in the theatre. Hence -the match—the harmony—between the words and the personality—though -it may exist, is apt not to be nearly so effective in the book -as on the stage, and a line that misses its mark as written in the one -may triumph in the other, thanks to the man who speaks it—to his -skill, to his emotional power, not seldom, and especially in comedy, -even to his personal appearance. In a word the independence of -dialogue on the stage is qualified by its dependence on the actor. -He has to do what the novelist does by descriptions and comments. -He has to clothe the skeleton; and if it has been one’s fortune to -see two or three great or accomplished actors play the same part, -especially, say, in a classic play, where they are not guided—or trammelled—by -too many stage-directions, and are not instructed—perhaps -sometimes over-instructed—by the author, one will not, I think, doubt -that the clothes they put on the skeleton may very considerably affect -the appearance of its anatomy, sometimes seeming to alter the very -shape of the bones.</p> - -<p>Still, all allowances made, it remains true that the stage offers the -fullest, the fairest, and the most independent opportunity for pure -dialogue—and it is necessary to ask the question—however hard the -answer may be—what effect the medium of the theatre has upon -dialogue. I admit at once that I think the question is very hard to -answer. We are in presence of the indisputable fact that dialogue -which is highly moving or amusing in a book may fall quite flat on -the stage—while on the other hand dialogue which is very effective -on the stage may sound either obvious or bald in a book. This is -not to say, of course, that some dialogue will not be found good for -both. Practical experiments are constantly being tried, owing to the -habit of dramatizing novels which have achieved a popular success. -The temptation is to carry over into the play as much of the dialogue -of the novel as you can contrive to use; the object is to preserve as -far as possible both the literary flavour and the commercial goodwill -of the original. The result is interesting. The novelist, whether he -acts as his own dramatist or not, will almost always notice, I think, -that passages of dialogue which are most effective in the book are<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_9"></a>[9]</span> -least effective on the stage—often that they need complete remodelling -before they can be used at all. On the other hand, passages which he -has little esteemed in the book—regarded perhaps almost as mere -machinery, part of the necessary traffic of the story—make an immediate -hit with audiences in the theatre.</p> - -<p>It is a commonplace in the theatrical world that there is no telling -what ‘they’ will like—‘they’ means the public—not even what -plays they will or will not like, much less what particular scenes or -passages—and nobody with even the least practical experience would -care to back his opinion save at very favourable odds. If then it is -impossible to tell what they will or won’t like, it seems still more -hopeless to inquire why they will or won’t like it; but that is, in -reality, not quite the case. It is not, I think, so much that the playwright -does not know what he has to do to please them, as that it -happens to be rather difficult to do it, and quite as difficult to know -when you have done it. Happily, however, we are to-night not on -the hard highroad of practice, but in the easy pastures of criticism, -and may therefore be bold to try to suggest what are the main features -of good theatrical dialogue—features which, though they may be found -in and may assist novel dialogue, yet are not indispensable to it, but -which must characterize theatrical dialogue and are indispensable to -success on the stage. These indispensable qualities may in the end be -reduced to two—practicality and universality.</p> - -<p>By practicality—not a happy term, I confess, and one which I use -only because I cannot think of any other single word—I mean the -quality of helping the play forward, either by getting on with the -evolution of the situations, or by exhibiting the drama which is the -result of the situations (I must add, parenthetically, that by situations -I do not mean merely external happenings—the term properly includes -both characters and events, and their reciprocal action on one another). -A play is a very short thing; a very solid four-act play—I am talking -of the modern theatre now—will not cover more than 140 to 150 -ordinary type-written sheets; a novel of the ordinary length will -cover from three to four hundred. The obvious result is that the -author has not, to put it colloquially, much time to play about. He -may allow himself a little of what is technically termed ‘relief’. -A good line pays for its place. But broadly speaking, all the dialogue -has to work—each line has its task of advancing action or exhibiting -character. Now only so many lines being possible between the rise -and the fall of the curtain, it is clear that there is no room for digression -or for rambling—things that are often most delightful in a book, -where space and time are practically unlimited. More than this. -Not only is there no space for rambling and irrelevant talk, but the -necessary talk—the talk that is helpful and pertinent—must at the -same time carefully consult the limits of space. There are a lot of -points to be made in every act—aye, in every scene. The playwright -cannot afford too much space to any one point. And the point must -not only be made with all possible brevity—it must be made with -all possible certainty, so that there may be no need of going back -to it, no need of repetition; it should be stuck straight into the -audience’s mind, as one sticks a pin into a chart. Hence there is -need of directness—a certain quality of unmistakableness—one might -almost say bluntness, when one compares theatrical dialogue with<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_10"></a>[10]</span> -some of the minutely wrought novel dialogue to which I have referred -to-night. But what then—I’m afraid you will be beginning to ask—what -then, if you are right, is to become not only of the literary graces -of style, but also of the intellectual quality of your work—of its profundity, -of its subtlety, of its delicacy? Well, I can make only one -answer—and being to-night, as I say, in the happy pastures of theory—I -can give it light-heartedly. You must keep all those, and manage -to harmonize them with your brevity and your certainty. That is one -of the reasons—not the only one—why it is distinctly difficult to write -good plays, not very easy to write even what are often contemptuously -referred to as commercially successful plays—and not absolutely easy -to write anything that can be called in any serious sense a play at all. -There is a great deal of difference between just being a bad play and -not being a play at all. The real playwright sometimes writes a bad -play—but it is a play that he writes. Yes, your beauty, your profundity, -your subtlety, your delicacy, must submit to drill—they -must toe the line—they must accept the strait conditions of this most -exacting medium. Conciseness and certainty—a quality of clean-cut -outline—is demanded by stage conditions. The writer must know -with accuracy where he is going at every minute and just how far. -He ought to do the same in a book, you’ll say, and I admit it. But -in the latter it is an ideal, and many a successful and even many -a delightful book has been written without the ideal being reached—or -perhaps even aimed at. On the stage the ideal is also the indispensable—for -there a writer in the least of a mist wraps his audience in -the densest fog.</p> - -<p>The second quality which I suggest as pre-eminently required by -stage dialogue and which I have called universality really goes deeper -and affects more than the mere dialogue, though strictly speaking we -are this evening concerned with its effect in that sphere only. Consider -for a moment the different aim which a writer of novels and -a writer of plays respectively may set before himself. Of course the -novelist may set out to please the whole British public—and the -American and Continental too, if you like, though for simplicity’s -sake we may confine ourselves to these islands. A certain number -no doubt start with that aim. A few may have succeeded—very -few. But such an ambitious task is in no way incumbent on the -novelist. Whether he looks to his pride or his pocket, to fame or to -a sufficient circulation, it is quite enough for him to please a section -of the public. He may be a famous literary man and enjoy a large -income, as fame and incomes go in authorship, without three-quarters -of the adult population—let alone the boys and girls—knowing or -caring one jot about him. And he may be quite content to have it -so—content deliberately and voluntarily, and not merely perforce, to -limit the extent of his appeal, finding compensation in the intenser, -though narrower, appeal he makes to his chosen audience, and in the -increased liberty to indulge and to develop his own bent—to go his -own way, in short, happy in the knowledge that he has a select but -sufficient body of devoted followers. For example, I don’t suppose -that Mr. Meredith expected or tried to please the boys who worshipped -Mr. Henty, or that Mr. Henty, in his turn, had any idea of poaching -on the preserves of Mr. Pett Ridge. In a word, a novelist can, if he -likes or if he must (often the latter is the case), specialize in his audience<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_11"></a>[11]</span> -just as he can in his subject or his treatment. If he pleases the class -he tries to please, all is well with him; he can let the others go, with -just as much regret and just as much politeness as his circumstances -and his temperament may dictate.</p> - -<p>Now, of course, this is true to some degree of the theatre also—at -any rate in the great centres of population like London, where -there are many neighbourhoods and many theatres. You would not -expect to fill a popular ‘low price’ house with the same bill that -might succeed at the St. James’s or, in recent days, at the Court -Theatre. Nevertheless, it is immensely less true of the theatre than -it is of the novel. Take the average West End theatre—it has to -cater for all of us. The fashionable folk go, you and I go, our growing -boys and girls go, our relations from the country go, our servants -go, our butchers, bakers, and candlestick-makers go, the girls from -the A.B.C. shops, and the young gentlemen from Marshall & Snelgrove’s -go—we have all to be catered for—we have all to be pleased -with the same dinner! Across the footlights lies a miniature world, -in which wellnigh every variety that exists in the great world outside -has paid its money and sits in its seat. Is this to say that the theatre -must rely on the commonplace and obvious? Not at all—but it is -to say that it must in the main rely on the universal—on that which -appeals to all the varieties in virtue of the common humanity that -underlies the variations. It must find, so to say, the least common -denominator, and work through and appeal to that. The things that -will do it differ profoundly—</p> - -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">‘To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,</div> - <div class="verse indent1">Creeps in this petty pace from day to day</div> - <div class="verse indent1">To the last syllable of recorded time,</div> - <div class="verse indent1">And all our yesterdays have lighted fools</div> - <div class="verse indent1">The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!’</div> - </div> -</div> - -<p>That does it. Or Congreve’s ‘Though Marriage makes man and -wife one flesh, it leaves them still two fools!’—That does it, though -obviously in quite a different way—or ‘Romeo, Romeo, wherefore -art thou Romeo?’—again in a different way. Or again something -quite elementary—even schoolboyish if one may dare to use the word -of Shakespeare—may win its way by its absolute naturalness, as -when Jacques says to Orlando—of Rosalind, ‘I do not like her name’—‘There -was no thought of pleasing you when she was christened’—an -unanswerable retort to an impertinent observation which I have -never known to fail in pleasing the house. The thing may or may -not be simple, it may or may not be profound, it may or may not -be witty, but it must have a wide appeal—it must touch a common -chord. I imagine that very few plays—though I think I have known -a few—get produced and then please nobody—absolutely nobody in -the house. I have known some failures that have pleased very highly -people whom any author should be proud to please. But they haven’t -pleased enough people—not merely not enough to succeed, but not -enough to establish them as good plays, however much good literary -stuff and good literary form there might be contained and exhibited in -them.</p> - -<p>Now this need for universality—for the thing with a wide appeal<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_12"></a>[12]</span> -not limited to this or that class or character of intellect—has its -effect, I think, on the actual form of the dialogue, though I freely -admit that is an effect extremely hard to measure and define with -any approach to accuracy. It in no way excludes individuality or -even whimsicality, whether in situation or dialogue. The writer who -is probably the most successful living British dramatist to-day is also -probably the most individual and the most whimsical. It in no way -demands undue concession to the commonplace—but it does, I think, -require that the dialogue shall be in some sense in the vulgar tongue—that -it shall be understanded of the people. The thing need not be -seen or put as the audience would see or put it, but it must be seen -and put as the audience can understand that character seeing and -putting it. It must not be perverse, or too mannered, or too obscure. -It may not be allowed so much licence in this respect as book-dialogue, -if only for the reason that its effect has to be much more immediate—there -can be no such thing as reading the speech over again the better -to grasp its meaning—a necessity not unknown in novel reading. Its -appeal is immediate, or it is nothing at all. It must also be, above -all things, natural—and this again is on the stage even more pre-eminently -requisite than in the written page—if only for the reason -that the speaker is more vividly realized on the stage, and the author -less vividly remembered—so that any discrepancy between the speaker -as he lives before you and the particular thing he says is more glaringly -apparent. And, as a corollary to this necessity for naturalness, follows -the need for full and distinct differentiation of character. The dialogue -must clearly attach to each character in the play his point of view -and must consistently maintain it. On the whole therefore we may -say that the universality of appeal which the stage demands operates -on the form of the dialogue by way of imposing upon it certain obligations -of straightforwardness of effect, of lucidity and immediateness -in appeal, and of naturalness and exact appropriateness to the speaker—obligations -which exist for book-dialogue also, but are less stringent -and less peremptory there than in the theatre.</p> - -<p>This question of naturalness, which is germane to the whole subject -of dialogue and not merely to stage dialogue, is one of the most difficult -things to lay down any rule about. It is not easy even to get any -working formula which is helpful. On the one side there seems to -lie the obvious rule—that all dialogue ought to be natural, appropriate -to the person in whose mouth it is put—not merely what in substance -he would say, but also said in the way he would say it. On the other -side is the obvious fact that no two writers of any considerable merit -do, as a fact, write dialogue in the same way, even when they are -presenting the same sort of characters. Comparatively impersonal as -the dialogue form is, when set beside the narrative, yet the writer’s -idiosyncrasy will have its way, and in greater or less degree the author’s -accent is heard from the lips of his imaginary interlocutors—and of -each and all of them, however widely different they may be supposed -to be, and really are, from one another. This appears to land us in -an <em>impasse</em>; the obvious fact seems to conflict with the obvious rule. -If it be so, I suppose the rule must go to the wall, for all its obviousness. -But I fancy that some approach to a solution may be found -in the suggestion that no two authors of creative power do, in fact, -ever create characters of quite the same sort, and that we got into<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_13"></a>[13]</span> -a seeming <em>impasse</em> by being guilty of a fallacy. When an author -sits down at his desk to contemplate, criticize, and reproduce the -world about him, it is natural at the first thought to regard the author -as subject contemplating and reproducing the world as object—pure -subject as against pure object. Here is the fallacy as I conceive. -The author as subject does not and cannot contemplate the world -as pure object. What he sees is object-subject—that is to say, he -consciously sets himself to contemplate and describe a world which -is already modified for him by the unconscious projection of his own -personality into it—or, in more homely language, he always looks -through his own spectacles. It follows that when two creative minds—say -Dickens and Thackeray—both set out to describe a duke or a -costermonger, it is never the same duke or costermonger—it is not -the abstract idea of duke or costermonger, laid up in heaven—but it -is a duke-Dickens or a duke-Thackeray—a costermonger-Dickens or -a costermonger-Thackeray. Consequently again it is not in the end -natural—and, therefore, as the Admirable Crichton would remind -us, it is not in the end right—that these two dukes or these two costermongers -should speak in exactly the same way—though no doubt -both of the pairs ought still to speak as dukes and costermongers of -some sort—be it Dickensian or Thackerayan as the case may be. Of -course, if an author’s idiosyncrasy is so peculiar that the subjective -infusion of himself which he pours into the objective costermonger -is so powerful as to cause the human race at large to object that no -costermonger of any kind whatsoever ever did or could speak in that -way—well, then the world will say that the picture of the costermonger -is untrue and the language of the costermonger is inappropriate and -unnatural—a conclusion summed up by saying that the author can’t -draw a costermonger. His personality won’t blend with costermongers—perhaps -it will with dukes—he had better confine himself to the -latter. The author may take comfort in the thought that there are -sure to be a few persons enamoured of singularity, and perhaps liking -to be wiser than their neighbours, who will declare that his costermongers -are of a superior brand to all others, and are indeed the -only complete and veritable revelation of the quiddity of the costermonger -ever set before the world since that planet began its journey -round the sun.</p> - -<p>We arrive, then—as we draw near the close of these remarks—rather -rambling remarks, I am afraid—at the conclusion, perhaps -a conclusion with a touch of the paradoxical in it—that in dialogue -the writer is always trying to do what in the nature of the case he -can never do completely. He is always trying to present objectively -a personality other than his own. He never fully succeeds, and it -would be to the ruin of his work as literature, if he did. The creator -is always there in the created, and it is probably true to say that he -is there in greater degree just in proportion to the force of his personality -and the power of his creative faculty. Is the greater writer then less -true to life than the smaller? I am not going to be as surprising as -that—for, though he puts in more of himself, the greater writer sees -and puts in a lot more of the objective costermonger also. But it -is, I think, true to say that what we get from him is not, in the strict -use of words, anything that exists. It is a hypothetical person, if -I may so put it—it is a compound of what the author takes from the<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_14"></a>[14]</span> -world outside and what he himself contributes. The result is, then—to -take an instance or two—in Diana of the Crossways, not an actual -historical character, but what Mr. Meredith would have been had he -been that lady—not an actual skipper of a coastwise barge, but what -Mr. Jacobs would have been had he been skipper of a barge—not an -actual detective, but what Gaboriau, or Wilkie Collins, or Sir Arthur -Conan Doyle would have been had he been a detective, or, to take -extreme cases, not the inhabitants of the jungle, but all the varieties -which Mr. Kipling’s fertile genius would have assumed if he had had -to people the jungle all off his own bat. True as this is of all imaginative -writing, it is most true of dialogue. That is an attempt at direct -impersonation, as direct as the actor’s on the stage—and it is and can -be successful only within the limits indicated. The author, like the -actor, must go on trying to do what he never can and never ought to -succeed in doing—namely, obliterating his own personality. The real -process is not obliteration but transformation or translation—a fusion -of himself with each of his speakers—he modifies each of them and -is himself in each case modified by the fusion. And we may probably -measure a man’s genius in no small degree just by his susceptibility -to this fusion. We talk of Shakespeare’s universal genius, and say -that he ‘understands’ everybody; that is to say, that he is at home -in speaking in any man’s mask—that he can fuse himself with anybody. -Lesser writers can fuse only with people of a certain type, -or a certain class, or a certain period, or a certain way of thinking. -Some very clever people and accomplished writers fail in the novel -or the play because they are deficient in the power of fusing at all, -and their own personality is always the overpowering ingredient, so -that they can preach, or teach, or criticize, but they cannot, as the -saying goes, get into another man’s skin—a popular way of putting -the matter which will express the truth about what is needful very -well, if we add the proviso that when the author gets in he must not -drive the original owner out, but the two must dwell together in -unity.</p> - -<p>Thus we see dialogue fall into its place among the varieties of literary -expression, as the most imitative and the least personal, yet not as -entirely imitative nor as wholly impersonal. It carries the imitative -and impersonal much further than the lyric coming straight from the -poet’s own heart, much further than the philosophic poem with its -questioning of a man’s own thoughts about the universe, further than -narrative with its frankly personal record of how things appear to -the narrator, and its unblushing attempt to make them appear in the -same light to the reader. At its best it carries imitation to such -a point that its own excellence alone convinces us that there is something -more than imitation after all, and more than the insight which -makes imitation possible—that among all the infinitely diverse creations -of a rich imagination and an unerring penetration there is still -a point of unity, which determines the exact attitude of each character -towards the life which it is his to lead and the world which he has -to live in. The point of unity is the author’s voice, veiled and muffled, -but audible still, however various, however fantastic, however transformed, -the accents in which it speaks. The unity in multiplicity for -which poetry yearns, philosophy labours, and science untiringly seeks—this -is also the aim and ideal of dialogue, and of drama, its completest<span class="pagenum"><a id="Page_15"></a>[15]</span> -form—so that out of the infinite diversity of types and of individuals -which pour forth from the mind of a great creator there shall still -emerge something that we know to be his, something that he has given -to, as well as all that he has taken from, the great scene about him, -his view of life as it must present itself to all sorts and conditions of -men, his criticism of a world in which all these sorts and conditions -of men exist.</p> - - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="noi">The following Publications have been issued by the Association, -and can be purchased only by members on application to the -Secretary, Miss <span class="smcap">Elizabeth Lee</span>, 8 Mornington Avenue Mansions, -West Kensington, London:—</p> -</div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="5" cellspacing="0" summary="BookList"> -<col style="width: 15%;" /> -<col style="width: 85%;" /> -<tr> - <td class="tdc" colspan="2">1907.</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdlt">No. 1.</td> - <td class="tdlt">Types of English Curricula in Boys’ Secondary -Schools.    <span class="flright">Price 6d.</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdlt">No. 2.</td> - <td class="tdlt">The Teaching of Shakespeare in Secondary Schools -(Provisional suggestions).    <span class="flright">Price -1d.</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdlt">No. 3.</td> - <td class="tdlt">A Short List of Books on English Literature from the -beginning to 1832, for the use of -Teachers.    <span class="flright">Price 6d. 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