Chapter VIII Dialogue
Modern dramatic dialogue had beginnings far from realistic. It originated, as the Latin tropes show, in speeches given in unison and to music—a kind of recitative. What was the aim of this earliest dramatic dialogue? It sought to convey, first, last, and always, the facts of the episode or incident represented: “Whom seek ye here, O Christians? Jesus of Nazareth, the Crucified, O Heavenly Ones.” And that is what good dramatic dialogue has always done, is doing, and must always do as its chief work—state clearly the facts which an auditor must understand if the play is to move ahead steadily and clearly. Already enough has been said (chapter VI, pp. 154-183) as to the need of clear preliminary and later exposition to show how axiomatic is the statement that the chief purpose of good dialogue is to convey necessary information clearly.
Even, however, when dialogue is clear in its statement of needed information, it may still be confusing for reader or hearer. What is the trouble with the text in the left-hand column—from an early draft of a play dealing with John Brown and his fortunes?
SCENE: The Prison at Harper’s Ferry
Brown. Mary! I’m glad to see you, Mary.
(For a few seconds, silence.)
Mrs. Brown. (Crying out.) Oh, my dear husband, it is a hard fate.
Brown. (Strong in his composure.) Well, well, Mary, let us be cheerful. We must all bear it the best we can.
(Stroking her hair.)
Mrs. Brown. Oh! You to go from me forever.
(Sinks her head on his breast again.)
Brown. It must be,—and all is for the best. There, there.
(Pats her head in an effort to comfort her.)
Mrs. Brown. But our poor children, John.
Brown. Those that have died are at peace in the next world.
(She breaks out weeping again.)
Come, come, dry your tears; sit down and tell me about those at home. (He tries to lead her to chair on right of table, but she checks her grief and seats herself. He goes slowly back to the other chair.) It weakens me to stand. Now tell me about home.
Mrs. Brown. It’s a sad place. We couldn’t believe the first reports about you and the boys being taken prisoners. We couldn’t believe you had failed. Then a New York paper came. We sat by the fire in the living room. There was Watson’s widow—
Brown. Poor Isabel, with her little Freddie.
Mrs. Brown. And William Thompson’s widow, our Ruth, and Annie, and Oliver’s widow—
Brown. Poor Martha. When the time came it was hard for her to leave the farm house and Oliver behind. She kind of felt that she wouldn’t see him any more.
Mrs. Brown. We said almost nothing while Salmon read. We felt in our blindness God had been unfaithful to you and the boys.
Brown. My dear wife, you must keep up your spirits. Don’t blame God. He has taken away my sword of steel, but He has given me the sword of the Spirit.
Mrs. Brown. (Looking up into his face with almost a sad smile upon hers.) That sounds just like you, John. Oh, it’s been so long since I heard your voice.
Brown. Tell me more about the family.
Mrs. Brown. Owen doesn’t dare come home yet.
Brown. Do you know where he is?
Mrs. Brown. Hiding among friends in Ohio. Poor boy, he is called all kinds of vile names, just for being with you.
Brown. For the cause we have all suffered much in the past; we shall have to in the future. We should rejoice at his escape.
Mrs. Brown. I do, John, but O, poor Oliver and Watson! We shall never see them again.
Brown. Not in this world, but we shall meet together in that other world where they do not shoot and hang men for loving justice and desiring freedom for all men.
Mrs. Brown. Yes, and they did die for a great and good cause!
(Said with spirit.)
Brown. Some day all the people of the earth will say that.
(A moment’s silence.)
Mrs. Brown. Do they treat you well here, John?
Brown. Like Joseph, I have gained favor in the sight of the prison-keeper. He is a most humane gentleman—never mistreats or tries to humiliate me.
Mrs. Brown. May God bless such a man. Do you sleep any, John?
Brown. Like a child,—all night in peace.
Mrs. Brown. I’m glad of that. I worried about it. Are the days long and lonesome?
Brown. All hours of the day glorious thoughts come to me. I am kept busy reading and answering letters from my friends. I have with me my Bible, here. (Placing his hand on the leather-bound volume at the end of the table.) It is of infinite comfort. I never enjoyed life more than since coming to prison. I wish all my poor family were as composed and as happy.
Mrs. Brown. We have become more and more resigned.
Brown. Do any feel disgrace or shame?
Mrs. Brown. Not one, John. You are, in our eyes, a noble martyr. The chains on your legs bind our hearts all the closer to you.
Brown. That gives me comfort, Mary. No man can get into difficulties too big to be surmounted, if he has a firm foothold at home.
Mrs. Brown. You made a mistake only in judging how much you could do.
Brown. I have been a great deal disappointed in myself for not keeping to my plan. I acted against my better judgment.
Mrs. Brown. But after taking the arsenal, why didn’t you flee to the mountains, as we thought you would?
Brown. The delay was my mistake. But in God’s greater and broader plan, maybe it was infinitely better. It was fore-ordained to work out that way, determined before the world was made.
Mrs. Brown. His ways are mysterious and wonderful.
(Avis comes in.) Brown. Mary! I’m glad to see you, Mary.
(For a few seconds, silence.)
Mrs. Brown. (Crying out.) Oh, my dear husband, it is a hard fate. It’s been so long since I heard your voice.
Brown. (Strong in his compposture.) Well, well, Mary, let us be cheerful. We must all bear it the best we can.
(Stroking her hair.)
Mrs. Brown. Oh! You to go from me forever.
(Sinks her head on his breast again.)
Brown. It must be,—and all is for the best. There, there.
(Pats her head in an effort to comfort her.)
Mrs. Brown. (After a moment’s silence.) Do they treat you well here John?
Brown. Like Joseph, I have gained favor in the sight of the prison-keeper. He is a most humane gentleman—never mistreats or tries to humiliate me.
Mrs. Brown. May God bless such a man. Do you sleep any, John?
Brown. Like a child,—all night in peace.
Mrs. Brown. I am glad of that. I worried about it. Are the days long and lonesome?
Brown. All hours of the day glorious thoughts come to me. I am kept busy reading and answering letters from my friends. I have with me my Bible, here. (Placing his hand on the leather-bound volume at the end of the table.) It is of infinite comfort. I never enjoyed life more than since coming to prison. I wish all my poor family were as composed and as happy.
Mrs. Brown. But our poor children, John. Poor Oliver and Watson. We shall never see them again.
Brown. Those that have died are at peace. (She breaks out weeping again.) But we shall meet together in that other world where they do not shoot and hang men for loving justice and desiring freedom for all men. Come, come, dry your tears. Sit down and tell me about those at home. (He tries to lead her to chair on right of table, but she checks her grief and seats herself. He goes slowly back to the other chair.) It weakens me to stand. Now, tell me about home, for that will give me comfort, Mary. No man can get into difficulties too big to be surmounted if he has a firm foothold at home.
Mrs. Brown. It’s a sad place. We couldn’t believe the first reports about you and the boys being taken prisoners. We wouldn’t believe you had failed.
Brown. I have been a great deal disappointed in myself for not keeping to my plan.
Mrs. Brown. You made a mistake only in judging how much you could do.
Brown. I acted against my better judgment.
Mrs. Brown. But after taking the arsenal, why didn’t you flee to the mountains, as we thought you would?
Brown. The delay was my mistake. But in God’s greater and broader plan maybe it was infinitely better. It was fore-ordained to work out that way, determined before the world was made.
Mrs. Brown. His ways are mysterious and wonderful.
(A slight pause as both think.)
Brown. How did you first get the news?
Mrs. Brown. A New York paper came. We sat by the fire in the living room. There was Watson’s widow—
Brown. Poor Isabel, with her little Freddie.
Mrs. Brown. And William Thompson’s widow, our Ruth, and Annie, and Oliver’s widow—
Brown. Poor Martha. When the time came, it was hard for her to leave the farm house and Oliver behind. She kind of felt she wouldn’t see him any more.
Mrs. Brown. We said almost nothing while Salmon read. We felt in our blindness God had been unfaithful to you and the boys.
Brown. My dear wife, you must keep up your spirits. Don’t blame God. He has taken away my sword of steel, but He has given me the sword of the Spirit.
Mrs. Brown. (Looking up into his face with almost a sad smile upon hers.) That sounds just like you, John. We have become more and more resigned.
Brown. Do any feel disgrace or shame?
Mrs. Brown. Not one, John. You are, in our eyes, a noble martyr. The chains on your legs bind our hearts all the closer to you.
Brown. Tell me more about the family.
Mrs. Brown. Owen doesn’t dare come home yet.
Brown. Do you know where he is?
Mrs. Brown. Hiding among friends in Ohio. Poor boy, he is called all kinds of vile names, just for being with you.
Brown. For the cause we have all suffered much in the past; we shall have to in the future. We should rejoice at his escape.
Mrs. Brown. I do, John. And Oliver and Watson did die for a great and good cause!
(Said with spirit.)
Brown. Some day, all the people of the earth will say that.
(Avis comes in.)
There are several faults in the original dialogue, but perhaps the chief is not regarding the principle that clearness dramatically consists, not merely in stating needed facts, but in so stating them that interest is not allowed to lapse. The original dialogue was scrappy, lacking sequence, not so much of thought as of emotion. If it be said that at such a moment talk is often fitful, it must be remembered that our time-limits forbid giving every word said in such a scene. We must present merely its essentials. Only in that way may a play, a condensed presentation of life, hope to give a total effect for a scene equal to that of the original. The re-ordered dialogue of the right-hand column seeks merely to bring together ideas really closely related, and to move, in a way in keeping with the characters, from lesser to stronger emotion. With the disappearance of the scrappy effect, is not the result clearer? Even now, the dialogue might well be condensed and made emotionally more significant.
If we let the dialogue of a play merely state necessary facts, what is the result? At the worst, something like the left-hand column. Two young women, one the married hostess and the other the friend of her girlhood, are opening their morning mail on the piazza. Serena, the hostess, has known nothing of the engagement of Elise to Teddy.
ORIGINAL REVISION
Elise. (Looking up from her letters.) Is he coming?
Serena. I don’t know yet, but I wish he were still in South Africa. If he does come, I don’t know what will happen. There’s a letter from Aunt Deborah.
Elise. Yes? What does she want?
Serena. Did you know she had a terrible quarrel with Teddy just before he went to South Africa?
Elise. I had a vague idea of it. It must all be made up now and they’ll be delighted to meet here.
Serena. No, she won’t. She says she’s sure she’ll have a shock if she sees him and very gladly accepts our kind invitation because so she can avoid meeting him. Elise. Is he coming?
Serena. I don’t know yet, but I wish he were still in South Africa. Look at this: (Showing letter.) A letter from Aunt Deborah.
Elise. Yes?
Serena. Aunt Deborah had a terrible quarrel with Teddy just before he went!
Elise. Oh, that must be all made up now.
Serena. Listen! (Reading from letter.) “If I see that man I’ll have a shock,” and (with a despairing gesture) she very gladly accepts our invitation!
From the left-hand column we surely do learn that a before-mentioned Teddy has been in South Africa; that he and a certain Aunt Deborah have quarreled; and that though she particularly does not wish to meet Teddy, she is coming, as he is, to visit at this house—three important points. Like everyday speech, the quoted dialogue lacks compactness. Let us first, therefore, cut out all that is not absolutely necessary. We do not need, in the first speech of Elise, anything more than the query, “Yes?” The inflection will give the rest. In the second speech of Serena we can cut “to South Africa,” for we have already mentioned where Teddy has been. In the second speech of Elise, it is the words “It must be all made up now” that are important. What precedes and what follows may be omitted. Similarly, in the first and second speeches of Serena, it is the first and the third sentences which are important. The second, if given, really anticipates an effect which will be stronger later. If we change the second speech from a query to an assertion or an exclamation, we shall gain and slightly condense. It will then read, “Aunt Deborah had a terrible quarrel with Teddy just before he went!” Because we have cut the last speech of Elise, the first sentence of the next speech of Serena becomes unnecessary. It will be necessary, however, to re-phrase what remains of this final speech, so hard is it to deliver. The revised dialogue may still be poor enough, but it says all the original did in less space—that is condensation. The effect is better because we have cut out some parts, and have slightly changed others. That is selection. The slight changes have been made in order to make the sequence of ideas clearer, to suggest emotion more clearly, or to make the dialogue natural—and all that means the beginning of characterization. The final word on this dialogue is, however, that even now either speaker could utter the words of the other, and that is all wrong. Clearly, then, even in stating facts, dialogue may be bad, indifferent, and good.
The following opening of a Japanese No drama shows that even more trained writers may write dialogue with no virtue except its clearness:
TWO HEARTS
A drama by J. Mushakoji
SCENE: A forest glade on the nobleman’s estate. A cross for crucifixion in the foreground. Two men A and B standing on either side of the cross holding spears.
A. That fellow has behaved foolishly!
B. Yes, and the girl also.
A. It was certain that they would be killed when found out.
B. And nothing could prevent the discovery.
A. Our master is extremely indignant.
B. There has not been one person crucified since the present lord succeeded.
A. Although the stewards have assured him that it is the established law of the land, the present master has never given permission for the punishment of criminals by crucifixion and fire. But now he has announced that he will kill them in this manner, and we are commissioned to carry out the disagreeable duty.
B. Even though we refused to obey the command at first and requested him to excuse us he would not listen to our petition.
A. The master must have been very fond of this young girl.
B. Yes. Rumour has it that he became attached to her while the late mistress was still living.
A. He did not care very much for his wife. Anyway, she was too inferior to be his companion.
B. It was said that he did not grieve over her death.
A. And I have heard that the girl fainted when her mistress died.
B. She must have been a favourite among the other attendants who accompanied the lady when she became the wife of the lord.
A. She was clever and pretty and had a strong character.
B. Why did the girl fall in love with that fellow, I wonder?
A. He is the kind of a man a woman admires.
B. And because the girl loved him he now receives such severe punishment.
A. We can never tell. What seems good luck may mean unexpected misfortune.
B. She would have been happier if she had obeyed the master’s will instead of rejecting him.
A. Probably she did not like him.
B. But he seemed to care a great deal for her.
A. It may not be right to say so, but his decision seems to have been taken because of his jealousy.
B. Yes, that is true. I wonder why he has commanded us to prepare only one cross.
A. Perhaps it is his plan to save one of them.
B. I don’t think that could be done very well.
A. But someone said the master told the girl that he would save her life if she would only desert the young man for him.
B. That may be so. Perhaps he intends to crucify the young man first in the presence of the girl so as to break her obstinate spirit and thus gain her love.
A. That may be so.
B. It is said that the young man has already repented of his love for the girl. But she was not at all frightened when the punishment was announced and she was informed that she was to be crucified. The man, on the contrary, at once turned white and almost fainted when he heard the judgment passed upon him.
A. But a woman is much braver in love affairs than a man.
B. You speak as though you had had experience!
A. Ha! Ha! Ha!
B. Perhaps the master wishes to kill the young man in as cruel a manner as possible.
A. Hush! The lord is here! We are now obliged to remain silent and witness a living drama.
B. And we have a dreadful task to perform.1
Though this omits nothing in the way of necessary information, how colorless it is! When we note how perfectly either A or B could speak the lines of the other, we see where the difficulty lies. The lines lack all characterization. The history of the drama shows that while the facts of a play may be interesting in themselves, they are much more interesting to an audience which hears them as they present themselves to well-defined characters of the story. It is axiomatic that sympathy quickens interest. Take a much better known illustration of the same point. The left-hand column gives the opening lines of the first quarto, Hamlet. The right-hand column shows the opening of the second quarto.
| Enter two Centinels | Enter Barnardo and Francisco, two Centinels |
| 1. Stand: who is that? | Barnardo. Whose there? |
| 2. Tis I. | Francisco. [Nay answere me.] Stand and unfolde your selfe. |
| Bar. Long live the King. | |
| Fran. Barnardo. | |
| Bar. Hee. | |
| 1. O you come most carefully upon your watch. | Fran. You come most carefully upon your houre. |
| Bar. Tis now strooke twelfe, get thee to bed Francisco. | |
| Fran. For this relief much thanks, [tis bitter cold,] And I am sick at heart. | |
| Bar. Have you had quiet guard? | |
| Fran. [Not a mouse stirring.] | |
| 2. And if you meete Marcellus and Horatio, The partners of my watch, bid them make haste. | Bar. Well, good night: If you doe meete Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make hast. |
| 1. I will: See who goes there. | |
| Enter Horatio and Marcellus | Enter Horatio and Marcellus |
| Fran. I think I heare them, stand ho, who is there? | |
| Horatio. Friends to this ground. | Horatio. Friends to this ground. |
| Marcellus. And leegemen to the Dane, | Marcellus. And leegemen to the Dane. |
| Fran. Give you good night. | |
| O farewell honest souldier, who hath relieved you? | Mar. O, farewell honest souldiers, who hath relieved you? |
| 1. Barnardo hath my place, give you good night. | Fran. Barnardo hath my place; give you good night. |
| (Exit Francisco.)2 |
The first of these extracts, without question gives the necessary facts of the changing of the watch. It busies itself only with this absolutely necessary action. The second quarto identifies the speakers, and, by a different phrasing with additional lines, both characterizes them and gives the scene atmosphere. Study the re-phrasings and bracketed additions of the second scene—“Nay answere me,” “Tis bitter cold,” “Not a mouse stirring”—and note that this dialogue gains over the first in that it interests by what it adds as much as by the essential action.
A second quotation from Hamlet in the two quartos illustrates the same point even better. The text in the left-hand column, merely stating the facts necessary to the movement of the scene, leaves to the actor all characterizing of Montano, and gives the player of Corambis only the barest hints. The second quarto text, in the right-hand column, makes Polonius so garrulous that he cannot keep track of his own ideas; shows his pride in his would-be shrewdness; indeed, rounds him out into a real character. It even makes Reynaldo a man who does not yield at once, but a person of honorable instincts who is overborne. Can there be any question which scene holds the attention better?
Enter Corambis and Montano Enter old Polonius, with his man or two
Corambis. Montano; here, these letters to my sonne,
And this same money with my blessing to him,
And bid him ply his learning good Montano. Polonius. Give him this money and these notes Reynaldo.
Reynaldo. I will my Lord.
Pol. You shall doe marviles wisely good Reynaldo
Before you visite him to make inquire
Of his behaviour.
Montano. I will my lord.
Cor. You shall do very well Montano, to say thus,
I knew the gentleman, or know his father
To inquire the manner of his life,
And thus; being amongst his acquaintance,
You may say, you saw him at such a time, marke you mee, Rey. My Lord, I did intend it.
Pol. Mary well said, very well said; look you sir,
Enquire me first what Danskers are in Parris,
And how, and who, what meanes and where they keepe,
What companie, at what expence, and finding
By this encompasment, and drift of question
That they doe know my sonne, come you more neerer
Then your particular demands will tuch it,
Take you as t’were some distant knowledge of him,
As thus, I know his father, and his friends,
And in part him, doe you marke this, Reynaldo?
Rey. I, very well my Lord.
Pol. And in part him, but you may say, not well,
But y’ft be he I meane, hee’s very wilde,
Adicted so and so, and there put on him
What forgeries you please, marry none so ranck
As may dishonour him, take heede of that,
But sir, such wanton, wild, and usuall slips
As are companions noted and most knowne
To youth and libertie.
Rey. As gaming my Lord.
At game, or drincking, swearing, or drabbing,
You may go so farre.
Mon. My Lord, that will impeach his reputation.
Cor. I faith not a whit, no not a whit,
Now happely hee closeth with you in the consequence,
As you may bridle it not disparage him a iote.
What was I about to say. Pol. I, or drinking, fencing, swearing.
Quarrelling, drabbing, you may go so far.
Rey. My Lord, that would dishonour him.
Pol. Fayth as you may season it in the charge.
You must not put another scandell on him,
That he is open to incontinencie.
That’s not my meaning, but breath his faults so quently
That they may seeme the taints of libertie,
The flash and out-breake of a fierie mind,
A savagenes in unreclamed blood
Of generall assault.
Rey. But my good Lord.
Pol. Wherefore should you do this?
Rey. I my Lord, I would know that.
Pol. Marry, sir, heer’s my drift,
And I believe it is a fetch of wit,
You laying these slight sallies on my sonne
As t’were a thing a little soyld with working,
Marke you, your partie in converse, him you would sound
Having ever seene in the prenominat crimes
The youth you breath of guiltie, be assur’d
He closes with you in this consequence,
Good sir, (or so,) or friend, or gentleman,
According to the phrase, or the addition
Of man and country.
Rey. Very good my Lord.
Pol. And then sir, doos a this, a doos, what was I about to say?
By the masse I was about to say something,
Where did I leave?
Mon. He closeth with you in the consequence. Rey. At closes in the consequence.3
Even the dialogue, which with broad characterization states necessary facts clearly, is by no means so effective as dialogue so absorbing by its characterization that we assimilate the facts unconsciously. Contrast the opening of The Good Natur’d Man with that of Hindle Wakes. The first is so busy in characterizing an absent but important figure that it presents the two speakers only in the broadest way. That is, exposition exists here as its only excuse for being. In Hindle Wakes, the rapid development of an interesting situation through two characters who as individuals become more distinct and interesting with every line, probably conceals from most auditors or readers the fact that seven important bits of information are given before Fanny enters.