Chapter XLVIII: Act II: Scene. The market place. Luitolfo in disguise mingling with

the Populace assembled opposite the Provost's Palace._

_1st Bystander._ (_To Luitolfo._) You, a friend of Luitolfo's? Then,
your friend is vanished,--in all probability killed on the night that
his patron the tyrannical Provost was loyally suppressed here, exactly
a month ago, by our illustrious fellow-citizen, thrice-noble saviour,
and new Provost that is like to be, this very morning,--Chiappino!

* * * * *

_Luitolfo._ (_Aside._) (If I had not lent that man the money he
wanted last spring, I should fear this bitterness was attributable to
me.) Luitolfo is dead then, one may conclude?

_3rd Bystander._ Why, he had a house here, and a woman to whom he was
affianced; and as they both pass naturally to the new Provost, his
friend and heir...

_Luitolfo._ Ah, I suspected you of imposing upon me with your
pleasantry! I know Chiappino better.

_1st Bystander._ (Our friend has the bile. After all, I do not dislike
finding somebody vary a little this general gape of admiration at
Chiappino's glorious qualities.) Pray, how much may you know of what
has taken place in Faenza since that memorable night?

_Luitolfo._ It is most to the purpose, that I know Chiappino to have
been by profession a hater of that very office of Provost, you now
charge him with proposing to accept.

_1st Bystander._ Sir, I'll tell you. That night was indeed memorable.
Up we rose, a mass of us, men, women, children; out fled the guards
with the body of the tyrant; we were to defy the world; but, next gray
morning, "What will Rome say?" began everybody. You know we are
governed by Ravenna, which is governed by Rome. And quietly into the
town, by the Ravenna road, comes on muleback a portly personage,
Ogniben by name, with the quality of Pontifical Legate; trots briskly
through the streets humming a "Cur fremuere gentes," and makes
directly for the Provost's Palace--there it faces you. "One Messer
Chiappino is your leader? I have known three-and-twenty leaders of
revolts!" (laughing gently to himself)--"Give me the help of your arm
from my mule to yonder steps under the pillar--So! And now, my
revolters and good friend what do you want? The guards burst into
Ravenna last night bearing your wounded Provost; and, having had a
little talk with him, I take on myself to come and try appease the
disorderliness, before Rome, hearing of it, resort to another method:
'tis I come, and not another, from a certain love I confess to, of
composing differences. So, do you understand, you are about to
experience this unheard-of tyranny from me, that there shall be no
heading nor hanging, no confiscation nor exile: I insist on your
simply pleasing yourselves. And, now, pray, what does please you? To
live without any government at all? Or having decided for one, to see
its minister murdered by the first of your body that chooses to find
himself wronged, or disposed for reverting to first principles and a
justice anterior to all institutions,--and so will you carry matters,
that the rest of the world must at length unite and put down such a
den of wild beasts? As for vengeance on what had just taken
place,--once for all, the wounded man assures me that he cannot
conjecture who struck him; and this so earnestly, that one may be sure
he knows perfectly well what intimate acquaintance could find
admission to speak with him late last evening. I come not for
vengeance therefore, but from pure curiosity to hear what you will do
next." And thus he ran on, easily and volubly, till he seemed to
arrive quite naturally at the praise of law, order, and paternal
government by somebody from rather a distance. All our citizens were
in the snare and about to be friends with so congenial an adviser; but
that Chiappino suddenly stood forth, spoke out indignantly and set
things right again.

_Luitolfo._ Do you see? I recognize him there![60]

People who think ramblingly and not clearly must undoubtedly on the stage speak in similar fashion, but it is wise when possible to avoid stating two or three ideas in the same sentence, or developing two or three ideas in one long speech. An idea to a sentence, with the development of one thought in a speech, is a fairly safe principle, though not unalterable. For instance, the daughter of a widowed mother is facing the fact that if they are to stay in their meagre quarters she may have to ask this as a favor from her employer, Mr. Hollings. The mother, not knowing that he has pressed his attentions objectionably, does not understand the unwillingness of the girl to ask his help. In answer to her pleadings the girl cries, "Oh, I would do anything for you! Poor dear father! Mother, go to Mr. Hollings." Here are three different trains of thought in one speech. The first exclamation is a direct answer to the mother's preceding speech. For the audience there is no clearness of transition to the second exclamation, nor from it to the third. Cut the girl's answer to the first sentence. Then the mother, seizing on the idea that her daughter is willing to do anything, urges her for this and that reason to see her employer, emphasizing the idea that, had the father lived, all their present sorrow would not exist. In this case the second exclamation falls into its proper place, as a natural reply of the girl to her mother. If, too, as the mother urges reason after reason for going to the employer for aid, the girl at last pleads, "Mother, you go to Mr. Hollings," this sentence also falls into its proper place. It becomes the first sign of her yielding, for she is at last willing that some one should intercede with the man. When a writer finds himself skipping from idea to idea within a speech or a sentence, with transitions likely to be unclear for the audience, he should break what he has written into its component parts and let the other people on the stage, by their interruptions, queries, and comments, provide the connectives of speech and thought which will bind these ideas together properly. The following rearrangement by Miss Anglin of the original text of _Lady Windermere's Fan_ shows her correct feeling that ideas originally treated together should be separated. Lord Windermere's reply is to the first sentence of Mrs. Erlynne's speech. It is therefore much clearer to shift her two succeeding exclamations to her next speech.

ORIGINAL REVISION

_Mrs. Erlynne._ (_C._) How do _Mrs. Erlynne._ (_C._) How do
you do, again, Lord Windermere? you do, again, Lord Windermere?
How charming your sweet wife
looks! Quite a picture! _Lord Windermere._ (_In a low
voice._) It was terribly rash
_Lord Windermere._ (_In a low of you to come!
voice._) It was terribly rash
of you to come! _Mrs. Erlynne._ (_Smiling._) The
wisest thing I ever did in my
_Mrs. Erlynne._ (_Smiling._) The life. How charming your sweet
wisest thing I ever did in my life. wife looks! Quite a picture! And,
And, by the way, you must pay by the way, you must pay me a
me a good deal of attention this good deal of attention this
evening.[61] evening.

Often dialogue which is clear sentence by sentence is, as a whole, somewhat confusing to an audience. Frequently a careful re-ordering of the parts of the speech, or of a group of speeches, will dispose of the trouble. Occasionally a playwright allows his ordering of his ideas to obscure the cue, or important idea. Undoubtedly the important word in what follows is "christenings," but Chasuble runs on into various other matters before Jack speaks. Consequently a hearer is a little startled when Jack takes up the idea of christenings instead of anything following it.

_Chasuble._ In Paris! (_Shakes his head._) I fear that hardly points
to any very serious state of mind at the last. You would no doubt wish
me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction
next Sunday. (_Jack presses his hand convulsively_.) My sermon on the
meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any
occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case, distressing. (_All
sigh_.) I have preached it at harvest celebrations, christenings,
confirmations, on days of humiliation and festal days. The last time I
delivered it was in the Cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of
the Society for the Prevention of Discontent among the Upper Orders.
The Bishop, who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies
I drew.

_Jack._ Ah! That reminds me, you mentioned christenings I think, Dr.
Chasuble? I suppose you know how to christen all right? (_Dr. Chasuble
looks astounded._) I mean, of course, you are continually christening,
aren't you?[62]

It is true that the last part of Chasuble's speech illustrates his volubility, and that the way in which Jack picks up the idea, "christening," shows that he is so absorbed in his purpose as to pay no attention to anything Chasuble says after "christenings." Here, therefore, the method is probably justified, but ordinarily the end of one speech leads into the next, and when something which breaks the sequence stands between, it must prove its right to be there, or be postponed for later treatment, or be cut out altogether. What re-ordering will do for a dialogue which is uninteresting and somewhat confused was shown in the revising of the extract from the John Brown play (pp. 309-313). There is a brilliant instance, in Miss Anglin's version of _Lady Windermere's Fan_, of re-ordering such that a climax of interest develops from groups of somewhat independent sentences.

ORIGINAL REVISION

_Lady Plymdale._ My dear _Dumby._ Awful manners young
Margaret, what a fascinating Hopper has!
woman your husband has been
dancing with! I should be quite _Cecil Graham._ Ah! Hopper is one
jealous if I were you! Is she a of Nature's gentlemen, the worst
great friend of yours? type of gentleman I know.

_Lady Windermere._ No. _Lady Jedburgh._ What a
fascinating woman Mrs. Erlynne
_Lady Plymdale._ Really? is! She is coming to lunch
Good night, dear. on Thursday, won't you come too?
(_Looks at Mr. Dumby, and I expect the Bishop and dear
exit._) Lady Merton.

_Dumby._ Awful manners young _Lady Windermere._ I am afraid I
Hopper has! am engaged, Lady Jedburgh.

_Cecil Graham._ Ah! Hopper is _Lady Jedburgh._ So sorry. Good
one of Nature's gentlemen, the night. Come, dear.
worst type of gentleman I know.
(_Exeunt Lady Jedburgh and
Miss Graham._)
_Dumby._ Sensible woman,
Lady Windermere. Lots of wives _Dumby._ Sensible woman,
would have objected to Mrs. Lady Windermere. Lots of
Erlynne coming. But Lady wives would have objected to
Windermere has that uncommon Mrs. Erlynne coming. But
thing called common sense. Lady Windermere has that
uncommon thing called common
_Cecil Graham._ And Windermere sense.
knows that nothing looks
so like innocence as an _Cecil Graham._ And Windermere
indiscretion. knows that nothing looks so like
innocence as an indiscretion.
_Dumby._ Yes; dear Windermere
is becoming almost modern.
Never thought he would. _Dumby._ Yes; dear Windermere
is becoming almost modern. Never
(_Bows to Lady Windermere thought he would.
and exit._)
_Lady Plymdale._ Dumby!
_Lady Jedburgh._ Good night,
Lady Windermere. What a (_Dumby bows to Lady
fascinating woman Mrs. Erlynne Windermere and exit._)
is! She is coming to lunch on
Thursday. Won't you come _Lady Plymdale._ My Dear
too? I expect the Bishop and Margaret, what a fascinating
dear Lady Merton. woman your husband has been
dancing with! I should be quite
_Lady Windermere._ I am afraid jealous if I were you! Is she a
I am engaged, Lady Jedburgh. great friend of yours?

_Lady Jedburgh._ So sorry. _Lady Windermere._ No!
Come, dear.
_Lady Plymdale._ Really? Good
night, dear.
(_Exeunt Lady Jedburgh and
Miss Graham._) (_Lady Plymdale exits._)
_Enter Mrs. Erlynne and _Enter Mrs. Erlynne and
Lord Windermere._ Lord Windermere._

_Mrs. Erlynne._ Charming ball _Mrs. Erlynne._ Charming ball
it has been! Quite reminds me it has been! Quite reminds me
of old days. of old days.

(_Sits on the sofa._)[63] (_Sits on the sofa._)

Dialogue may be both clear and characterizing yet fail because it is difficult to speak. Too many writers, as has been said, do not hear their words but see them. Could any one who heard his words have penned the lines, "She says she's sure she'll have a shock if she sees him." That time "apt alliteration" was so artful that, setting her trap, she caught a dramatist. Here is the amusing comment of a critic on an author's protest that her lines have been misquoted and made to sound difficult to deliver:

In the review of the----Theatre's opening bill there occurred a line
purporting to come from Miss Blank's psychic play, _The Turtle_. Miss
Blank writes, "The line, which was either incorrectly spoken or heard,
was not, 'How does one know one is one's self?' but 'How is one to
know which is one's real self when one feels so different with
different people?'" Naturally the reviewer of a play is as open to
mistakes in noting down lines as the actor is in speaking them,
particularly if the author is much given to the "one-one-one" style of
construction. If, however, Miss Blank prefers her own version of the
sentence, she is welcome to it.

Of course each writer is perfectly sure that his own ear will keep him from errors of this kind, but even the greatest err. Did Shakespeare write the opening lines of _Measure For Measure_, he the master of exquisitely musical and perfectly chosen dramatic speech? Some scholars believe he did. If so, in that second speech of the Duke which wearies the jaws and tempts to every kind of slurring, Jove certainly nodded.

_Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords and Attendants_

_Duke._ Escalus!

_Escalus._ My lord.

_Duke._ Of government the properties to unfold,
Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,
Since I am put to know that your own science
Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice
My strength can give you: then no more remains,
But that, to your sufficiency ...
... as your worth is able,
And let them work.

Are the following straight translations from the old French farce, _Pierre Patelin_,[64] as easy to speak as the revisions?

TRANSLATION REVISION

_Guillemette._ And don't forget _Guillemette._ And if
your dram, if you can come by any one offers to stand treat,
it for nothing. don't refuse.

* * * * * * * *

(_Patelin is trying to cheat (_Patelin is trying to cheat
the Draper out of a piece the Draper out of a piece
of cloth._) of cloth._)

_Patelin._ I don't care: give me _Patelin._ I don't care: give me
my money's worth. (_Whispering my money's worth. (_Whispering
in the Draper's ear._) I know of in the Draper's ear._) I know of
another coin or two nobody ever some chink--
got a smell of.

_Draper._ Now you're talking! _Draper._ Now you're talking!
That would be capital.

_Patelin._ In a word, I am hot _Patelin._ (_Letting his hand
for this piece, and have some fall on the goods_.) This!
I must.

The first revision certainly gives lines easier to speak. The writer of the second revision hears it and knows the gesture, facial expression, and intonation which must go with "This!" Dialogue which is perfectly clear and characterizing should not be allowed to pass in the final revision if at any point it is unnecessarily difficult to deliver.

From the preceding discussion it must be clear that the three essentials of dialogue are clearness, helping the onward movement of the story, and doing all this in character. Dialogue is, naturally, still better if it possesses charm, grace, wit, irony, or beauty of its own. Dialogue which merely states the facts is, as we have seen, likely to be dull or commonplace. Well characterized dialogue still falls short of all dialogue may be if it has none of the attributes just mentioned. Feeling this strongly, the dramatists throughout the ages have striven to give their dialogue attractiveness because of its style, forgetting that above all for the dramatist it is true that "style is the man," and that "style is a thinking out into language." Lyly, Shakespeare, in some of the scenes of his early plays, Kyd in _The Spanish Tragedy_, John Dryden in his Heroic Drama, Cibber and Lillo in their rhythmic prose which often might be perfectly well printed as blank verse, strove to decorate their dialogue from without--something sure to fail, either with the immediate audience or with posterity. If the charm, the grace, the wit, the irony of the dialogue does not come from the characters speaking, that dialogue fails in what has been shown to be one of its chief essentials, right characterization. Congreve emphasized this in that classic of dramatic criticism, his letter _Concerning Humour in Comedy_.[65] "A character of a splenetic and peevish humour should have a satirical wit. A jolly and sanguine humour should have a facetious wit. The former should speak positively; the latter, carelessly: for the former observes and shows things as they are; the latter rather overlooks nature, and speaks things as he would have them; and his wit and humour have both of them a less alloy of judgment than the others." Undoubtedly, however, the dramatist may do much in helping a character to reveal these qualities, particularly beauty of thought or phrasing. It is a conventional use supposed to make for beauty which _The Rehearsal_ ridicules in the following scene, for at nearly all crises the Heroic Drama rested on a simile for its strongest effect.

_Prettyman._ How strange a captive am I grown of late!
Shall I accuse my love or blame my fate?
My love I cannot; that is too divine:
And against fate what mortal dares repine?

_Enter Chloris_

But here she comes.
Sure 'tis some blazing comet! is it not? (_Lies down._)

_Bayes._ Blazing comet! Mark that; egad, very fine.

_Prettyman._ But I am so surpris'd with sleep, I cannot speak the
rest. (_Sleeps._)

_Bayes._ Does not that, now, surprise you, to fall asleep in the nick?
His spirits exhale with the heat of his passion, and all that, and,
swop, he falls asleep, as you see. Now, here she must make a simile.

_Smith._ Where's the necessity of that, Mr. Bayes?

_Bayes._ Because she's surprised. That's a general rule; you must ever
make a simile when you're surprised; 'tis the new way of writing.

_Chloris._ As some tall pine which we on Aetna find
T' have stood the rage of many a boist'rous wind,
Feeling without that flames within do play,
Which would consume his root and sap away;
He spreads his worsted arms unto the skies:
Silently grieves, all pale, repines, and dies:
So, shrouded up, your bright eye disappears.
Break forth, bright scorching sun, and dry my tears. (_Exit._)

_John._ Mr. Bayes, methinks this simile wants a little application,
too.

_Bayes._ No faith; for it alludes to passion, to consuming, to dying,
and all that, which, you know, are the natural effects of an amour.

(Act II, sc. 3.)[66]

Why is it that the citation from Shakespeare in the left-hand column is less satisfactory than that in the right-hand?

_York._ To do that office _Viola._ If I did love you
of thine own good will in my master's flame,
Which tired majesty did make thee With such a suffering, such a
offer, deadly life,
The resignation of thy state and In your denial I would find no
crown sense,
To Henry Bolingbroke. I would not understand it.

_King Richard._ Give me the _Olivia._ Why, what would you?
crown.--Here cousin, seize
the crown; _Viola._ Make me a willow
Here, cousin, cabin at your gate,
On this side my hand, and on And call upon my soul within the
that side thine. house;
Now is this golden crown like a Write loyal cantons of contemned
deep well love
That owes two buckets, filling And sing them loud even in the
one another, dead of night;
The emptier ever dancing in the Halloo your name to the
air, reverberate hills
The other down, unseen, and And make the babbling gossip of
full of water. the air
That bucket down and full of Cry out "Olivia!" O, you should
tears am I, not rest
Drinking my griefs, whilst you Between the elements of air and
mount up on high, earth,
But should pity me!
_Bolingbroke._ I thought you
had been willing to resign. _Olivia._ You might do much[68]

_King Richard._ My crown I am;
but still my griefs are mine.
You may my glories and my state
depose,
But not my griefs; still I am
king of those.[67]

The second extract is the more effective because the onward sweep of the emotion of the scene reveals beauty as it moves, but the first shows King Richard checking the course of his natural emotion in order suavely and perfectly to develop his comparison. Of course there is beauty in the first extract, but it is not genuine dramatic beauty. Why does one find the following passage from _The Importance of Being Earnest_ (Act I), delightful as it is, less fine than the passage from _The Way of the World_ (Act II, Scene 5)?

THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Sitting down._) You can take a seat, Mr. Worthing.
(_Looks in her pocket for notebook and pencil._)

_Jack._ Thank you, Lady Bracknell, I prefer standing.

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Pencil and notebook in hand._) I feel bound to
tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men,
although I have the same list as the dear Duchess of Bolton has. We
work together, in fact. However, I am quite ready to enter your name,
should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. Do
you smoke?

_Jack._ Well, yes, I must admit I smoke.

_Lady Bracknell._ I am glad to hear it. A man should always have an
occupation of some kind. There are far too many idle men in London as
it is. How old are you?

_Jack._ Twenty-nine.

_Lady Bracknell._ A very good age to be married at. I have always been
of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either
everything or nothing. Which do you know?

_Jack._ (_After some hesitation._) I know nothing, Lady Bracknell.

_Lady Bracknell._ I am pleased to hear it. I do not approve of
anything that tempers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a
delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole
theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in
England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it
did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and
probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. What is your
income?

_Jack._ Between seven and eight thousand a year.

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Makes a note in her book._) In land or
investments?

_Jack._ In investments, chiefly.

_Lady Bracknell._ That is satisfactory. What between the duties
expected of one during one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one
after one's death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a
pleasure. It gives one position and prevents one from keeping it up.
That's all that can be said about land.

_Jack._ I have a country house with some land, of course, attached to
it, about fifteen hundred acres, I believe; but I don't depend on that
for my income. In fact, as far as I can make out, the poachers are the
only people who are making anything out of it.

_Lady Bracknell._ A country house! How many bedrooms? Well, that point
can be cleared up afterwards. You have a town house, I hope? A girl
with a simple unspoiled nature, like Gwendolen, could hardly be
expected to reside in the country.

_Jack._ Well, I own a house in Belgrave Square, but it is let by the
year to Lady Bloxham. Of course, I can get it back whenever I like, at
six months' notice.

_Lady Bracknell._ Lady Bloxham? I don't know her.

_Jack._ Oh, she goes about very little. She is a lady considerably
advanced in years.

_Lady Bracknell._ Ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability
of character. What number in Belgrave Square?

_Jack._ 149.

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Shaking her head._) The unfashionable side. I
thought there was something. However, that could easily be altered.

_Jack_. Do you mean the fashion or the side?

_Lady Bracknell._ (_Sternly_.) Both, if necessary, I presume. What are
your politics?

_Jack._ Well, I'm afraid I really have none. I am a Liberal Unionist.

_Lady Bracknell._ Oh, they count as Tories. They dine with us. Or come
in the evening, at any rate. Now to minor matters. Are your parents
living?

_Jack._ I have lost both my parents.

_Lady Bracknell._ Both?--That seems like carelessness. Who was your
father? He was evidently a man of some wealth. Was he born in what the
Radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the
ranks of the aristocracy?

_Jack._ I'm afraid I really don't know. The fact is, Lady Bracknell, I
said I had lost my parents. It would be nearer the truth to say that
my parents seem to have lost me--I don't actually know who I am by
birth. I was--well, I was found.

_Lady Bracknell._ Found!

_Jack._ The late Mr. Thomas Cardew, an old gentleman of a very
charitable and kindly disposition, found me and gave me the name of
Worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for
Worthing at the time. Worthing is a place in Sussex. It is a seaside
resort.

_Lady Bracknell._ Where did the gentleman who had a first-class ticket
for this seaside resort find you?

_Jack._ (_Gravely._) In a hand-bag.

_Lady Bracknell._ A hand-bag!

_Jack._ (_Very seriously._) Yes, Lady Bracknell. I was in a
hand-bag--a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to
it--an ordinary hand-bag in fact.

_Lady Bracknell._ In what locality did this Mr. James, or Thomas,
Cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag?

_Jack._ In the cloak-room at the Victoria Station. It was given to him
in mistake for his own.

_Lady Bracknell._ The cloak-room at Victoria Station?

_Jack._ Yes, the Brighton line.

_Lady Bracknell._ The line is immaterial. Mr. Worthing, I confess I
feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. To be born, or
at any rate, bred in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems
to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life
that remind one of the worst excesses of the French Revolution. And I
presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? As for the
particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a
railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion--has
probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now--but it could
hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognized position in
good society.

_Jack._ May I ask you then what you would advise me to do? I need
hardly say I would do anything in the world to ensure Gwendolen's
happiness.

_Lady Bracknell._ I would strongly advise you, Mr. Worthing, to try
and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite
effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the
season is quite over.

_Jack._ Well, I don't see how I could possibly manage to do that. I
can produce the hand-bag at any moment. It is in my dressing-room at
home. I really think that should satisfy you, Lady Bracknell.

_Lady Bracknell._ Me, sir! What has it to do with me? You can hardly
imagine that I and Lord Bracknell would dream of allowing our only
daughter--a girl brought up with the utmost care--to marry into a
cloak-room, and form an alliance with a parcel? Good morning, Mr.
Worthing!

(_Lady Bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation_.)[69]

THE WAY OF THE WORLD

_Enter Mrs. Millamant, Witwoud, Mincing_

_Mirabell._ Here she comes, i'faith, full sail, with her fan spread
and streamers out, and a shoal of fools for tenders; ha, no, I cry her
mercy.

_Mrs. Fainall._ I see but one poor empty sculler; and he tows her
woman after him.

_Mirabell._ (_To Mrs. Millamant._) You seem to be unattended,
Madam--you us'd to have the beau monde throng after you; and a flock
of gay fine perukes hovering round you.

_Witwoud._ Like moths about a candle,--I had like to have lost my
comparison for want of breath.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Oh, I have denied myself airs today, I have walk'd
as fast through the crowd--

_Witwoud._ As a favourite just disgraced; and with as few followers.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Dear Mr. Witwoud, truce with your similitudes; for I
am as sick of 'em--

_Witwoud._ As a physician of good air--I cannot help it, Madam, though
'tis against myself.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Yet again! Mincing, stand between me and his wit.

_Witwoud._ Do, Mrs. Mincing, like a screen before a great fire. I
confess I do blaze today, I am too bright.

_Mrs. Fainall._ But, dear Millamant, why were you so long?

_Mrs. Millamant._ Long! Lord, have I not made violent haste? I have
ask'd every living thing I met for you; I have enquir'd after you, as
after a new fashion.

_Witwoud._ Madam, truce with your similitudes--no, you met her
husband, and did not ask him for her.

_Mrs. Millamant._ By your leave, Witwoud, that were like enquiring
after an old fashion, to ask a husband for his wife.

_Witwoud._ Hum, a hit, a hit, a palpable hit, I confess it.

_Mrs. Fainall._ You were dress'd before I came abroad.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Ay, that's true--O but then I had--Mincing, what had
I? why was I so long?

_Mincing._ O mem, your La'ship staid to peruse a pacquet of letters.

_Mrs. Millamant._ O, ay, letters--I had letters--I am persecuted with
letters--I hate letters--nobody knows how to write letters, and yet
one has 'em one does not know why--they serve one to pin up one's
hair.

_Witwoud._ Is that the way? Pray, Madam, do you pin up your hair with
all your letters? I find I must keep copies.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Only with those in verse, Mr. Witwoud, I never pin
up my hair with prose. I think I try'd once, Mincing.

_Mincing._ O mem, I shall never forget it.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Ay, poor Mincing tift and tift all the morning.

_Mincing._ 'Till I had the cramp in my fingers, I'll vow, mem. And all
to no purpose. But when your Laship pins it up with poetry, it fits so
pleasant the next day as anything, and is so pure and so crips.

_Witwoud._ Indeed, so crips.

_Mincing._ You're such a critic, Mr. Witwoud.

_Mrs. Millamant._ Mirabell, did you take exceptions last night? O ay,
and went away--now I think on't, I'm angry--no, now I think on't I'm
pleas'd--for I believe I gave you some pain.

_Mirabell._ Does that please you?

_Mrs. Millamant._ Infinitely; I love to give pain.

_Mirabell._ You wou'd affect a cruelty which is not in your nature;
your true vanity is in the power of pleasing.

_Mrs. Millamant._ O I ask your pardon for that--one's cruelty is in
one's power; and when one parts with one's cruelty, one parts with
one's power; and when one has parted with that, I fancy one's old and
ugly.

_Mirabell._ Ay, ay, suffer your cruelty to ruin the object of your
power, to destroy your lover--and then how vain, how lost a thing
you'll be! nay, 'tis true: you are no longer handsome when you've lost
your lover; your beauty dies upon the instant; for beauty is the
lover's gift; 'tis he bestows your charms--your glass is all a cheat.
The ugly and the old, whom the looking-glass mortifies, yet after
commendation can be flatter'd by it, and discover beauties in it; for
that reflects our praises rather than our face.

_Mrs. Millamant._ O the vanity of these men! Fainall, d'ye hear him?
If they did not commend us, we were not handsome! now you must know
they cou'd not commend one, if one was not handsome. Beauty the
lover's gift--Lord, what is a lover, that it can give? Why, one makes
lovers as fast as one pleases, and they live as long as one pleases,
and they die as soon as one pleases; and then if one pleases, one
makes more.

_Witwoud._ Very pretty. Why, you make no more of making of lovers,
Madam, than of making so many card-matches.

_Mrs. Millamant._ One no more owes one's beauty to a lover than one's
wit to an echo; they can but reflect what we look and say; vain empty
things if we are silent or unseen, and want a being.

_Mirabell._ Yet to those two vain empty things you owe the two
greatest pleasures of your life.

_Mrs. Millamant._ How so?

_Mirabell._ To your lover you owe the pleasure of hearing yourselves
prais'd; and to an echo the pleasure of hearing yourselves talk.

_Witwoud._ But I know a lady that loves talking so incessantly, she
won't give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of the
tongue, that an echo must wait 'till she dies before it can catch her
last words.

_Mrs. Millamant._ O fiction! Fainall, let us leave these men.[70]

Is not the dialogue of Congreve the finer because one feels in Wilde the ringmaster showing off his figures, and with Congreve is not conscious of the author at all? That is, the wit of the first passage is an assisted wit, edged, underscored, selectively phrased by a skilful author. In the second, everything springs seemingly unassisted from the characters. The range of accomplishment from obvious search for beauty in consciously made similes, through such relatively fine accomplishment as Wilde shows, to such perfect work as that of Congreve, should be carefully studied by the would-be dramatist. John Ford's wonderful lines

Parthenophil is like to something I remember,
A great while since, a long, long time ago

hold the memory not merely because of the loveliness of their haunting melody, but because they are in character and help to portray the wistful bewilderment of the moment. Why go far afield searching for the phrase that shall give charm, grace, beauty? Look into the souls of your characters and find them there. Either you haven't seen them or, not being there, they cannot properly appear in your text. Mr. W. B. Yeats tells of rehearsing a young actress who stumbled constantly over the line

And then I looked up and saw you coming toward me, I know not whether
from the north, the south, the east or the west.

She gave it with no sense of its contained rhythm, and always came to a full stop after "toward me," adding the last words almost unwillingly. When asked why she did this, she said that all which followed seemed to her unnecessary: the important fact was contained in what preceded. It took much rehearsing to make the young woman see that the music of the line is characteristic of the dales people, and so has characterizing value, and that she had totally forgotten the situation of the woman speaking. A peddler has come to the only hut in a lonely valley. The woman welcomes him heartily, not that she may buy, but because after days in which she has seen no one except her "man," she is greedy for talk. Having bargained as long as she can, very regretfully she sees the man departing, and, other topics being exhausted, she tells him of her pleasure in his coming, spinning out her phrase as long as she possibly can in order to hold him. Out of that set of conditions springs a highly characterizing phrase that also has beauty. If Synge had done no more by his plays than to make us recognize in the speech of the peasant the characterizing power and the beauty for him who has "the eye to see and the ear to hear," his work would deserve permanent fame. He states his ideas in the preface to _The Playboy of the Western World._

In writing _The Playboy of the Western World_, as in my other plays, I
have used one or two words only that I have not heard among the
country people of Ireland, or spoken in my own nursery before I could
read the newspapers. A certain number of the phrases I employ I have
heard also from herds and fishermen along the coast from Kerry to
Mayo, or from beggar-women and ballad-singers near Dublin; and I am
glad to acknowledge how much I owe to the folk-imagination of these
fine people. Any one who has lived in real intimacy with the Irish
peasantry will know that the wildest sayings and ideas in this play
are tame indeed, compared with the fancies one may hear in any little
hillside cabin in Geesala, or Carraroe, or Dingle Bay. All art is a
collaboration; and there is little doubt that in the happy ages of
literature, striking and beautiful phrases were as ready to the
story-teller's or the playwright's hand as the rich cloaks and dresses
of his time. It is probable that when the Elizabethan dramatist took
his ink-horn and sat down to his work he used many phrases that he had
just heard as he sat at dinner, from his mother or his children. In
Ireland, those of us who know the people have the same privilege. When
I was writing _The Shadow of the Glen_, some years ago, I got more aid
than any learning could have given me from a chink in the floor of the
old Wicklow house where I was staying, that let me hear what was
being said by the servant girls in the kitchen. This matter, I think,
is of importance for in countries where the imagination of the people,
and the language they use, is rich and living, it is possible for a
writer to be rich and copious in his words, and at the same time to
give the reality, which is the root of all poetry, in a comprehensive
and natural form. In the modern literature of towns, however, richness
is found only in sonnets, or prose poems, or in one or two elaborate
books that are far away from the profound and common interests of
life. One has, on one side, Mallarme and Huysmans producing this
literature; and on the other Ibsen and Zola dealing with the reality
of life in joyless and pallid words. On the stage one must have
reality, and one must have joy; and that is why the intellectual
modern drama has failed, and people have grown sick of the false joy
of the musical comedy, that has been given them in place of the rich
joy found only in what is superb and wild in reality. In a good play
every speech should be as fully flavoured as a nut or apple, and such
speeches cannot be written by any one who works among people who have
shut their lips on poetry. In Ireland, for a few years more, we have a
popular imagination that is fiery and magnificent, and tender; so that
those of us who wish to write start with a chance that is not given to
writers in places where the springtime of the local life has been
forgotten, and the harvest is a memory only, and the straw has been
turned into bricks.[71]

As Ibsen says, "Style must conform to the degree of ideality which pervades the representation."

You are of opinion that the drama ought to have been written in verse,
and that it would have gained by this. Here I must differ from you.
The play is, as you must have observed, conceived in the most
realistic style; the illusion I wished to produce was that of reality.
I wished to produce the impression on the reader that what he was
reading was something that had really happened. If I had employed
verse I should have counteracted my own intention and prevented the
accomplishment of the task I had set myself. The many ordinary,
insignificant characters whom I have intentionally introduced into the
play would have become indistinct, and indistinguishable from one
another, if I had allowed all of them to speak in one and the same
rhythmical measure. We are no longer living in the days of
Shakespeare. Speaking generally, the style must conform to the degree
of ideality which pervades the representation. My new drama is no
tragedy in the ancient acceptation; what I desired to depict were
human beings, and therefore I would not let them talk "the language of
the Gods."[72]

The dramatist who would write dialogue of the highest order should have not only an inborn and highly trained feeling for the emotional significance of the material in hand; a fine feeling for characterization; ability to write dialogue which states facts in character; and the power to bring out whatever charm, grace, irony, wit, or other specially attractive qualities his characters permit; also he should have, or develop, a strong feeling for the nicest use of language. Dumas fils said, "There should be something of the poet, the artist in words, in every dramatist."

FOOTNOTES:

[1] _The Far East_, June 6, 1914, p. 295.

[2] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, pp. 1-2.

[3] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, pp. 26-27.

[4] Act I. Scene 1. Belles-Lettres Series. Austin Dobson, ed. D. C.
Heath & Co.

[5] _Hindle Wakes_, Stanley Houghton. J.W. Luce & Co., Boston;
Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., London.

[6] _York Plays_, p. 363. L. T. Smith, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.

[7] _Ludus Coventriae_, p. 322. J. O. Halliwell, ed. Shakespeare
Society.

[8] _Plays_, pp. 71-72 Copyright, 1915, by Chas. Scribner's Sons, New
York.

[9] B. W. Huebsch. New York.

[10] _Julius Caesar_, Act III, Scene 3.

[11] _The London Merchant, or The History of George Barnwell_, Act I,
Scene 1. George Lillo. Sir A.W. Ward, ed. Belles-Lettres Series. D.
C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.

[12] _Works_, R.W. Bond, ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford.

[13] _Selected Dramas of John Dryden. Conquest of Granada_. G. R.
Noyes, ed.

[14] Belles-Lettres Series. Sir A. W. Ward, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.,
Boston and New York.

[15] _L'Annee Psychologique_, 1894, p. 120.

[16] _The Nigger_, Act I. Edward Sheldon. The Macmillan Co., New
York.

[17] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, p. 99.

[18] _Letters of Bulwer-Lytton to Macready_, p. 130. B. Matthews, ed.

[19] _Fortune by Land and Sea._ T. Heywood and W. Rowley. W. B.
Clarke Co, Boston.

[20] _From Ibsen's Workshop_, p. 162. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New
York.

[21] _Prose Dramas_, vol. 1, p. 377. _Idem_.

[22] _From Ibsen's Workshop_, p. 171. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New
York.

[23] _Prose Dramas_, vol. i, p. 386. _Idem_.

[24] _The Ambassador._ T. Fisher Unwin, London.

[25] Samuel French, New York.

[26] _Mistress Beatrice Cope._ M. E. Le Clerc. D. Appleton & Co., New
York.

[27] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, pp. 4, 6.

[28] _Becket._ Tennyson. The Macmillan Co.

[29] _Becket._ Arranged by Sir Henry Irving. _Idem._

[30] _George Riddle's Readings._ Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston.

[31] _The Origin of the English Drama_, vol. II, p. 48. T. Hawkins,
ed. Clarendon Press, Oxford, 1773.

[32] _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act I, Scene 1.

[33] Belles-Lettres Series. K. L. Bates, ed. D. C. Heath & Co.,
Boston and New York.

[34] _Pre-Shakesperean Drama_, vol. 1, p. 300. J. M. Manly. Ginn &
Co., Boston.

[35] _Early Plays_, p. 72. C. G. Child. Riverside Literature Series,
No. 191. Houghton Mifflin Co., Boston.

[36] Samuel French, New York.

[37] Note that this is a literary detail effective for readers only.
At best the first row of spectators alone could identify the title of
the book.

[38] _Justice._ Copyright, 1910, by John Galsworthy. Chas. Scribner's
Sons, New York.

[39] _Die Frau im Fenster._ Theater in Versen. H. von Hofmannsthal.
S. Fischer, Berlin.

[40] The final scene of Act IV of _Nathan Hale_ shows effective use
of pantomime.

[41] Walter H. Baker & Co., Boston; W. Heinemann, London.

[42] _The Great Divide_, Act I. The Macmillan Co., New York.

[43] Translated by Arthur Symons. Brentano, New York.

[44] For such skilful substitution of pantomime for words, see pp.
388-89, _Lady Windermere's Fan_.

[45] _Robert Louis Stevenson, the Dramatist_, p. 15. Sir A.W. Pinero.
Chiswick Press, London. For the play see _Three Plays_, Henley and
Stevenson. Chas. Scribner's Sons, New York.

[46] Samuel French, New York.

[47] _The Duchesse of Malfi_, Act V, Scene 4. Belles-Lettres Series.
M. W. Sampson, ed. D. C. Heath & Co., Boston and New York.

[48] _Othello_, Act II, Scene 1.

[49] _Othello_, Act III, Scene 3.

[50] _Drama League Series_. Hannah Lynch, tr. Doubleday, Page & Co.

[51] _Plays_, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.

[52] _Plays_, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.

[53] _Introduction to Browning_, pp. 85-86. H. Corson. D. C. Heath &
Co.

[54] _The Ring and the Book_. Robert Browning. Tauchnitz ed., vol.
IV. Leipzig.

[55] Act II, Scene 2. Samuel French, New York.

[56] _Plays_, vol. II, pp. 150-51. J. Tonson. London, 1730.

[57] _The Foundations of a National Drama_, p. 23. H. A. Jones.
George H. Doran Company, New York.

[58] _Concerning Humour in Comedy. A Letter. European Theories of the
Drama_, pp. 213-214. Ed. B. H. Clark. Stewart and Kidd Co.,
Cincinnati.

[59] _The Devonshire Hamlets_, p. 28.

[60] Belles-Lettres Series, pp. 271-273. A. Bates, ed. D.C. Heath &
Co., Boston.

[61] _Plays of Oscar Wilde_, vol. 1, _Lady Windermere's Fan_. J. W.
Luce & Co., Boston.

[62] _Idem_, vol. II. _The Importance of Being Earnest._

[63] _Plays of Oscar Wilde_, vol. 1. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.

[64] Walter H. Baker Co., Boston.

[65] _Dramatic Works_, vol. II, pp. 222-223. London, 1773.

[66] Geo. Villiers, Duke of Buckingham. _Selected Dramas of John
Dryden, with The Rehearsal_, p. 399. G.R. Noyes, ed. Scott, Freeman &
Co.

[67] _Richard the Second_, Act IV. Scene 1.

[68] _Twelfth Night_, Act I, Scene 5.

[69] _Plays of Oscar Wilde_, vol. II. J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.

[70] _Dramatic Works of William Congreve_, vol. II. pp. 111-117. S.
Crowder, London, 1773.

[71] J. W. Luce & Co., Boston.

[72] _The Letters of Henrik Ibsen_, p. 269. Letter to Edmund Gosse,
January 15, 1874. Fox, Duffield & Co., New York.