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.

[1]

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[2] 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[3] 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[4] 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[5]

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[6] 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