STUDIES IN LITERARY TECHNIQUE
Colour: Local and Otherwise
One morning you opened your paper and found that Mr Simon St Clair had
gone into Wales in search of local colour. What does local colour mean?
The appearance of the country, the dress and language of the people, all
that distinguishes the particular locality from others near and
remote--is local colour. Take Kipling's "Mandalay" as an illustration.
He speaks of the ringing temple bell, of the garlic smells, and the dawn
that comes up like thunder; there are elephants piling teak, and all the
special details of the particular locality find a characteristic
expression. For what reason? Well, local colour renders two services to
literature; it makes very often a pleasing or a striking picture in
itself; and it is used by the author to bring out special features in
his story. Kipling's underlying idea comes to the surface when he says
that a man who has lived in the East always hears the East "a-callin'"
him back again. There is deep pathos in the idea alone; but when it is
set in the external characteristics of Eastern life, one locality chosen
to set forth the rest, and stated in language that few can equal, the
entire effect is very striking.
Whenever local colour is of picturesque quality there is a temptation to
substitute "word-painting" for the story. The desire for novelty is at
the bottom of a good deal of modern extravagance in this direction, but
the truth still remains that local colour has an important function to
discharge--namely, to increase the artistic value of good narrative by
suggesting the environment of the _dramatis personae_. You must have
noticed the opening chapters of "The Scarlet Letter." Why all this
careful detailing of the Customs House, the manners and the talk of the
people? For no other reason than that just given.
But there is another use of colour in literary composition. Perhaps I
can best illustrate my purpose by quoting from an interview with James
Lane Allen, who certainly ought to know what he is talking about. The
author of "The Choir Invisible," and "Summer in Arcady," occupies a
position in Fiction which makes his words worth considering.
Said Mr Allen to the interviewer:[81:A] "A friend of mine--a
painter--had just finished reading some little thing that I had
succeeded in having published in the _Century_. 'What do you think of
it?' I asked him. 'Tell me frankly what you like and what you don't
like.'
"'It's interestingly told, dramatic, polished, and all that, Allen,' was
his reply, 'but why in the world did you neglect such an opportunity to
drop in some colour here, and at this point, and there?'
"It came over me like that," said the Kentuckian, snapping his fingers,
"that words indicating colours can be manipulated by the writer just as
pigments are by the painter. I never forgot the lesson. And now when I
describe a landscape, or a house, or a costume, I try to put it into
such words that an artist can paint the scene from my words."
Evidently Mr Allen learned his lesson long ago, but it is one every
writer should study carefully. Mr Baring Gould also gives his
experience. "In one of my stories I sketched a girl in a white frock
leaning against a sunny garden wall, tossing guelder-roses. I had some
burnished gold-green flies on the old wall, preening in the sun; so, to
complete the scene, I put her on gold-green leather shoes, and made the
girl's eyes of much the same hue. Thus we had a picture where the colour
was carried through, and, if painted, would have been artistic and
satisfying. A red sash would have spoiled all, so I gave her one that
was green. So we had the white dress, the guelder-rose-balls
greeny-white, and through the ranges of green-gold were led up to her
hair, which was red-gold. I lay some stress on this formation of picture
in tones of colour, because it pleases myself when writing--it satisfies
my artistic sense. A thousand readers may not observe it; but those who
have any art in them will at once receive therefrom a pleasing
impression."[83:A]
These two testimonies make the matter very plain. If anything is needed
it is a more practical illustration taken direct from a book. For this
purpose I have chosen a choice piece from George Du Maurier's "Peter
Ibbetson," a book that was half-killed by the Trilby boom.
"Before us lies a sea of fern, gone a russet-brown from decay, in which
are isles of dark green gorse, and little trees with scarlet and orange
and lemon-coloured leaflets fluttering down, and running after each
other on the bright grass, under the brisk west wind which makes the
willows rustle, and turn up the whites of their leaves in pious
resignation to the coming change.
"Harrow-on-the-Hill, with its pointed spire, rises blue in the distance;
and distant ridges, like the receding waves, rise into blueness, one
after the other, out of the low-lying mist; the last ridge bluely
melting into space. In the midst of it all, gleams the Welsh Harp Lake,
like a piece of sky that has become unstuck and tumbled into the
landscape with its shiny side up."
What About Dialect?
Dialect is local colour individualised. Ian Maclaren, in "The Bonnie
Brier Bush," following in the wake of Crockett and Barrie, has given us
the dialect of Scotland: Baring Gould and a host of others have provided
us with dialect stories of English counties; Jane Barlow and several
Irish writers deal with the sister island; Wales has not been forgotten;
and the American novelists have their big territory mapped out into
convenient sections. Soon the acreage of locality literature will have
been completely "written up"; I do not say its yielding powers will have
been exhausted, for, as with other species of local colour, dialect has
had to suffer at the hands of the imitator who dragged dialect into his
paltry narrative for its own sake, and to give him the opportunity of
providing the reader with a glossary.
The reason why dialect-stories were so popular some time ago is twofold.
First, dialect imparts a flavour to a narrative, especially when it is
in contrast to educated utterances on the part of other characters. But
the chief reason is that dialect people have more character than other
people--as a rule. They afford greater scope for literary artistry than
can be found in life a stage or two higher, with its correctness and
artificiality. St Beuve said, "All peasants have style." Yes; that is
the truth exactly. There is an individuality about the peasant that is
absent from the town-dweller, and this fact explains the piquancy of
many novels that owe their popularity to the representations of the
rustic population. The dialect story, or novel, cannot hope for
permanency unless it contains elements of universal interest. The
emphasis laid on a certain type of speech stamps such a literary
production with the brand of narrowness. I understand that Ian Maclaren
has been translated into French. Can you imagine Drumsheugh in Gallic?
or Jamie Soutar? Never. Only that which is literature in the highest
sense can be translated into another language; hence the life of
corners in Scotland, or elsewhere, has no special interest for the world
in general.
The rule as to dealing with dialect is quite simple. Never use the
letters of the alphabet to reproduce the sound of such language in a
literal manner. _Suggest dialect_; that is all. Have nothing to do with
glossaries. People hate dictionaries, however brief, when they read
fiction. George Eliot and Thomas Hardy are good models of the wise use
of county speech.
On Dialogue
In making your characters talk, it should be your aim not to _reproduce_
their conversation, but to _indicate_ it. Here, as elsewhere, the first
principle of all art is selection, and from the many words which you
have heard your characters use, you must choose those that are typical
in view of the purpose you have in hand. I once had a letter from a
youthful novelist, in which he said: "It's splendid to write a story. I
make my characters say what I like--swear, if necessary--and all that."
Now you can't make your characters say what you like; you are obliged to
make them say what is in keeping with their known dispositions, and with
the circumstances in which they are placed at the time of speaking. If
you know your characters intimately, you will not put wise words into
the mouth of a clown, unless you have suitably provided for such a
surprise; neither will you write long speeches for the sullen villain
who is to be the human devil of the narrative. Remember, therefore, that
the key to propriety and effectiveness in writing is the knowledge of
those ideal people whom you are going to use in your pages.
"Windiness" and irrelevancy are the twin evils of conversations in
fiction. Trollope says, "It is so easy to make two persons talk on any
casual subject with which the writer presumes himself to be conversant!
Literature, philosophy, politics, or sport may be handled in a loosely
discursive style; and the writer, while indulging himself, is apt to
think he is pleasing the reader. I think he can make no greater mistake.
The dialogue is generally the most agreeable part of a novel; but it is
only so as long as it tends in some way to the telling of the main
story. It need not be confined to this, but it should always have a
tendency in that direction. The unconscious critical acumen of a reader
is both just and severe. When a long dialogue on extraneous matter
reaches his mind, he at once feels that he is being cheated into taking
something that he did not bargain to accept when he took up the novel.
He does not at that moment require politics or philosophy, but he wants
a story. He will not, perhaps, be able to say in so many words that at
some point the dialogue has deviated from the story; but when it does,
he will feel it."[88:A]
A word or two as to what kind of dialogue assists in telling the main
story may not be amiss. Return to the suggested plot of the Jewess and
the Roman Catholic. What are they to talk about? Anything that will
assist their growing intimacy, that will bring out the peculiar
personalities of both, and contribute to the development of the
narrative. In a previous section I said that the _denouement_ decided
the selection of your characters; in some respects it will also decide
the topics of their conversation. Certain events have to be provided
for, in order that they may be both natural and inevitable, and it
becomes your duty to create incidents and introduce dialogue which will
lead up to these events.
With reference to models for study, advice is difficult to give. Quite a
gallery of masters would be needed for the purpose, as there are so many
points in one which are lacking in another. Besides, a great novelist
may have eccentricities in dialogue, and be quite normal in other
respects. George Meredith is as artificial in dialogue as he is in the
use of phrases pure and simple, and yet he succeeds, _in spite of_
defects, not _by_ them. Here is a sample from "The Egoist":
"Have you walked far to-day?"
"Nine and a half hours. My Flibbertigibbet is too much for me
at times, and I had to walk off my temper."
"All those hours were required?"
"Not quite so long."
"You are training for your Alpine tour?"
"It's doubtful whether I shall get to the Alps this year. I
leave the Hall, and shall probably be in London with a pen to
sell."
"Willoughby knows that you leave him?"
"As much as Mont Blanc knows that he is going to be climbed by
a party below. He sees a speck or two in the valley."
"He has spoken of it."
"He would attribute it to changes."
I need not discuss how far this advances the novelist's narrative, but
it is plain that it is not a model for the beginner. For smartness and
"point" nothing could be better than Anthony Hope's "Dolly Dialogues,"
although the style is not necessarily that of a novel.
Points in Conversation
Never allow the reader to be in doubt as to who is speaking. When he has
to turn back to discover the speaker's identity, you may be sure there
is something wrong with your construction. You need not quote the
speaker's name in order to make it plain that he is speaking: all that
is needed is a little attention to the "said James" and "replied Susan"
of your dialogues. When once these two have commenced to talk, they can
go on in catechism form for a considerable period. But if a third party
chimes in, a more careful disposition of names is called for.
Beginners very often have a good deal of trouble with their "saids,"
"replieds," and "answereds."
Here, again, a little skilful manoevring will obviate the difficulty.
This is a specimen of third-class style.
"I'm off on Monday," _said_ he.
"Not really," _said_ she.
"Yes, I have only come to say goodbye," _said_ he.
"Shall you be gone long?" _asked_ she.
"That depends," _said_ he.
"I should like to know what takes you away," _said_ she.
"I daresay," _said_ he, smiling.
"I shouldn't wonder if I know," _said_ she.
"I daresay you might guess," _said_ he.
Could anything be more wooden than this perpetual "said he, said she,"
which I have accentuated by putting into italics? Now, observe the
difference when you read the following:--
_Observed_ Silver.
_Cried_ the Cook.
_Returned_ Morgan.
_Said_ Another.
_Agreed_ Silver.
_Said_ the fellow with the bandage.
There is no lack of suitable verbs for dialogue purposes--remarked,
retorted, inquired, demanded, murmured, grumbled, growled,
sneered, explained, and a host more. Without a ready command
of such a vocabulary you cannot hope to give variety to your
character-conversations, and, what is of graver importance, you will not
be able to bring out the essential qualities of such remarks as you
introduce. For instance, to put a sarcastic utterance into a man's
mouth, and then to write down that he "replied" with those words is not
half so effective as to say he "sneered" them.[93:A]
Probably you will be tempted to comment on your dialogue as you write by
insinuating remarks as to actions, looks, gestures, and the like. This
is a good temptation, so far, but it has its dangers. The ancient Hebrew
writer, in telling the story of Hezekiah, said that Isaiah went to the
king with these words:
"Set thine house in order: for thou shalt die and not live."
_And Hezekiah turned his face to the wall--and prayed._
If you can make a comment as dramatic and forceful as that, _make it_.
But avoid useless and uncalled-for remarks, and remember that you
really want nothing, not even a fine epigram, which fails to contribute
to the main purpose.
"Atmosphere"
It will not be inappropriate to close this chapter with a few words on
what is called "atmosphere." The word is often met with in the
vocabulary of the reviewer; he is marvellously keen in scenting
atmospheres. Perhaps an illustration may be the best means of
exposition. The reviewer is speaking of Maeterlinck's "Alladine and
Palomides," "Interior," and "The Death of Tintagiles." He says, "We find
in them the same strange atmosphere to which we had grown accustomed in
'Pelleas' and 'L'Intruse.' We are in a region of no fixed plane--a
region that this world never saw. It is a region such as Arnold Boecklin,
perhaps, might paint, and many a child describe. A castle stands upon a
cliff. Endless galleries and corridors and winding stairs run through
it. Beneath lie vast grottoes where subterranean waters throw up
unearthly light from depths where seaweed grows." This is very true, and
put into bald language it means that Maeterlinck has succeeded in
creating an artistic environment for his weird characters; it is the
_setting_ in which he has placed them. In the first scene of _Hamlet_,
Shakespeare creates the necessary atmosphere to introduce the events
that are to follow. The soldiers on guard are concerned and afraid; the
reader is thereby prepared, step by step, for the reception of the whole
situation; everything that will strengthen the impression of a coming
fatality is seized by a master hand, and made to do service in creating
an atmosphere of such expectant quality. An artist by nature will select
intuitively the persons and facts he needs; but there is no reason why a
study of these necessities, a slow and careful pondering, should not at
last succeed in alighting upon the precise and inevitable details which
delicately and subtly produce the desired result. In this sense the
matter can hardly be called a minor detail, but the expression has been
sufficiently guarded.
FOOTNOTES:
[81:A] Shuman, "Steps into Journalism," p. 201.
[83:A] "The Art of Writing Fiction," p. 40.
[88:A] "Autobiography," vol. ii. p. 58.
[93:A] See Bates' "Talks on Writing English." An excellent manual, to
which I am indebted for ideas and suggestions.