that it is worse than idle to attempt it outside of works on philology.
Dialectic peculiarities are always largely matters of accent, of voice
quality, and of inflection. The sounds of vowels and consonants may
be indicated, but it is all but impossible to set down the rising
and falling of the voice which is the most characteristic quality of
these forms of speech. Printed words cannot reproduce that species
of intoning which has so large a share in making unintelligible to
foreigners the speech of London cabmen and porters. Indeed, it is to be
doubted whether any written dialect is to be regarded as a very exact
reproduction of the genuine thing,--a statement which would probably
be regarded with contemptuous anger by the devotees of the dialect
story, if any still survive. Certainly it is true that dialect does not
have to be genuine to be successful. The dialect of the “Biglow Papers”
was never spoken on the face of the earth. It is none the worse for
that, so far as I can see. It has the effect for which it was intended,
and nothing more could reasonably be asked. Mr. Lowell made it with the
most careful patience, and apparently believed in it with beautiful
faith. He set nothing down, or rather he tried to set nothing down,
which he had not heard from the lips of Yankee rustics; but in the
first place no one man ever used all those distorted words and phrases,
belonging sometimes to different localities; and in the second,
letters cannot reproduce the peculiar sounds and accents of rural New
England. Yet this dialect has imposed for a quarter of a century upon
no inconsiderable portion of the American reading public, and it will
probably continue to impose upon English readers until the end of time.
The inability of readers to judge of the accuracy of dialect is
inseparable from its use. How many are acquainted with the vernacular
of “Thrums,” the patois of New Orleans Creoles, the dialect of Mexican
mining camps, or the speech of the half-breeds of Canada or the West
Indian islands? No danger that the general reader will measure work
by reality obliges the writer of dialect to be accurate. The only
restraining influence is the difficulty of making a manufactured
dialect consistent and convincing. The story-teller studies dialect as
it is spoken, not for the sake of being right, but because this is the
surest way to obtain the appearance of being right. The only essential
thing is to be convincing.
The danger in the use of dialect is not far to seek. Its literary value
is that of flavor. As long as this fact is recognized it may properly
be employed. The difficulty is that the great and inglorious company
of imitators have written dialect for its own sake,--or perhaps for
their own sake!--and thereby not only have produced things dreadful
to contemplate, but have so wearied the soul of readers that it has
become dangerous to use it legitimately. Dialect in literature is a
condiment and not a viand; it is mustard and not beef; it is never to
be employed for its own sake any more than are commas and capitals,
paragraphs and periods. Almost every inexperienced writer who tries
his hand at dialect--and most experienced ones--will overdo it. The
French, with their instinctive literary sense, may well be studied
in this connection. They understand that the value of patois is its
suggestiveness, and they go in its use just so far as is necessary to
impart the flavor required, and there they stop. This is the legitimate
method. I have nothing to say of those disfigurements which appear
in some of the periodicals, sketches which are written for the sake
of exhibiting a special dialect. They do not come under the head
of literature except in the sense in which the word includes the
dictionary and thesaurus. They may be of interest to the student of
philology, but they cannot concern the imaginative reader.
The best quality which dialect can give is an impression of
individuality, of quaintness or remoteness from conventional and
hackneyed experiences. It must be written with care and sobriety.
The writer must remember that the day is definitely past when it was
possible to produce effects simply by misspelling. It is well to
keep in mind also that even the ability to write a dialect never so
perfectly is not necessarily a reason for using it. The employment of
local forms of language, like local color, must be subordinate to the
purposes of the story. It is always a means and never legitimately an
end. It is, moreover, a good deal discredited by over-use and abuse, so
that it must be employed with double caution.
One more word of warning it seems well to add. The employment of
dialect and of local color as a means of producing literary effect
is apt to impart to work a transient character. Their effect is less
likely to be permanently pleasing than that of almost any other thing
legitimately among the resources of the story-teller. The principle
that it is well to appeal to ordinary experiences and to ordinary
tastes comes in here. The general reader soon tires of dialect unless
it be very simple and is supported by all other devices within the
range of art. To write dialect is likely to be at best to sacrifice
permanent to temporary success. The greatest writers have usually
employed it sparingly. Shakespeare almost never resorted to it;
Fielding scarcely used it at all; Scott tried it much more largely,
but the Scotch speech was all but universal among his people, and it
has certainly been oftener a hindrance than a help to his continued
success; Thackeray put little of it into his best work; Hawthorne
passed it by; and even Dickens depended upon it very little, despite
the temptations which his characters constantly offered. Thomas Hardy
has given us the best rustics since Shakespeare with not much more
than an indication of dialect. I do not wish to insist upon the point
too strongly, but the principle seems to me a sound one, and it is
certainly worth the consideration of any student of the art of writing
fiction.
* * * * *
The art of writing dialogue is by no means the least difficult thing
which the story-teller has to learn, and there are very many who are
not able to acquire it to the end of their days. If a rule could be
devised by which good and pleasing dialogue could be written, it would
go far toward making it possible for every man to be his own novelist.
To give to the talk of a tale the air of naturalness and ease, to make
it take its place in the story and be attractive without being too
clever or too formal, to give it character and consistency, to impart
to it movement and vivacity, to be sure that it helps forward the
narrative in which it is set,--all these difficulties must be overcome
before an author can be said to write good dialogue.
The first essential in dialogue is naturalness. Some authors get on
without this, but they get on in spite of lacking it and are constantly
hampered by the lack. The most striking instance of this in modern
fiction is probably George Meredith, a novelist who makes his way
with more encumbrances than any other living man of genius. Take, for
instance, this bit, chosen almost at random:--
“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.”
--_The Egotist_, viii.
This does as a matter of fact somewhat help forward the story from
which it is taken, but could anybody get from it the idea that two
living beings were talking together?
The great principle of the impression of truth instead of a servile
imitation of truth is the secret of good talk in fiction. It is
necessary to keep clear on the one hand of formality and stiffness,
and on the other of stupid closeness in mere imitation. In actual
talk there are inaccuracies, broken sentences, phrases of which the
meaning is evident from some glance or gesture, repetitions and
careless constructions, all of which would lose their force or gain
undue importance if set down in print. To preserve or too closely to
imitate these characteristics of genuine conversation is to give an
impression of unreality, or commonplaceness and even of vulgarity. The
rambling speech is often pleasantly and appropriately imitated. The
inimitable Nurse in “Romeo and Juliet” stands at the head of talkers of
this sort, but there are excellent specimens in the fiction of our own
century. Miss Austen possessed the secret of this futile volubility to
perfection, and Mrs. Stowe’s best literary work is her management of
the discursive talk of Sam Lawson.
That conversation should be in keeping with the characters speaking is
one of those things so obvious that it is unsafe to leave them unsaid.
It is another application of the principle of the point of view. The
natural tendency of the beginner is to put into the mouths of his
personages not what they would say but what he would have them say.
If he sufficiently realize them in his own mind there will be little
danger of this. The remedy is to know his characters. The people in any
book will talk consistently if they are real to the author. They will
say what they wish to say and not what he wishes them to say, and that
is the whole secret.
Most young writers compose pages of dialogue which seems to them
clever, which, when it is written, they read over with tender
admiration, generally not without a little amazement that they have
done so well and a conviction that this at least imparts distinction
to their book,--when as a matter of fact the whole thing is simply
an amateurish mistake. It is one of the many pitfalls which egotism
and inexperience dig for the unwary writer, who forgets that success
can be achieved only when the end of a work is the work and not the
worker. The elaborator of his own opinions into the form of talk is not
writing dialogue; he is but making a weak concession to his individual
vanity. His punishment is that he cannot deceive the public. Readers
may not know their right hands from their left, but they know when they
are bored, and they are always bored when the progress of the tale is
interrupted to afford an author opportunity to display himself.
Anthony Trollope puts this matter well in his “Autobiography:”--
There is no portion of a novelist’s work in which this fault of
episodes is so common as in dialogue. 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 seem to be confined to this, but it should always
have a tendency in this 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 that 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 certain
point the dialogue has deviated from the story; but when it does
he will feel it.--Ch. xii.
Of course the matter is made more complicated by the fact that it is
often the office of dialogue to indicate character rather than action.
How far the writer may introduce talk simply to illustrate mental
characteristics or moods is a thing to be decided by each writer for
himself and learned by observation. It is not amiss for a young writer
to consider carefully how far he is himself able to enjoy this in the
work of others; and in any case he must learn to distinguish between
what is written genuinely to illustrate mental traits and that which is
really put in simply to show his own cleverness.
* * * * *
There are two points in the writing out of dialogue which it is well to
keep in mind: first that care must be taken never to leave the reader
in doubt who is speaking, and second that interspersed comments be used
with skillful nicety.
In a conversation which consists of a somewhat extended succession of
short speeches it is often hard for the reader to keep in mind without
effort who say them, unless they are labeled; while on the other hand
to come upon a constant repetition of “said he,” “said she,” “said
Tom,” “said Jane,” is as irritating as bumping over a corduroy bridge
in a cart without springs. It is worth the author’s while to take all
possible pains to give explicit indication of the personality of the
speaker wherever this is needed and equally to omit it where it is
superfluous. Here is an example from a second-rate novel:--
“I’m off on Monday,” said he.
“Not really,” said she.
“Yes, I have only come to say good-by,” 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 dare say,” said he, smiling.
“I shouldn’t wonder if I know,” said she.
“I dare say you might guess,” said he.
There are so many devices for avoiding repetition that only gross
carelessness can commit a fault like this. The abundance of terms which
may be used--said, remarked, observed, replied, returned, retorted,
asked, inquired, demanded, murmured, grumbled, growled, sneered,
explained, exclaimed, and the rest of the long list of words of allied
meanings--leaves the writer of English without excuse if he fail to
vary the words of specification in dialogue. There are, too, many ways
of evading the need of employing any of these. Frequently the nature of
the talk indicates sufficiently the speaker; and it is often possible
and well to introduce the name of the character addressed. The simple
device of altering the relative position of the verb and the subject
is not to be despised. In the extract just given the ear would receive
as a relief and a boon a single “he said” among so many “said he’s.”
Opening Stevenson’s “Treasure Island” almost at random, and taking
the words on a couple of pages which indicate the speakers and their
utterances, I find these:--
Observed Silver.... Cried the cook.... Returned Morgan.... Said
another.... Cried Silver.... Said Merry.... Agreed Silver.... Said
Morgan.... Said the fellow with the bandage.... Observed another.
On a couple of pages of one of Hardy’s books the phrases are:--
Said a young married man.... Murmured Joseph.... Dashed in Mark
Clark.... Added Joseph.... Said Henry.... Observed Mr. Mark....
Whispered Joseph.... Said Mr. Oak.... Continued Joseph.
The variety does not come by chance, but by care and a finely trained
perception of the value of trifles. It is of importance that the exact
significance and intensity of the verb employed be taken into account.
There is a distinct difference between “dashed in” and “continued;”
between “cried” and “exclaimed.” The author should have a sense of the
mood and manner of his personages so clear and so fine that only one
of all the possible words shall seem to him fit. If his dialogue is at
all related to real life, it will so vary in its fine shadings that
the terms indicating the manner of utterance will vary naturally and
inevitably.
The interspersion of comments in dialogues is another matter of
detail which greatly increases or lessens the finish of work. It is
often possible to give a much more lively and vivid presentation of
the speakers if amid their talk are mixed bits of action or even of
description. The two things to be observed are that there shall not be
too much of this and that the interpolations shall be significant. The
movement of the current of conversation must not be hindered. Trifles
may be effectively used, yet it is one of the most difficult points
of literary art so to use them. It is a good thing for the student to
write little sketches in dialogue form; stories in which he is forced
to depend almost entirely upon the talk itself for characterization and
narrative. Readers as a rule do not care much for this sort of thing,
and it is to be done as part of the training of the workman rather than
for itself. To sum up this matter, it may be said that in interspersing
comment, as in all else that has to do with dialogue, the great secret
lies in realizing the persons speaking and in allowing them to utter
their own words, instead of making them speak the words of the author
or stand aside while the author expresses his thoughts himself.
XIX
CHARACTER AND PURPOSE
The secret of character-drawing of course lies largely in the ability
to understand and to appreciate character, but in its application to
practical work it largely resolves itself into the power of realizing
the personages of the tale. A striking example of how a vitalizing
imagination can and may make the actors in a fiction real in spite
of all drawbacks is furnished by George Meredith. George Meredith’s
style is a teasing madness; his characters talk as no human beings
ever dreamed of talking; and yet these personages are so actual, so
individual, so human, that it is impossible not to feel that if one of
them were pricked, real, red, warm human blood would flow. They existed
so vividly for the author that they exist vividly for the reader and
convince in spite of all the author’s mannerisms. The relation of an
author to his puppets has been well put by Trollope when he says:--
The novelist has other aims than the elucidation of his plot. He
desires to make his readers so intimately acquainted with his
characters that the creatures of his brain should be to them
speaking, moving, living, human creatures. This he can never do
unless he know those fictitious personages himself, and he can
never know them unless he can live with them in the full reality
of established intimacy.... He must learn to hate them and to
love them. He must argue with them, quarrel with them, forgive
them, and even submit to them.--_Autobiography_, xiii.
Deliberate description of persons is seldom of much effect. Says
Stevenson:--
Readers cannot fail to have remarked that what an author tells us
of the beauty or the charm of his creatures goes for naught; that
we know instantly better; that the heroine cannot open her mouth
but what, all in a moment, the fine phrases of preparation fall
from her like the robes from Cinderella, and she stands before
us, self-betrayed, as a poor, ugly, sickly wench, or perhaps a
strapping market-woman.--_A Gossip on a Novel of Dumas’s._
The same principle holds with mental traits. It is of little use
to announce, and especially to announce early in a tale, what the
character of an actor is. If the author declare that the fictitious
person is this or that, he gives the reader a measure by which to
criticise his performance. He puts into the hands of his public a rod
wherewith to scourge him for whatever falls short of intention,--and if
tried for falling short of intention, who shall escape? If the reader
is left to judge of character by deeds, he becomes himself responsible
for any opinions which he may choose to hold. The rule which every
student should adopt for himself is that character is to be indicated
first by the acts of the personages in a tale, and secondly by their
talk. Description of character may be suggested, but it should not be
direct if it is possible to avoid this.
Of course I do not mean that there may not be a good deal of direct
comment on character. I do mean, however, that while it will probably
entertain the author to write this and may help him in understanding
the people about whom he writes, the effect upon the reader will in
most cases be exceedingly small. If you are in the habit of analyzing
your mental experiences, I am confident that you will bear me out in
saying that we are seldom much affected by any declaration on the part
of the writer that a character is good, bad, or indifferent. If we have
drawn the same conclusion from the story, that is from the events and
the conversations, we may agree with the author; if we have not, we do
not in the least accept his estimate.
This may seem a covert attack upon the whole school of analytical
fiction, but it is meant merely to be a warning to practical workers.
There is nothing in all literary art more enticing to a novelist than
the vivisection of character, and especially in this introspective
age is it difficult to write objectively and without what might be
called mental rummaging. It is impossible not to feel that all this
minute analysis of character, however interesting as psychological
tract or treatise, distinctly injures the effect of a work as a whole.
It changes the characters from living beings to subjects on the
dissecting-table, and destroys the vitality of the tale. It is in our
time the prevailing fashion, but it is of our time no less the literary
disease. In the masterpieces of fiction it is seldom found; and the
book which is heavily weighted with analysis is desperately sure of
going soon to the bottom of the pool of oblivion, no matter by how much
wit or wisdom it may be buoyed up.
Often a single significant detail will throw more light on a character
than pages of comment. An example in perfection is the phrase in which
Thackeray tells how Becky Crawley, amid all her guilt and terror,
when her husband had Lord Steyne by the throat, felt a sudden thrill
of admiration for Rawdon’s splendid strength. It is like a flash of
lightning which shows the deeps of the selfish, sensual woman’s nature.
It is no wonder that Thackeray threw down his pen, as he confessed that
he did, and cried, “That is a stroke of genius!”
Of drawing characters from life much the same may be said as in regard
to taking incidents from life. Real characters are excellent points of
departure, and in the study of mental traits it is possible to hold
much more closely to nature than in the reproduction of incidents. It
is easy to pass the line of probability in incident, but one may go far
before he cross the line of probability in character. It follows that
there is in character much more material which may be taken directly
from life into fiction, without especial modification. The chief
difficulty here is--or at least so it seems to me--that it is less easy
to make an actual person real in the mind as part of a fiction than
it is to realize a person practically imaginary. If the writer in his
thought and imagination get as perfect a conviction of a personage in
his story when he is drawing him directly from life as when he shapes
him from pure imagination, there is no reason why he should not use
the living man as his model, and often he may in this way gain greater
consistency of development.
Character-drawing belongs rather to novels than to short stories. The
short story practically deals with character as it shows itself in a
crisis or in a brief and rapid series of events. There is here no great
opportunity for showing the development of character, but only for
exhibiting how character is manifested under crucial and significant
circumstances. The method must be varied according to the conditions,
and almost perforce the writer of the short tale is forced to deal
chiefly in suggestion, both of outward and inner conditions and traits,
rather than in extended exposition. In any case, however, the same
fundamental principle holds, that the clearness of the impression
produced upon the reader depends upon the command of technical methods
which enables a writer to impart what he feels and upon the sharpness
with which he realizes the character he depicts.
* * * * *
When there is talk of moral purpose in fiction most persons are either
a little indignant or a good deal inclined to get out of the way. If
they think how much useless talk has been wasted over the phrase they
are impatient; if they recall how dull much of this talk has been,
they are bored by the very idea. Indeed, one is sometimes tempted to
take refuge in mere flippancy, and to try to shut off discussion by
declaring that while it is true that there was formerly such a thing
as moral purpose in literature this has in these degenerate days
entirely given place to an immoral purpose. Yet despite this impatience
the fact remains that the matter is one of the most important connected
with the art of fiction.