Brown. Mary! I’m glad to see you, Mary.
    (For a few seconds, silence.)
Mrs. Brown. (Crying out.) Oh, my dear husband, it is a hard fate.
Brown. (Strong in his composure.) Well, well, Mary, let us be cheerful. We must all bear it the best we can.
    (Stroking her hair.)
Mrs. Brown. Oh! You to go from me forever.
    (Sinks her head on his breast again.)
Brown. It must be,—and all is for the best. There, there.
    (Pats her head in an effort to comfort her.)
Mrs. Brown. But our poor children, John.
Brown. Those that have died are at peace in the next world.
    (She breaks out weeping again.)
  Come, come, dry your tears; sit down and tell me about those at home. (He tries to lead her to chair on right of table, but she checks her grief and seats herself. He goes slowly back to the other chair.) It weakens me to stand. Now tell me about home.
Mrs. Brown. It’s a sad place. We couldn’t believe the first reports about you and the boys being taken prisoners. We couldn’t believe you had failed. Then a New York paper came. We sat by the fire in the living room. There was Watson’s widow—
Brown. Poor Isabel, with her little Freddie.
Mrs. Brown. And William Thompson’s widow, our Ruth, and Annie, and Oliver’s widow—
Brown. Poor Martha. When the time came it was hard for her to leave the farm house and Oliver behind. She kind of felt that she wouldn’t see him any more.
Mrs. Brown. We said almost nothing while Salmon read. We felt in our blindness God had been unfaithful to you and the boys.
Brown. My dear wife, you must keep up your spirits. Don’t blame God. He has taken away my sword of steel, but He has given me the sword of the Spirit.
Mrs. Brown. (Looking up into his face with almost a sad smile upon hers.) That sounds just like you, John. Oh, it’s been so long since I heard your voice.
Brown. Tell me more about the family.
Mrs. Brown. Owen doesn’t dare come home yet.
Brown. Do you know where he is?
Mrs. Brown. Hiding among friends in Ohio. Poor boy, he is called all kinds of vile names, just for being with you.
Brown. For the cause we have all suffered much in the past; we shall have to in the future. We should rejoice at his escape.
Mrs. Brown. I do, John, but O, poor Oliver and Watson! We shall never see them again.
Brown. Not in this world, but we shall meet together in that other world where they do not shoot and hang men for loving justice and desiring freedom for all men.
Mrs. Brown. Yes, and they did die for a great and good cause!
    (Said with spirit.)
Brown. Some day all the people of the earth will say that.
    (A moment's silence.)
Mrs. Brown. Do they treat you well here, John?
Brown. Like Joseph, I have gained favor in the sight of the prison-keeper. He is a most humane gentleman—never mistreats or tries to humiliate me.
Mrs. Brown. May God bless such a man. Do you sleep any, John?
Brown. Like a child,—all night in peace.
Mrs. Brown. I'm glad of that. I worried about it. Are the days long and lonesome?
Brown. All hours of the day glorious thoughts come to me. I am kept busy reading and answering letters from my friends. I have with me my Bible, here. (Placing his hand on the leather-bound volume at the end of the table.) It is of infinite comfort. I never enjoyed life more than since coming to prison. I wish all my poor family were as composed and as happy.
Mrs. Brown. We have become more and more resigned.
Brown. Do any feel disgrace or shame?
Mrs. Brown. Not one, John. You are, in our eyes, a noble martyr. The chains on your legs bind our hearts all the closer to you.
Brown. That gives me comfort, Mary. No man can get into difficulties too big to be surmounted, if he has a firm foothold at home.
Mrs. Brown. You made a mistake only in judging how much you could do.
Brown. I have been a great deal disappointed in myself for not keeping to my plan. I acted against my better judgment.
Mrs. Brown. But after taking the arsenal, why didn't you flee to the mountains, as we thought you would?
Brown. The delay was my mistake. But in God's greater and broader plan, maybe it was infinitely better. It was fore-ordained to work out that way, determined before the world was made.
Mrs. Brown. His ways are mysterious and wonderful.
    (Avis comes in.)
Brown. Mary! I’m glad to see you, Mary.
    (For a few seconds, silence.)
Mrs. Brown. (Crying out.) Oh, my dear husband, it is a hard fate. It’s been so long since I heard your voice.
Brown. (Strong in his compposture.) Well, well, Mary, let us be cheerful. We must all bear it the best we can.
    (Stroking her hair.)
Mrs. Brown. Oh! You to go from me forever.
    (Sinks her head on his breast again.)
Brown. It must be,—and all is for the best. There, there.
    (Pats her head in an effort to comfort her.)
Mrs. Brown. (After a moment’s silence.) Do they treat you well here John?
Brown. Like Joseph, I have gained favor in the sight of the prison-keeper. He is a most humane gentleman—never mistreats or tries to humiliate me.
Mrs. Brown. May God bless such a man. Do you sleep any, John?
Brown. Like a child,—all night in peace.
Mrs. Brown. I am glad of that. I worried about it. Are the days long and lonesome?
Brown. All hours of the day glorious thoughts come to me. I am kept busy reading and answering letters from my friends. I have with me my Bible, here. (Placing his hand on the leather-bound volume at the end of the table.) It is of infinite comfort. I never enjoyed life more than since coming to prison. I wish all my poor family were as composed and as happy.
Mrs. Brown. But our poor children, John. Poor Oliver and Watson. We shall never see them again.
Brown. Those that have died are at peace. (She breaks out weeping again.) But we shall meet together in that other world where they do not shoot and hang men for loving justice and desiring freedom for all men. Come, come, dry your tears. Sit down and tell me about those at home. (He tries to lead her to chair on right of table, but she checks her grief and seats herself. He goes slowly back to the other chair.) It weakens me to stand. Now, tell me about home, for that will give me comfort, Mary. No man can get into difficulties too big to be surmounted if he has a firm foothold at home.
Mrs. Brown. It’s a sad place. We couldn’t believe the first reports about you and the boys being taken prisoners. We wouldn’t believe you had failed.
Brown. I have been a great deal disappointed in myself for not keeping to my plan.
Mrs. Brown. You made a mistake only in judging how much you could do.
Brown. I acted against my better judgment.
Mrs. Brown. But after taking the arsenal, why didn’t you flee to the mountains, as we thought you would?
Brown. The delay was my mistake. But in God's greater and broader plan maybe it was infinitely better. It was fore-ordained to work out that way, determined before the world was made.
Mrs. Brown. His ways are mysterious and wonderful.
    (A slight pause as both think.)
Brown. How did you first get the news?
Mrs. Brown. A New York paper came. We sat by the fire in the living room. There was Watson's widow—
Brown. Poor Isabel, with her little Freddie.
Mrs. Brown. And William Thompson's widow, our Ruth, and Annie, and Oliver's widow—
Brown. Poor Martha. When the time came, it was hard for her to leave the farm house and Oliver behind. She kind of felt she wouldn't see him any more.
Mrs. Brown. We said almost nothing while Salmon read. We felt in our blindness God had been unfaithful to you and the boys.
Brown. My dear wife, you must keep up your spirits. Don't blame God. He has taken away my sword of steel, but He has given me the sword of the Spirit.
Mrs. Brown. (Looking up into his face with almost a sad smile upon hers.) That sounds just like you, John. We have become more and more resigned.
Brown. Do any feel disgrace or shame?
Mrs. Brown. Not one, John. You are, in our eyes, a noble martyr. The chains on your legs bind our hearts all the closer to you.
Brown. Tell me more about the family.
Mrs. Brown. Owen doesn't dare come home yet.
Brown. Do you know where he is?
Mrs. Brown. Hiding among friends in Ohio. Poor boy, he is called all kinds of vile names, just for being with you.
Brown. For the cause we have all suffered much in the past; we shall have to in the future. We should rejoice at his escape.
Mrs. Brown. I do, John. And Oliver and Watson did die for a great and good cause!
    (Said with spirit.)
Brown. Some day, all the people of the earth will say that.
    (Avis comes in.)

There are several faults in the original dialogue, but perhaps the chief is not regarding the principle that clearness dramatically consists, not merely in stating needed facts, but in so stating them that interest is not allowed to lapse. The original dialogue was scrappy, lacking sequence, not so much of thought as of emotion. If it be said that at such a moment talk is often fitful, it must be remembered that our time-limits forbid giving every word said in such a scene. We must present merely its essentials. Only in that way may a play, a condensed presentation of life, hope to give a total effect for a scene equal to that of the original. The re-ordered dialogue of the right-hand column seeks merely to bring together ideas really closely related, and to move, in a way in keeping with the characters, from lesser to stronger emotion. With the disappearance of the scrappy effect, is not the result clearer? Even now, the dialogue might well be condensed and made emotionally more significant.

If we let the dialogue of a play merely state necessary facts, what is the result? At the worst, something like the left-hand column. Two young women, one the married hostess and the other the friend of her girlhood, are opening their morning mail on the piazza. Serena, the hostess, has known nothing of the engagement of Elise to Teddy.

ORIGINALREVISION
Elise. (Looking up from her letters.) Is he coming?
Serena. I don't know yet, but I wish he were still in South Africa. If he does come, I don't know what will happen. There's a letter from Aunt Deborah.
Elise. Yes? What does she want?
Serena. Did you know she had a terrible quarrel with Teddy just before he went to South Africa?
Elise. I had a vague idea of it. It must all be made up now and they'll be delighted to meet here.
Serena. No, she won't. She says she's sure she'll have a shock if she sees him and very gladly accepts our kind invitation because so she can avoid meeting him.
Elise. Is he coming?
Serena. I don't know yet, but I wish he were still in South Africa. Look at this: (Showing letter.) A letter from Aunt Deborah.
Elise. Yes?
Serena. Aunt Deborah had a terrible quarrel with Teddy just before he went!
Elise. Oh, that must be all made up now.
Serena. Listen! (Reading from letter.) "If I see that man I'll have a shock," and (with a despairing gesture) she very gladly accepts our invitation!

From the left-hand column we surely do learn that a before-mentioned Teddy has been in South Africa; that he and a certain Aunt Deborah have quarreled; and that though she particularly does not wish to meet Teddy, she is coming, as he is, to visit at this house—three important points. Like everyday speech, the quoted dialogue lacks compactness. Let us first, therefore, cut out all that is not absolutely necessary. We do not need, in the first speech of Elise, anything more than the query, “Yes?” The inflection will give the rest. In the second speech of Serena we can cut “to South Africa,” for we have already mentioned where Teddy has been. In the second speech of Elise, it is the words “It must be all made up now” that are important. What precedes and what follows may be omitted. Similarly, in the first and second speeches of Serena, it is the first and the third sentences which are important. The second, if given, really anticipates an effect which will be stronger later. If we change the second speech from a query to an assertion or an exclamation, we shall gain and slightly condense. It will then read, “Aunt Deborah had a terrible quarrel with Teddy just before he went!” Because we have cut the last speech of Elise, the first sentence of the next speech of Serena becomes unnecessary. It will be necessary, however, to re-phrase what remains of this final speech, so hard is it to deliver. The revised dialogue may still be poor enough, but it says all the original did in less space—that is condensation. The effect is better because we have cut out some parts, and have slightly changed others. That is selection. The slight changes have been made in order to make the sequence of ideas clearer, to suggest emotion more clearly, or to make the dialogue natural—and all that means the beginning of characterization. The final word on this dialogue is, however, that even now either speaker could utter the words of the other, and that is all wrong. Clearly, then, even in stating facts, dialogue may be bad, indifferent, and good.

The following opening of a Japanese No drama shows that even more trained writers may write dialogue with no virtue except its clearness:

TWO HEARTS

A drama by J. Mushakoji

SCENE: A forest glade on the nobleman’s estate. A cross for crucifixion in the foreground. Two men A and B standing on either side of the cross holding spears.