We must not, however, forget that action itself is language.  What is called the action of a play is simply a story told by the movements of the players.  But when we see a man stabbed, or a woman kissed, our curiosity is excited.  We want to know something more about the people whose actions we see.  This, indeed, may be roughly told by gesture and facial expression, which are themselves language; but, finally, to understand more than the barest outline of the story, we are forced to demand words.  And the more we are interested in human nature the more we want to understand the thoughts, emotions, motives, characters, of the personages in action before us.  Hence by gradual steps have come our latest attempts at studies of complex characters, in their struggle to solve the problems of life; or what are objected to as “problem plays.”  Well, why object?  Every play, from Charley’s Aunt to Hamlet, is a problem play.  It is merely a matter of degree.  Every play deals with the struggle of men and women to solve some problem of life, great or small:  to outwit evil fortune.  It may be merely to persuade a couple of pretty girls to stay to luncheon in your college rooms, when their chaperon has not turned up.  It may be something more important.

The more interest the public and the dramatist take in human nature—­that is to say, the better developed they are as regards dramatic sympathy—­the more, rich, vivid, and subtle will be the play of character and passion, in the drama demanded and produced.  In a word, the less wooden-pated and wooden-hearted they become, the less mechanical and commonplace will their drama be.

We are slowly emerging from the puppet-show conception of drama.  Our dramatists are beginning to do more than refurbish the old puppets, and move them about the stage according to the rules of the “well-made” play.  They are not content, like their predecessors, to leave their characters quite at the mercy of the actor who, in “creating” them, gave them whatever small resemblance to humanity they may have possessed.  And as the play gains in vitality, the playwright begins to feel the absolute necessity for writing decent dialogue—­not mere stage dialect that may be scamped and ranted ad libitum by the “star” to suit his own taste, or want of it, but real dialogue, which, while ideally reflecting the colloquial language of the day, taxes the intelligence and feeling of the actor to deliver properly.

This means real progress; for the dialogue is the very life of the play.  It alone can bring out the essential import of the situation, the relation of character to character, at any given moment.  An action, an incident, may have a thousand different shades of meaning or motive.  Language, tone, and gesture give it its precise value.  Plot and situations are at best but the skeleton; character and emotion are the flesh and blood.  The treatment is everything.