But good dialogue is also spiritual action.  In so far as the dramatist divorces his dialogue from spiritual action—­that is to say, from progress of events, or toward events which are significant of character—­he is stultifying the thing done; he may make pleasing disquisitions, he is not making drama.  And in so far as he twists character to suit his moral or his plot, he is neglecting a first principle, that truth to Nature which alone invests art with handmade quality.

The dramatist’s license, in fact, ends with his design.  In conception alone he is free.  He may take what character or group of characters he chooses, see them with what eyes, knit them with what idea, within the limits of his temperament; but once taken, seen, and knitted, he is bound to treat them like a gentleman, with the tenderest consideration of their mainsprings.  Take care of character; action and dialogue will take care of themselves!  The true dramatist gives full rein to his temperament in the scope and nature of his subject; having once selected subject and characters, he is just, gentle, restrained, neither gratifying his lust for praise at the expense of his offspring, nor using them as puppets to flout his audience.  Being himself the nature that brought them forth, he guides them in the course predestined at their conception.  So only have they a chance of defying Time, which is always lying in wait to destroy the false, topical, or fashionable, all—­in a word—­that is not based on the permanent elements of human nature.  The perfect dramatist rounds up his characters and facts within the ring-fence of a dominant idea which fulfils the craving of his spirit; having got them there, he suffers them to live their own lives.

Plot, action, character, dialogue!  But there is yet another subject for a platitude.  Flavour!  An impalpable quality, less easily captured than the scent of a flower, the peculiar and most essential attribute of any work of art!  It is the thin, poignant spirit which hovers up out of a play, and is as much its differentiating essence as is caffeine of coffee.  Flavour, in fine, is the spirit of the dramatist projected into his work in a state of volatility, so that no one can exactly lay hands on it, here, there, or anywhere.  This distinctive essence of a play, marking its brand, is the one thing at which the dramatist cannot work, for it is outside his consciousness.  A man may have many moods, he has but one spirit; and this spirit he communicates in some subtle, unconscious way to all his work.  It waxes and wanes with the currents of his vitality, but no more alters than a chestnut changes into an oak.

For, in truth, dramas are very like unto trees, springing from seedlings, shaping themselves inevitably in accordance with the laws fast hidden within themselves, drinking sustenance from the earth and air, and in conflict with the natural forces round them.  So they slowly come to full growth, until warped, stunted, or risen to fair and gracious height, they stand open to all the winds.  And the trees that spring from each dramatist are of different race; he is the spirit of his own sacred grove, into which no stray tree can by any chance enter.