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diff --git a/35989.txt b/35989.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0f85258 --- /dev/null +++ b/35989.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11079 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Browning and the Dramatic Monologue, by S. S. Curry + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Browning and the Dramatic Monologue + +Author: S. S. Curry + +Release Date: April 29, 2011 [EBook #35989] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BROWNING, THE DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE *** + + + + +Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at +https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images +generously made available by The Internet Archive/American +Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + +WORKS OF S. S. CURRY, PH.D., LITT.D. + +_Of eminent value._--DR. LYMAN ABBOTT. + +_Both method and spirit practically without precedent._--J. M. LEVEQUE, +Editor Morning World, New Orleans. + +PROVINCE OF EXPRESSION. A study of the general problems regarding delivery +and the principles underlying its development. $1.50; to teachers, $1.20. + +The work of a highly intellectual man who thinks and feels deeply, who is +in earnest and whose words are entitled to the most thoughtful +consideration.--WILLIAM WINTER. + +LESSONS IN VOCAL EXPRESSION. Study of the modulations of the voice as +caused by action of the mind. + +It is the best book on expression I ever read, far ahead of anything +published.--PROF. GEORGE A. VINTON, _Chicago_. + +IMAGINATION AND DRAMATIC INSTINCT. Creative action of the mind, insight, +sympathy, and assimilation in vocal expression. + +The best book ever published on elocution.--_A prominent teacher and +public reader._ + +VOCAL AND LITERARY INTERPRETATION OF THE BIBLE. + +Deserves the attention of everyone.--_The Scotsman, Edinboro._ + +Will serve to abolish "hardshell" reading where "hardshell" preaching is +no longer tolerated.--DR. LYMAN ABBOTT. + +FOUNDATIONS OF EXPRESSION. Principles and fundamental steps in the +training of the mind, body, and voice in speaking. + +"By its aid I have accomplished double the usual results." + +BROWNING AND THE DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE. Introduction to Browning's poetry and +dramatic platform art. Studies of some later phases of dramatic +expression. $1.25; to teachers, $1.10 postpaid. + +CLASSICS FOR VOCAL EXPRESSION. $1.25; to teachers, $1.10 postpaid. + +_OTHER BOOKS IN PREPARATION._ + +Join the Expression League by sending the names of three persons +interested, and information will be Sent you regarding all these books. +Address + +THE EXPRESSION LEAGUE + +Room 308, Pierce Building, Copley Sq. BOSTON, MASS. + + + + + BROWNING AND THE DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE + + NATURE AND INTERPRETATION OF AN + OVERLOOKED FORM OF LITERATURE + + + S. S. CURRY, PH.D., LITT.D. + PRESIDENT OF THE SCHOOL OF EXPRESSION + + + BOSTON + EXPRESSION COMPANY + PIERCE BUILDING, COPLEY SQUARE + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1908 + BY S. S. CURRY + + + THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A. + + + + +CONTENTS + + + PAGE + Part I + + THE MONOLOGUE AS A DRAMATIC FORM + + I. A NEW LITERARY FORM 1 + + II. THE SPEAKER 12 + + III. THE HEARER 30 + + IV. PLACE OR SITUATION 64 + + V. TIME AND CONNECTION 78 + + VI. ARGUMENT 86 + + VII. THE MONOLOGUE AS A FORM OF LITERATURE 100 + + VIII. HISTORY OF THE MONOLOGUE 113 + + + Part II + + DRAMATIC RENDERING OF THE MONOLOGUE + + IX. NECESSITY OF ORAL RENDITION 133 + + X. ACTIONS OF MIND AND VOICE 147 + + XI. ACTIONS OF MIND AND BODY 172 + + XII. THE MONOLOGUE AND METRE 195 + + XIII. DIALECT 222 + + XIV. PROPERTIES 230 + + XV. FAULTS IN RENDERING A MONOLOGUE 241 + + XVI. IMPORTANCE OF THE MONOLOGUE 248 + + XVII. SOME TYPICAL MONOLOGUES FROM BROWNING 265 + + + INDEX 305 + + + + +PART I + +THE MONOLOGUE AS A DRAMATIC FORM + + + + +I. A NEW LITERARY FORM + + +Why were the poems of Robert Browning so long unread? Why was his real +message or spirit understood by few forty years after he began to write? + +The story is told that Douglas Jerrold, when recovering from a serious +illness, opened a copy of "Sordello," which was among some new books sent +to him by a friend. Sentence after sentence brought no consecutive +thought, and at last it dawned upon him that perhaps his sickness had +wrecked his mental faculties, and he sank back on the sofa, overwhelmed +with dismay. Just then his wife and sister entered and, thrusting the book +into their hands, he eagerly demanded what they thought of it. He watched +them intently, and when at last Mrs. Jerrold exclaimed, "I do not +understand what this man means," Jerrold uttered a cry of relief, "Thank +God, I am not an idiot!" Browning, while protesting that he was not +obscure, used to tell this story with great enjoyment. + +What was the chief cause of the almost universal failure to understand +Browning? Many reasons are assigned. His themes were such as had never +before been found in poetry, his allusions and illustrations so unfamiliar +as to presuppose wide knowledge on the part of the reader; he had a very +concise and abrupt way of stating things. + +Yet, after all, were these the chief causes? Was he not obscure because he +had chosen a new or unusual dramatic form? Nearly every one of his poems +is written in the form of a monologue, which, according to Professor +Johnson, "may be termed a novelty of invention in Browning." Hence, to the +average man of a generation ago, Browning's poems were written in almost a +new language. + +This secret of the difficulty of appreciating Browning is not even yet +fully realized. There are many "Introductions" to his poems and some +valuable works on his life, yet nowhere can we find an adequate discussion +of his dramatic form, its nature, and the influence it has exerted upon +modern poetry. + +Let us endeavor to take the point of view of the average man who opened +one of Browning's volumes when first published; or let us imagine the +feeling of an ordinary reader to-day on first chancing upon such a poem as +"The Patriot." + +The average man beginning to read, "It was roses, roses," fancies he is +reading a mere story and waits for the unfolding of events, but very soon +becomes confused. Where is he? Nothing happens. Somebody is talking, but +about what? + +One who looks for mere effects and not for causes, for facts and not for +experiences, for a mere sequence of events, and not for the laying bare of +the motives and struggles of the human heart, will be apt soon to throw +the book down and turn to his daily paper to read the accounts of stocks, +fires, or murders, disgusted with the very name of Browning, if not with +poetry. + +If he look more closely, he will find a subtitle, "An Old Story," but this +confuses him still more. "Story" is evidently used in some peculiar +sense, and "old" may be used in the sense of ancient, familiar, or +oft-repeated; it may imply that certain results always follow certain +conditions. If a careful student glance through the poem, he will find + +THE PATRIOT + +AN OLD STORY + + It was roses, roses, all the way, + With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: + The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, + The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, + A year ago on this very day. + + The air broke into a mist with bells, + The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. + Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels-- + But give me your sun from yonder skies!" + They had answered "And afterward, what else?" + + Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun + To give it my loving friends to keep! + Naught man could do, have I left undone: + And you see my harvest, what I reap + This very day, now a year is run. + + There's nobody on the house-tops now-- + Just a palsied few at the windows set; + For the best of the sight is, all allow, + At the Shambles' Gate--or, better yet, + By the very scaffold's foot, I trow. + + I go in the rain, and, more than needs, + A rope cuts both my wrists behind; + And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, + For they fling, whoever has a mind, + Stones at me for my year's misdeeds. + + Thus I entered, and thus I go! + In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. + "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe + Me?"--God might question; now instead, + 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. + +that the Patriot is one who entered the city a year before, and who during +this time has done his best to secure reforms, but at the end of the year +is led forth to the scaffold. The poem pictures to us the thoughts that +stir his mind on the way to his death. He recognizes the same street, he +remembers the roses, the myrtle, the house-roofs so crowded that they seem +to heave and sway, the flags on the church spires, the bells, the +willingness of the multitude to give him even the sun; but he it is who +aimed at the impossible--to give his friends the sun. Having done all he +could, now comes his reward. There is nobody on the house-tops, and only a +few too old to go to the scaffold have crept to the windows. The great +crowd is at the gate or at the scaffold's foot. He goes in the rain, his +hands tied behind him, his forehead bleeding from the stones that are +hurled at him. The closing thought, so abruptly expressed, the most +difficult one in the poem, is a mere hint of what might have happened had +he triumphed in the world's sense of the word. He might have fallen +dead,--dead in a deeper sense than the loss of life; his soul might have +become dead to truth, to noble ideals, and to aspiration. Had he done what +men wanted him to do, he would have been paid by the world. He has +certainly not done the world's bidding, and in a few short words he +reveals his resignation, his heroism, and his sublime triumph. + + "Now instead, + 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so." + +The first line of the last stanza in the first edition of the poem +contained the word "Brescia," suggesting a reference to the reformer +Arnold. But Browning later omitted "Brescia," because the poem was not +meant to be in any sense historical, but rather to represent the reformer +of every age whose ideals are misunderstood and whose noblest work is +rewarded by death. "History," said Aristotle, "tells what Alcibiades did, +poetry what he ought to have done." "The Patriot" is not a matter-of-fact +narrative, but a revelation of human experience. + +The reader must approach such a poem as a work of art. Sympathetic and +contemplative attention must be given to it as an entirety. Then point +after point, idea after idea, will become clear and vivid, and at last the +whole will be intensely realized. + +For another example of Browning's short poems take "A Woman's Last Word." + +Suppose one tries to read this as if it were an ordinary lyric. One is +sure to be greatly confused as to its meaning. What is it all about? The +words are simple enough, and while the ordinary man recognizes this, he is +all the more perplexed. Perceiving certain merits, he exclaims, "If a man +can write such beautiful individual lines, why does he not make his whole +story clear and simple?" + +If, however, one will meditate over the whole, take hints here and there +and put them together, a distinct picture is slowly formed in the mind. A +wife, whose husband demands that she explain to him something in her past +life, is speaking. She has perhaps loved some one before him, and his +curiosity or jealousy is aroused. The poem really constitutes her appeal +to his higher nature and her insistence upon the sacredness of their +present relation, which she fears words may profane. She does not even +fully understand the past herself. To explain would be false to him, hence +with love and tenderness she pleads for delay. Yet she promises to speak +his "speech," but "to-morrow, not to-night." Perhaps she hopes that his +mood will change; possibly she feels that he is not now in the right +attitude of mind to understand or sympathize with her experiences. + +A WOMAN'S LAST WORD + + Let's contend no more, Love, + Strive nor weep: + All be as before, Love, + --Only sleep! + + What so wild as words are? + I and thou + In debate, as birds are, + Hawk on bough! + + See the creature stalking + While we speak! + Hush and hide the talking, + Cheek on cheek. + + What so false as truth is, + False to thee? + Where the serpent's tooth is, + Shun the tree-- + + Where the apple reddens, + Never pry-- + Lest we lose our Edens, + Eve and I. + + Be a god and hold me + With a charm! + Be a man and fold me + With thine arm! + + Teach me, only teach, Love! + As I ought + I will speak thy speech, Love, + Think thy thought-- + + Meet, if thou require it, + Both demands + Laying flesh and spirit + In thy hands. + + That shall be to-morrow, + Not to-night: + I must bury sorrow + Out of sight: + + --Must a little weep, Love, + (Foolish me!) + And so fall asleep, Love, + Loved by thee. + +In this poem a most delicate relation between two human beings is +interpreted. Short though it is, it yet goes deeper into motives, +concentrates attention more energetically upon one point of view, and is +possibly more impressive than if the theme had been unfolded in a play or +novel. It turns the listener or reader within himself, and he feels in his +own breast the response to her words. + +All great art discharges its function by evoking imagination and feeling, +but it is not always the intellectual meaning which first appears. + +However far apart these two poems may be in spirit or subject, there are +certain characteristics common to them; they are both monologues. + +The monologue, as Browning has exemplified it, is one end of a +conversation. A definite speaker is conceived in a definite, dramatic +situation. Usually we find also a well-defined listener, though his +character is understood entirely from the impression he produces upon the +speaker. We feel that this listener has said something and that his +presence and character influence the speaker's thought, words, and manner. +The conversation does not consist of abstract remarks, but takes place in +a definite situation as a part of human life. + +We must realize the situation, the speaker, the hearer, before the meaning +can become clear; and it is the failure to do this which has caused many +to find Browning obscure. + +For example, observe Browning's "Confessions." + +CONFESSIONS + + What is he buzzing in my ears? + "Now that I come to die, + Do I view the world as a vale of tears?" + Ah, reverend sir, not I! + + What I viewed there once, what I view again + Where the physic bottles stand + On the table's edge,--is a suburb lane, + With a wall to my bedside hand. + + That lane sloped, much as the bottles do, + From a house you could descry + O'er the garden-wall: is the curtain blue + Or green to a healthy eye? + + To mine, it serves for the old June weather + Blue above lane and wall; + And that farthest bottle labelled "Ether" + Is the house o'er-topping all. + + At a terrace, somewhere near the stopper, + There watched for me, one June, + A girl: I know, sir, it's improper, + My poor mind's out of tune. + + Only, there was a way ... you crept + Close by the side, to dodge + Eyes in the house, two eyes except: + They styled their house "The Lodge." + + What right had a lounger up their lane? + But, by creeping very close, + With the good wall's help,--their eyes might strain + And stretch themselves to Oes, + + Yet never catch her and me together, + As she left the attic, there, + By the rim of the bottle labelled "Ether," + And stole from stair to stair, + + And stood by the rose-wreathed gate. Alas, + We loved, sir--used to meet: + How sad and bad and mad it was-- + But then, how it was sweet! + +Here, evidently, the speaker, who has "come to die," has been aroused by +some "reverend sir," who has been expostulating with him and uttering +conventional phrases about the vanity of human life. Such superficial +pessimism awakens protest, and the dying man remonstrates in the words of +the poem. + +The speaker is apparently in bed and hardly believes himself fully +possessed of his senses. He even asks if the curtain is "green or blue to +a healthy eye," as if he feared to trust his judgment, lest it be +perverted by disease. + +An abrupt beginning is very characteristic of a monologue, and when given +properly, the first words arrest attention and suggest the situation. + +After the speaker's bewildered repetition of the visitor's words and his +blunt answer "not I," which says such views are not his own, he talks of +his "bedside hand," turns a row of bottles into a street, and tells of the +sweetest experience of his life. He refuses to say that it was not sweet; +he will not allow an abnormal condition such as his sickness to determine +his views of life. The result is an introspection of the deeper hope found +in the heart of man. + +The poem is not an essay or a sermon, it is not the lyric expression of a +mood; it portrays the conflict of individual with individual and reveals +the deepest motives of a character. It is not a dialogue, but only one end +of a conversation, and for this reason it more intensely and definitely +focuses attention. We see deeper into the speaker's spirit and view of +life, while we recognize the superficiality of the creed of his visitor. +The monologue thus is dramatic. It interprets human experience and +character. + +No one who intelligently reads Browning can fail to realize that he was a +dramatic poet; in fact he was the first, if not the only, English dramatic +poet of the nineteenth century. With his deep insight into the life of his +age, as well as his grasp of character, he was the one master whose +writing was needed for the drama of that century; yet he early came into +conflict with the modern stage and ceased to write plays before he had +mastered the play as a work of art. + +He was, however, by nature so dramatic in his point of view that he could +never be anything else than a dramatic poet. Hence, he was led to invent, +or adopt, a dramatic form different from the play. From the midst of the +conflict between poet and stage, between writer and stage artist, the +monologue was evolved, or at least recognized and completed as an +objective dramatic form. + +Any study of the monologue must thus centre attention upon Browning. As +Shakespeare reigns the supreme master of the play, so Browning has no peer +in the monologue. Others have followed him in its use, but his monologues +remain the most numerous, varied, and expressive. + +The development of the monologue, in some sense, is connected with the +struggles of the modern stage to express the conditions of modern life. A +great change has taken place in human experience. In modern civilization +the conflicts and complex struggles of human character are usually hidden. +Men and women now conceal their emotions. Self-control and repression form +a part of the civilized ideal. Men no longer shed tears in public as did +Homer's heroes. In our day, a man who is injured does not avenge himself, +or if he does he rarely retains the sympathy of his fellow-men. On the +contrary, the person wronged now turns over his wronger to the law; +conflicts of man with man are fought out in the courts, and a well-ordered +government inflicts punishment and rights wrongs. + +All modern life and experience have become more subjective; hence, it is +natural that dramatic art should change its form. Let no one suppose, +however, that this change marks the death of dramatic representation. +Dramatic art in some shape is necessary as a means of expression in every +age. It has become more subtle and suggestive, but it is none the less +dramatic. + +An important phase of the changes in the character of dramatic art is the +recognition of the monologue. The adoption of this form shows the tendency +of dramatic art to adapt itself to modern times. + +The dramatic monologue, however, did not arise in opposition to the play, +but as a new and parallel aspect of dramatic art. It has not the same +theme as the play, does not deal with the expression of human life in +movement or the complex struggles of human beings with each other, but it +reveals the struggle in the depths of the soul. It exhibits the dramatic +attitude of mind or the point of view. It is more subjective, more +intense, and also more suggestive than the play. It reveals motives and +character by a flash to an awakened imagination. + +However this new dramatic form may be explained, whatever may be its +character, there is hardly a book of poetry that has appeared in recent +years that does not contain examples. Many popular writers, it may be +unconsciously, employ this form almost to the exclusion of all others. The +name itself occurs rarely in English books; but the name is nothing,--the +monologue is there. + +The presence of the form of the monologue before its full recognition is a +proof that it is natural and important. Forms of art are not invented; +they are rather discovered. They are direct languages; each expresses +something no other can say. If the monologue is a distinct literary form, +then it possesses certain possibilities in expressing the human spirit +which are peculiar to itself. It must say something that nothing else can +say so well. Its use by Browning, and the greater and greater frequency of +its adoption among recent writers, seems to prove the necessity of a +careful study of its peculiarities, possibilities, and rendition. + + + + +II. THE SPEAKER + + +What is there peculiar about the monologue? Can its nature or structure be +so explained that a seemingly difficult poem, such as a monologue by +Browning, may be made clear and forcible? + +In the first place, one should note that the monologue gets its unity from +the character of the speaker. It is not merely an impersonal thought, but +the expression of one individual to another. It was Hegel, I think, who +said that all art implies the expression of a truth, of a thought or +feeling, to a person. + +In nature we find everywhere a spontaneous unfolding, as in the blooming +of a flower. There is no direct presentation of a truth to the +apprehension of some particular mind; no modification of it by the +character, the prejudice, or the feeling of the speaker. The lily unfolds +its loveliness, but does not adapt the time or the direction of its +blooming to dominate the attention of some indifferent observer, or +express its message so definitely and pointedly as to be more easily +understood. + +Man, however, rarely, if ever, expresses a truth without a personal +coloring due to his own character and the character of the listener. The +same truth uttered by different persons appears different. Occasionally a +little child, or a man with a childlike nature, may think in a blind, +natural way without adapting truth to other minds; but such direct, +spontaneous, and truthful expression is extremely rare. It is one of the +most important functions of art to teach us the fact that there is always +"an intervention of personality," which needs to be realized in its +specific interpretation. + +The monologue is a study of the effect of mind upon mind, of the +adaptation of the ideas of one individual to another, and of the +revelation this makes of the characters of speaker and listener. + +The nature of the monologue will be best understood by comparing it with +some of the literary forms which it resembles, or with which it is often +unconsciously confused. + +On account of the fact that there is but one speaker, it has been confused +with oratory. A monologue is often conceived as a kind of stilted +conversational oration; and the word monologue is apt to call to mind some +talker, like Coleridge, who monopolized the whole conversation. + +A monologue, however, is not a speech. An oration is the presentation of +truth to an audience by a personality. There is some purpose at stake; the +speaker must strengthen convictions and cause decisions on some point at +issue. But a monologue is not an address to an audience; it is a study of +character, of the processes of thinking in one individual as moulded by +the presence of some other personality. Its theme is not merely the +thought uttered, but primarily the character of the speaker, who +consciously or unconsciously unfolds himself. + +Again, the monologue has been confused with the lyric poem. Browning +called one of his volumes "Dramatic Lyrics"; another, "Dramatic Idyls"; +and another, "Dramatic Romances and Lyrics." Though many monologues are +lyric in spirit, they are more frequently dramatic. + +A lyric is the utterance of an individual intensely realizing a specific +situation, and implies deep feeling. But the monologue may or may not be +emotional. No doubt it may result from as intense a realization as the +lyric poem. It resembles a lyric in being simple and in being usually +short, but is unlike it in that its theme is chiefly dramatic, its +interest indirect, and that it lays bare to a far greater degree human +motives in certain situations and under the ruling forces of a life. + +The monologue is like a lyric also in that it must be recognized as a +complete whole. Each clause must be understood in relation to others as a +part of the whole. An essay can be understood sentence after sentence. A +story gives a sequence of events for their own sake. A discussion may +consist of a mere recital or succession of facts. In all these the whole +is built up part by part. But the monologue differs from all these in that +the whole must be felt from the beginning. + +Further, in the monologue ideas are not given directly, as in the story or +essay, but usually the more important points are suggested indirectly. The +attention of the reader or hearer is focussed upon a living human being. +What is said is not necessarily a universal and impersonal truth, it is +the opinion of a certain type of man. We judge what is said by the +character of the speaker, by the person to whom he speaks, and by the +occasion. + +Mr. Furnivall may prefer to have every man speak directly from the +shoulder and may write slightingly of such an indirect way of stating a +truth as we find in the monologue. We may all prefer, or think we do, the +direct way of speaking,--a sermon or lecture, for example,--and dislike +what Edmund Spenser called a "dark conceit"; but soon or late we shall +agree with Spenser, the master of allegory, that the artistic method is +"more interesting," and that example is better than precept. + +The monologue is one of the examples of the indirect method common to all +art--a method which is necessary on account of the peculiarities of human +nature. One person finds it difficult to explain a truth directly to +another. Nine-tenths of every picture is the product, not of perception, +but of apperception. Hence, without the aid of art, we express in words +only half truths. The monologue makes human expression more adequate. It +is like a nut; the shell must be penetrated before we can find the kernel. +The real truth of the monologue comes only after comprehension of the +whole. It reserves its truth until the thought has slowly grown in the +mind of the hearer. It holds back something until all parts are +co-ordinated and "does the thing shall breed the thought." Accordingly, +there are many things to settle in a monologue before the truth it +contains can possibly be realized. + +In the first place, we must decide who the speaker is, what is his +character, and the specific attitude of his mind. It is not merely the +thought uttered that makes the impression. As a picture is something +between a thought and a thing, not an idea on the one hand nor an object +on the other, but a union of the two, so the monologue unites a truth or +idea with the personality that utters it. An idea, a fact, may be +valuable, but it becomes clear and impressive to some human consciousness +only by being united with a human soul, and stated from one point of view +and with the force of an individual life. + +The story of Count Gismond, for example, is told by the woman he saved +from disgrace, who loves him of all men, and who is now his wife. We feel +the whole story colored by her gratitude, devotion, and tenderness. The +reader must conceive the character of the speaker, and enter into the +depths of her motives, before understanding the thought; but after he has +done so, he receives a clearer and more forcible impression than is +otherwise possible. + +The stories of Sam Lawson by Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe are essentially +monologues. In Professor Churchill's rendering of them the peculiarities +of this Yankee were truly shown to be the chief centre of interest. As we +realize the spirit of these stories, we easily imagine ourselves on the +"shady side of a blueberry pasture," listening to Sam talking to a group +of boys, or possibly to only one boy, and our interest centres in the +revelation of the working of his mind. His repose, his indifference to +work, his insight into human nature, his quaint humor and sympathy, are +the chief causes of the pleasure given by these stories. + +Possibly the letter is the literary form nearest to the monologue. We can +easily see why. A good letter writer is dominated by his attention to one +individual. The peculiar character of that individual is ever before him. +The intimacy and abandon of the writer in pouring out his deepest thoughts +is due to the sympathetic, confidential, conversational attitude of one +human being to another. + +"Blessed be letters!" said Donald G. Mitchell. "They are the monitors, +they are also the comforters, they are the only true heart-talkers." There +is, however, a great difference between letters and conversation. In +conversation "your truest thought is modified during its utterance by a +look, a sign, a smile, or a sneer. It is not individual; it is not +integral; it is social, and marks half of you and half of others. It +bends, it sways, it multiplies, it retires, it advances, as the talk of +others presses, relaxes, or quickens." + +This effect of others upon the speaker is especially expressed in the +monologue, particularly in examples of a popular and humorous character. + +While the monologue is the accentuation of some specific attitude of one +human being as modified by contact with another, in a letter the attitude +toward the other person is usually prolonged, due to past relationship; is +more subjective, and expressed without any change caused by the presence +of the person addressed. In some very animated letters, however, the +attitude of the future reader's mind is anticipated or realized by the +writer, and there is more or less of an approximation to the monologue. At +any rate, this realization of what the other will think colors the +composition. Letters are animated in proportion as they possess this +dramatic character, and are at times practically monologues. + +The skilful writer of a monologue omits obscure references in words to the +sneers and looks of the hearer, except those which directly change the +current of the speaker's thought. All must centre in the impression made +upon the character speaking. In conversation, at times, a talker becomes +more or less oblivious of his companion, yet the presence of his listener +all the time affects the attitude of his mind. + +If we render a letter artistically to a company of people, we necessarily +turn it into a monologue. We read the letter with the person in our mind, +as a listener, to whom it is directed. We do not give its deeper ideas and +personal or dramatic suggestions to a company as a speech. + +It is not surprising to find many monologues in epistolary form. +Browning's "Cleon," in which is so truly presented the spirit of the +Greeks,--to whom Paul spoke and wrote and among whom he worked,--is a +letter written by Cleon, a Greek poet, to King Protus, his friend. Protus +has written to Cleon concerning the opinions held by one Paulus, a rumor +of whose preaching of the doctrine of immortality has reached him. "An +epistle containing the strange Medical Experiments of Karshish, the Arab +Physician," is a letter from Karshish to his old teacher describing the +strange case of Lazarus with an account of an interview with him after he +had risen from the dead. + +This poem illustrates also the fact that a monologue may not be on the +personal plane. Browning is seemingly the only writer in English who has +been able to present a character completely negative, or one without +personal relations to the events. The character in this poem has a purely +scientific attribute of mind and looks upon this event from a purely +neutral point of view. It is only to him a curious case. By this method, +the deeper significance may be given to the events while at the same time +accentuating a peculiar type of mind, or it may be a rare moment in the +life of nearly every individual. This poem is accordingly very interesting +from a psychological point of view. It illustrates the scientific temper. +The French have many examples of such writers, but Browning gives the +best,--in fact almost the only illustration in English literature. + +"The Biglow Papers," by Lowell, though in the form of letters, are really +dramatic monologues. Each character is made to speak dramatically or in +his own peculiar way. The chief interest of every one of these poems +centres in the character speaking. The mental action is sustained +consistently; the dramatic completeness, the definite point of view, and +the dialect, enable us to picture the peculiar characters who think and +feel, live and move, talk and act for our enjoyment. + +The monologue, accordingly, is nearer to the dialogue than to a letter. +The differences between the dialogue and the monologue are the chief +differences between the monologue and the play. In a dialogue there is a +constant and immediate effect of another personality upon the speaker. The +same is true of the monologue. The speaker of the monologue must +accentuate the effect of his interlocutor as flexibly and freely as in the +case of the dialogue. In the dialogue, however, the speaker and the +listener change places; the monologue has but one speaker, and can only +suggest the views or character of a listener by revealing some impression +produced upon the speaker while in the act of speaking. This makes pauses +and expressive modulations of the voice even more necessary in the +monologue than in the dialogue. + +Yet the mere fact that a poem or literary work has but one speaker does +not make it a monologue; it may be a speech. Burns's "For A' That and A' +That" is a speech. Matthew Arnold may not be quite fair when he says that +it is mere preaching, that Burns was not sincere, and that we find the +real Burns in "The Jolly Beggars." Still, all must feel in reading it that +Burns is exhorting others and railing a little at the world, but not +revealing a character unconsciously or indirectly, through contact with +either a man of another type, or through the exigencies of a given +situation. Burns is boasting a little and asserting his independence. + +The monologue demands not only a speaker, but a speaker in such a +situation as will cause him to reveal himself unconsciously and +indirectly, and such a moment as will lay bare his deepest motives. He +must speak also in a natural, lifelike way. There must be no suggestion of +a platform, no conscious presentation of truth for a definite end, as with +the orator. + +It is a peculiar fact that the most difficult of all things is to tell the +truth. Every man "knows a good many things that are not so." For every +affirmation of importance, we demand witnesses. Whenever a man speaks, we +look into his character, into the living, natural languages which are +unconscious witnesses of the depth of his earnestness and sincerity. Even +in every-day life men judge of truth by character. What a man is, always +colors, if it does not determine, what he says. But the essence of the +monologue is to bring what a man says and what he is into harmony. + +The interpreter of a monologue must be true to the character of the +speaker. He must faithfully portray, not his own, but the attitude and +bearing, feelings and impression, of this character. Every normal person +would greatly admire the beauties of "the villa," but the "Italian person +of quality," in Browning's monologue, feels for it great contempt. + +In Browning's "Youth and Art" we feel continually the point of view, the +feeling, and the character of the speaker. + +YOUTH AND ART + + It once might have been, once only: + We lodged in a street together, + You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely, + I, a lone she-bird of his feather. + + Your trade was with sticks and clay, + You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished, + Then laughed, "They will see, some day, + Smith made, and Gibson demolished." + + My business was song, song, song; + I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered, + "Kate Brown's on the boards ere long, + And Grisi's existence imbittered!" + + I earned no more by a warble + Than you by a sketch in plaster: + You wanted a piece of marble, + I needed a music-master. + + We studied hard in our styles, + Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos, + For air, looked out on the tiles, + For fun, watched each other's windows. + + You lounged, like a boy of the South, + Cap and blouse--nay, a bit of beard, too; + Or you got it, rubbing your mouth + With fingers the clay adhered to. + + And I--soon managed to find + Weak points in the flower-fence facing, + Was forced to put up a blind + And be safe in my corset-lacing. + + No harm! It was not my fault + If you never turned your eye's tail up + As I shook upon E _in alt._, + Or ran the chromatic scale up; + + For spring bade the sparrows pair, + And the boys and girls gave guesses, + And stalls in our street looked rare + With bulrush and water-cresses. + + Why did not you pinch a flower + In a pellet of clay and fling it? + Why did not I put a power + Of thanks in a look, or sing it? + + I did look, sharp as a lynx + (And yet the memory rankles) + When models arrived, some minx + Tripped up stairs, she and her ankles. + + But I think I gave you as good! + "That foreign fellow--who can know + How she pays, in a playful mood, + For his tuning her that piano?" + + Could you say so, and never say, + "Suppose we join hands and fortunes, + And I fetch her from over the way, + Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?" + + No, no; you would not be rash, + Nor I rasher and something over: + You've to settle yet Gibson's hash, + And Grisi yet lives in clover. + + But you meet the Prince at the Board. + I'm queen myself at _bals-pares_, + I've married a rich old lord, + And you're dubbed knight and an R. A. + + Each life's unfulfilled, you see; + It hangs still patchy and scrappy; + We have not sighed deep, laughed free, + Starved, feasted, despaired,--been happy. + + And nobody calls you a dunce, + And people suppose me clever; + This could but have happened once, + And we missed it, lost it forever. + +The theme is the dream and experience of two lovers. The speaker is +married to a rich old lord, and her lover of other days, a sculptor, is +"dubbed knight and an R. A." Stirred by her youthful dreams, or it may be +by the meeting of her lover in society, or possibly in imagination,--as a +queen of "_bals-pares_" would hardly talk to a "knight and an R. A." in +this frank manner,--it is the woman who breaks forth suddenly with the +dream of her old love-- + + "It once might have been, once only,"-- + +and relates the story of the days when they were both young students, she +of singing and he of sculpture, and describes, or lightly caricatures, +their experience. Is her laughter, as she goes on in such a playful mood +describing the different events of their lives, an endeavor to conceal a +hidden pain? Has she grown worldly minded, sneering at every youthful +dream, even her own, or is she awakening from this worldly point of view +to a realization at last of "life unfulfilled"? + +Browning, instead of an abstract discussion, presents in an artistic form +an important truth, that he who lives for the world does not live at all. +By introducing this woman to us in a serious attitude of mind, reflecting +on the one hand a worldly mood, on the other the deep, abiding love of a +true woman, he makes the desired impression. The last line throbs with +deep emotion, and we feel how slowly and sadly she would acknowledge the +failure of life: + + "And we missed it, lost it forever." + +Browning's "Caliban upon Setebos" furnishes a forcible illustration of the +importance of the speaker and the necessity of preserving his character +and point of view in the monologue. "'Will sprawl" begins a long +parenthesis which implies the first intention of Caliban to lie flat in +"the pit's much mire." He describes definitely the position he likes "in +the cool slush." The words express Caliban's feelings at his noonday rest +and the position he takes for enjoyment. He has not yet risen to the +dignity of the consciousness of the ego. He does not use the pronoun "I" +or the possessive "my." His verbs are impersonal,--"'Will sprawl," not "I +will sprawl,"--and he + + "Talks to his own self, howe'er he please, + Touching that other whom his dam called God." + +He lies down in this position to have a good "think" regarding his "dam's +God, Setebos." Notice the continual recurrence of the impersonal +"thinketh" without any subject. Here we have a most humorous but really +profound meditation of such a creature with all the elements of "natural +theology in the island." The subheading before the monologue, "Thou +thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself," indicates the +current of Browning's ideas. + +When we have once pictured Caliban definitely in our minds with his +"saith" and "thinketh," we perceive the analogy which he establishes after +the manner of men between his own low nature and that of deity. + +To read such a work without a definite conception of the character +talking, makes utter nonsense of the reading. Every sentiment and feeling +in the poem regarding God is dramatic. However deep or profound the lesson +conveyed, it is entirely indirect. + +How different is the story of the glove and King Francis, as treated by +Leigh Hunt, from its interpretation by Browning! Leigh Hunt centres +everything in the sequence of events and the simple statement of facts. + + "King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, + And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court." + +But Browning! He chooses a distinct character, Peter Ronsard, a poet, to +tell the story, and adopts a totally different point of view, centring all +in the speaker's justification of the woman who threw the glove. +Practically the same facts are told; even the King's words are almost +identical with those given by Hunt: + + "'Twas mere vanity, + Not love, set that task to humanity!" + +and he gives the ordinary point of view: + + "Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing + From such a proved wolf in sheep's clothing." + +But human character and motive is given a deeper interpretation and the +poet does not accept their views: + + "Not so, I; for I caught the expression + In her brow's undisturbed self-possession + Amid the court's scoffing and merriment;-- + As if from no pleasing experiment, + She rose, yet of pain not much heedful + So long as the process was needful." + +The poet followed her and asked what it all meant, and if she did not wish +to recall her rash deed. + + "For I, so I spoke, am a poet, + Human nature,--behooves that I know it!" + +So he tells you she explained that he had vowed and boasted what he would +do, and she felt that she would put him to the test. Browning represents +her as rejecting Delorge, whose admiration was shown by this incident to +be superficial, and as marrying a humble but true-hearted lover. + +"The Ring and the Book" illustrates possibly more amply than any other +poem the peculiar dramatic force of the monologue. + +The story, out of which is built a poem twice as long as "Paradise Lost," +can be told in a few words. Guido, a nobleman of Arezzo, poor, but of +noble family, has sought advancement at the Papal Court. Embittered by +failure, he resolves to establish himself by marriage with an heiress, and +makes an offer for Pompilia, an innocent girl of sixteen, the only child +of parents supposed to be wealthy. The father, Pietro, refuses the offer, +but the mother arranges a secret marriage, and Pietro accepts the +situation. The old couple put all their property into the hands of the +son-in-law and go with him to Arezzo. The marriage proves unhappy, and +Guido robs and persecutes the old people until they return poor to Rome. +The mother then makes the unexpected revelation that Pompilia is not her +child. She had bought her, and Pietro and the world believe that she was +her own. On this account they seek to recover Pompilia's dowry. Pompilia +suffers outrageous treatment from her husband, who wishes to be rid of her +and yet keep her property, and lays all kinds of snares in the endeavor to +drive her away. She at length flees, and is aided in so doing by a +noble-hearted priest. On the road they are overtaken by the husband, who +starts proceedings for a divorce at Rome. The divorce is refused, but the +wife is placed in mild imprisonment, though later she is allowed to return +to her so-called parents, in whose home she gives birth to a son. Guido +now tries to get possession of the child, as, by this means he secures all +rights to the property. With some hirelings he goes to the lonely house, +and murders Pompilia and her parents. Pompilia does not die immediately, +but lives to give her testimony against her husband. Guido flees, is +arrested on Roman territory, and is tried and condemned to death. An +appeal is made to the Pope, who confirms the sentence. + +This story is told ten or twelve times, all interest centring in the +characters of the speakers, in their points of view and attitudes of mind. +More fully, perhaps, than any other poem, "The Ring and the Book" shows +that every one in relating the simplest events or facts gives a coloring +to the truth of his character. + +In Book I Browning speaks in his own character, and states the facts and +how the story came into his hands. In Book II, called "Half-Rome," a +Roman, more or less in sympathy with the husband, tells the story. In Book +III, styled "The Other Half-Rome," one in sympathy with the wife tells the +story. In Book IV, called "Tertium Quid," a society gentleman, who prides +himself on his critical acumen, tells the story in a drawing-room. Each +speaker in these monologues has a character of his own, and the facts are +strongly colored according to his nature and point of view. In Book V +Guido makes his defence before the judges. He is a criminal defending +himself, and puts facts in such a way as to justify his actions. In Book +VI the priest who assisted Pompilia to escape passionately proclaims the +lofty motives which actuated Pompilia and himself. In Book VII Pompilia, +on her deathbed, gives her testimony, telling the story with intense +pathos. In Book VIII a lawyer, with all the ingenuity of his profession, +speaks in defence of Guido, but without touching upon the merits of the +case. In Book IX Pompilia's advocate, endeavoring to display his fine +cultured style, gives a legal justification of her course. In Book X the +Pope decides against Guido, and gives the reasons for this decision. Book +XI is Guido's last confession as a condemned man; here his character is +still more definitely unfolded. He tries to bribe his guards; though still +defiant, he shows his base, cowardly nature at the close, and ends his +final weak and chaotic appeal by calling on Pompilia, thus giving the +highest testimony possible to the purity and sweetness of the woman he +murdered: + + "Don't open! Hold me from them! I am yours, + I am the Granduke's--no, I am the Pope's! + Abate,--Cardinal,--Christ,--Maria,--God, ... + Pompilia, will you let them murder me?" + +In his defence he was concealing his real deeds and character, and +justifying himself. In this book he reveals himself with great frankness. + +In Book XII the case is given as it fades into history, and the poem +closes with a lesson regarding the function or necessity of art in telling +truth. + +"The Ring and the Book" affords perhaps the highest example of the value +of the monologue as a form of art. Men who have only one point of view are +always "cranks,"--able, that is, to turn only one way. A preacher who can +appreciate only the point of view of his own denomination will never get +very near the truth. The statesman who declares "there is but one side to +a question" may sometime by his narrowness assist in plunging his country +into a great war. No man can help his fellows if unable to see things from +their point of view. "The Ring and the Book" shows every speaker coloring +the truth unconsciously by his own character, and Browning, by putting the +same facts in the mouths of different persons, enables us to discover the +personal element. + +This is the specific function of the monologue. It artistically interprets +truth by interpreting the soul that realizes it. This excites interest in +the speaker and shows its dramatic character. + +Browning, by its aid, interprets peculiarities of human nature before +unnoticed. Dramatic instinct is given a new literary form and expression. +Human nature receives a profounder interpretation. We are made more +teachable and sympathetic. The monologue exhibits one person drawing quick +conclusions, another meeting doubt with counter-doubt, or still another +calmly weighing evidences; it occupies many points of view, thus giving a +clearer perception of truth through the mirror of human character. + + + + +III. THE HEARER + + +To comprehend the spirit of the monologue demands a clear conception, not +only of the character of the speaker, but also of the person addressed. +The hearer is often of as great importance to the meaning of a monologue +as is the person speaking. + +It is a common blunder to consider dramatic instinct as concerned only +with a speaker. Nearly every one regards it as the ability to "act a +character," to imitate the action or the speech of some particular +individual. But this conception is far too narrow. The dramatic instinct +is primarily concerned with insight into character, with problems of +imagination, and with sympathy. By it we realize another's point of view +or attitude of mind towards a truth or situation, and identify ourselves +sympathetically with character. + +Dramatic instinct is necessary to all human endeavor. It is as necessary +for the orator as it is for the actor. While it is true that the speaker +must be himself and must succeed by the vigor of his own personality, and +that the actor must succeed through "fidelity of portraiture," still the +orator must be able not only to say the right word, but to know when he +says it, and this ability results only from dramatic instinct. The actor +needs more of the personating instinct or insight into motives of +character; the speaker, more insight into the conditions of human thought +and feeling. + +While one function of dramatic instinct is the ability to identify one's +self with another, it is much easier to identify one's self with the +speaker than with the listener. Even on the stage the most difficult task +for the actor is to listen in character; that is, to receive impressions +from the standpoint of the character he is representing. + +Possibly the fundamental element in dramatic instinct is the ability to +occupy a point of view, to see a truth as another sees it. This shows why +dramatic instinct is the foundation of success. It enables a teacher to +know whether his student is at the right point of view to apprehend a +truth, or in the proper attitude of mind towards a subject. It tells him +when he has made a truth understood. It gives the speaker power to adapt +and to illustrate his truth to others, and to see things from his hearers' +point of view. It gives the writer power to impress his reader. Even the +business man must intuitively perceive the point of view and the mental +attitude of those with whom he deals. + +Dramatic instinct as applied to listening on the stage, and everywhere, is +apt to be overlooked. It is comparatively easy when quoting some one to +stand at his point of view and to imitate his manner, or to contrast the +differences between a number of speakers; but a higher type of dramatic +power is exhibited in the ability to put ourselves in the place and +receive the impressions of some specific type of listener. + +The speeches of different characters are given formally and successively +in a drama. Hence, the writer of a play, or the actor, is apt to centre +attention, when speaking, upon the character, without reference to the +shape his thought takes from what the other character has said, and +especially from those attitudes or actions of the other character which +are not revealed by words. The same is true in the novel, and even in epic +poetry. True dramatic instinct in any form demands that the speaker show +not only his own thought and motive by his words, but that of the +character he is portraying, and the influence produced upon him at the +instant by the thought and character of the listener. + +While the dialogue is not the only form of dramatic art, still its study +is required for the understanding of the monologue, or almost any aspect +of dramatic expression. The very name "dialogue" implies a listener and a +speaker who are continually changing places. The listener indicates by his +face and by actions of the body his impression, his attention, the effect +upon him of the words of the speaker, his objection or approval. Thus he +influences the speaker in shaping his ideas and choosing his words. + +In the monologue the speaker must suggest the character of both speaker +and listener and interpret the relation of one human being to another. He +must show, as he speaks, the impression he receives from the manner in +which his listener is affected by what he is saying. A public reader, or +impersonator, of all the characters of a play must perform a similar +feat; he must represent each character not only as speaker, but show that +he has just been a listener and received an impression or stimulus from +another; otherwise he cannot suggest any true dramatic action. + +In the monologue, as in all true dramatic representation, the listener as +well as the speaker must be realized as continuously living and thinking. +The listener, though he utters not a word, must be conceived from the +effect he makes upon the speaker, in order to perceive the argument as +well as the situation and point of view. + +The necessity of realizing a listener is one of the most important points +to be noted in the study of the monologue. Take, as an illustration, +Browning's "Incident of the French Camp." + +INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP + + You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: + A mile or so away, + On a little mound, Napoleon + Stood on our storming day; + With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, + Legs wide, arms locked behind, + As if to balance the prone brow + Oppressive with its mind. + + Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans + That soar, to earth may fall, + Let once my army-leader Lannes + Waver at yonder wall,"-- + Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew + A rider, bound on bound + Full galloping; nor bridle drew + Until he reached the mound. + + Then off there flung in smiling joy, + And held himself erect + By just his horse's mane, a boy: + You hardly could suspect-- + (So tight he kept his lips compressed, + Scarce any blood came through) + You looked twice ere you saw his breast + Was all but shot in two. + + "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace + We've got you Ratisbon! + The Marshal's in the market-place, + And you'll be there anon + To see your flag-bird flap his wings + Where I, to heart's desire, + Perched him!" The Chief's eye flashed; his plans + Soared up again like fire. + + The Chief's eye flashed; but presently + Softened itself, as sheathes + A film the mother-eagle's eye + When her bruised eaglet breathes: + "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride + Touched to the quick, he said: + "I'm killed, Sire!" And, his Chief beside, + Smiling the boy fell dead. + +I have heard prominent public readers give this as a mere story without +affording any definite conception of either speaker or listener. In the +first reading over of the poem, one may find no hint of either. But the +student catches the phrase "we French," and at once sees that a Frenchman +must be speaking. He soon discovers that the whole poem is colored by the +feeling of some old soldier of Napoleon who was either an eye-witness of +the scene or who knew Napoleon's bearing so well that he could easily +picture it to his imagination. The poem now becomes a living thing, and +its interpretation by voice and action is rendered possible. But is this +all? To whom does the soldier speak? The listener seems entirely in the +background. This is wise, because the other in telling his story would +naturally lose himself in his memories and grow more or less oblivious of +his hearer. But the conception of a sympathetic auditor is needed to +quicken the fervor and animation of the speaker. Does not the phrase "we +French" imply that the listener is another Frenchman whose patriotic +enthusiasm responds to the story? The short phrases, and suggestive hints +through the poem, are thus explained. The speaker seems to imply that +Napoleon's bearing is well known to his listener. Certainly upon the +conception of such a speaker and such a hearer depends the spirit, +dramatic force, and even thought of the poem. + +I have chosen this illustration purposely, because, of all monologues, +this lays possibly the least emphasis on a listener; yet it cannot be +adequately rendered by the voice, or even properly conceived in thought, +without a distinct realization of such a person. + +In Browning's "Rabbi Ben Ezra," the speaker is an old man. "Grow old along +with me!" indicates this, and we feel his age and experience all through +the poem. But without the presence of this youth, who must have expressed +pity for the loneliness and gloom of age, the old man would never have +broken forth so suddenly and so forcibly in the portrayal of his noble +philosophy of life. He expands with joy, love for his race, and reverence +for Providence. "Grow old along with me!" "Trust God: see all, nor be +afraid!" His enthusiasm, his exalted realization of life, are due to his +own nobility of character. But his earnestness, his vivid illustrations, +his emphasis and action, spring from his efforts to expound the philosophy +of life to his youthful listener and to correct the young man's one-sided +views. The characters of both speaker and listener are necessary in order +that one may receive an understanding of the argument. + +RABBI BEN EZRA + + Grow old along with me! the best is yet to be, + The last of life, for which the first was made: + Our times are in His hand who saith, "A whole I planned, + Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" + + Not that, amassing flowers, youth sighed, "Which rose make ours, + Which lily leave and then as best recall!" + Not that, admiring stars, it yearned, "Nor Jove, nor Mars; + Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!" + + Not for such hopes and fears, annulling youth's brief years, + Do I remonstrate; folly wide the mark! + Rather I prize the doubt low kinds exist without, + Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. + + Poor vaunt of life indeed, were man but formed to feed + On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: + Such feasting ended, then as sure an end to men; + Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? + + Rejoice we are allied to That which doth provide + And not partake, effect and not receive! + A spark disturbs our clod; nearer we hold of God + Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. + + Then, welcome each rebuff that turns earth's smoothness rough, + Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! + Be our joys three parts pain! strive and hold cheap the strain; + Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! + + For thence--a paradox which comforts while it mocks-- + Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: + What I aspired to be, and was not, comforts me; + A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. + + What is he but a brute whose flesh hath soul to suit, + Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? + To man, propose this test--thy body at its best, + How far can that project thy soul on its lone way? + + Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the past profuse + Of power each side, perfection every turn: + Eyes, ears took in their dole, brain treasured up the whole; + Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"? + + Not once beat "Praise be thine! I see the whole design, + I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: + Perfect I call Thy plan: thanks that I was a man! + Maker, remake, complete,--I trust what Thou shalt do!" + + For pleasant is this flesh: our soul, in its rose-mesh + Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest: + Would we some prize might hold to match those manifold + Possessions of the brute,--gain most, as we did best! + + Let us not always say, "Spite of this flesh to-day + I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!" + As the bird wings and sings, let us cry, "All good things + Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" + + Therefore I summon age to grant youth's heritage, + Life's struggle having so far reached its term: + Thence shall I pass, approved a man, for aye removed + From the developed brute; a God though in the germ. + + And I shall thereupon take rest, ere I be gone + Once more on my adventure brave and new; + Fearless and unperplexed, when I wage battle next, + What weapons to select, what armor to indue. + + Youth ended, I shall try my gain or loss thereby; + Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: + And I shall weigh the same, give life its praise or blame: + Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. + + For note, when evening shuts, a certain moment cuts + The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: + A whisper from the west shoots, "Add this to the rest, + Take it and try its worth: here dies another day." + + So, still within this life, though lifted o'er its strife, + Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, + "This rage was right i' the main, that acquiescence vain: + The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." + + For more is not reserved to man, with soul just nerved + To act to-morrow what he learns to-day; + Here, work enough to watch the Master work, and catch + Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. + + As it was better, youth should strive, through acts uncouth, + Toward making, than repose on aught found made; + So, better, age, exempt from strife, should know, than tempt + Further. Thou waitedst age; wait death nor be afraid! + + Enough now, if the Right and Good and Infinite + Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, + With knowledge absolute, subject to no dispute + From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. + + Be there, for once and all, severed great minds from small, + Announced to each his station in the Past! + Was I the world arraigned, were they my soul disdained, + Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! + + Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, + Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; + Ten, who in ears and eyes match me: we all surmise, + They this thing, and I that; whom shall my soul believe? + + Not on the vulgar mass called "work" must sentence pass, + Things done, that took the eye and had the price; + O'er which, from level stand, the low world laid its hand, + Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice: + + But all, the world's coarse thumb and finger failed to plumb, + So passed in making up the main account; + All instincts immature, all purposes unsure, + That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount; + + Thoughts hardly to be packed into a narrow act, + Fancies that broke through language and escaped; + All I could never be, all men ignored in me, + This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. + + Ay, note that Potter's wheel, that metaphor! and feel + Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,-- + Thou, to whom fools propound, when the wine makes its round, + "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!" + + Fool! All that is at all lasts ever, past recall; + Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: + What entered into thee, _that_ was, is, and shall be: + Time's wheel runs back or stops; potter and clay endure. + + He fixed thee mid this dance of plastic circumstance, + This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest + Machinery just meant to give thy soul its bent, + Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed. + + What though the earlier grooves which ran the laughing loves + Around thy base, no longer pause and press? + What though, about thy rim, skull-things in order grim + Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? + + Look thou not down but up! to uses of a cup, + The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal, + The new wine's foaming flow, the Master's lips a-glow! + Thou, Heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel? + + But I need, now as then, Thee, God, who mouldest men; + And since, not even while the whirl was worst, + Did I--to the wheel of life, with shapes and colors rife, + Bound dizzily--mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst; + + So take and use Thy work, amend what flaws may lurk, + What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! + My times be in Thy hand! perfect the cup as planned! + Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! + +Even when the words are the same, the delivery changes according to the +peculiarities of the hearer. No one tells a story in the same way to +different persons. When it is narrated to a little child, greater emphasis +is placed on points; we make longer pauses and more salient, definite +pictures; but if it is told to an educated man, the thought is sketched +more in outline. To one who is ignorant of the circumstances many details +are carefully suggested. Even the figures and illustrations are +consciously or unconsciously so chosen by one with the dramatic instinct +as to adapt the truth to the listener. + +In "The Englishman in Italy," the story is told to a child. After the +quotation, "such trifles," the Englishman speaking would no doubt laugh. +The spirit of the poem is shown by the fact that it is spoken by an +Englishman to a little child that is an Italian. + +A monologue shows the effect of character upon character, and hence nearly +always implies the direct speaking of one person to another. In this it +differs from a speech. Still, the principle applies even to the speaker. +He cannot present a subject in the same way to an educated and to an +uneducated audience, but instinctively chooses words common to him and to +his hearers and finds such illustrations as make his meaning obvious to +them. All language is imperfect. Truth is not made clear by being made +superficial, but by the careful choosing of words and illustrations +understood by the hearer. The speaker, accordingly, must feel his +audience. The imperfection of ordinary teaching and speaking is thus +explained by a form of dramatic art. Browning says at the close of "The +Ring and the Book": + + "Why take the artistic way to prove so much? + Because, it is the glory and good of Art, + That Art remains the one way possible + Of speaking truth, to mouths like mine, at least. + How look a brother in the face and say + 'Thy right is wrong, eyes hast thou, yet art blind, + Thine ears are stuffed and stopped, despite their length, + And, oh, the foolishness thou countest faith!' + Say this as silvery as tongue can troll-- + The anger of the man may be endured, + The shrug, the disappointed eyes of him + Are not so bad to bear--but here's the plague, + That all this trouble comes of telling truth, + Which truth, by when it reaches him, looks false, + Seems to be just the thing it would supplant, + Nor recognizable by whom it left; + While falsehood would have done the work of truth. + But Art,--wherein man nowise speaks to men, + Only to mankind,--Art may tell a truth + Obliquely, do the thing shall breed the thought, + Nor wrong the thought, missing the mediate word." + +In "A Woman's Last Word," already explained (p. 6), the listening husband, +his attitude towards his wife, his jealousy and suspicion, all serve to +call forth her love and nobility of character. He is the cause of the +monologue, and must be as definitely conceived as the speaker. Without a +clear conception of his character, her words cannot receive the right +interpretation. + +In "Bishop Blougram's Apology," the listener, Mr. Gigadibs, is definitely, +though indirectly, portrayed. He is a young man of thirty, impulsive, +ideal, but has not yet struggled with the problems of life. His criticisms +of Blougram are answered by that worldly-minded ecclesiastic, who can +declare most truly the fact that an absolute faith is not possible, and +then assume--and thus contradict himself--that to ignorant people he must +preach an absolute faith. The character of the Bishop is strongly +conceived, and his perception of the highest possibility of life, as well +as his failure to carry it out, are portrayed with marvellous complexity +and full recognition of the difficulties of reconciling idealism with +realism. But the character of his young, enthusiastic, and earnest critic, +who lacks his experience and who may be partially silenced, is as +important as the apology of Blougram. The poem is a debate between an +idealist and a realist, the speech of the realist alone being given. We +catch the weakness and the strength of both points of view, and thus enter +into the comprehension of a most subtle struggle for self-justification. + +It is some distance from Bishop Blougram to Mr. Dooley, but the necessity +for a listener in the monologue, a listener of definite character, is +shown in both cases. + +Dooley's talks are a departure from the regular form of the monologue, in +the fact that Hennessey now and then speaks a word directly; but this +partial introduction of dialogue does not change the fact that all of +these talks are monologues. Such interruptions are not the only types of +departure from the strict form of the monologue. Browning gives a +narrative conclusion to "Pheidippides" and "Bishop Blougram's Apology," +and many variations are found among different authors. Hennessey's remarks +may be introduced as a way of arousing in the imagination of ordinary +people a conception of the listener. The relationship of the two +characters is thus possibly more easily pictured to the ordinary +imagination. + +Of the necessity of Hennessey there can be no doubt. Mr. Dooley would +never speak in this way but for the sympathetic and reverently attentive +Hennessey. The two are complemental and necessary to each other. + +Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures were very popular, perhaps partly because +of the silence expressing the patience of Caudle, though there were +appendices that indicated remarks written down by Mr. Caudle, but long +afterwards and when alone. There are some advantages in the pure form; the +mind is kept more concentrated. So without Hennessey's direct remarks the +picture of Dooley might have been even better sustained. The form of a +monologue, however, must not be expected to remain rigid. The point here +to be apprehended is the necessity of recognizing a listener as well as a +speaker. + +Every Dooley demands a listener. He must have appreciation. These +monologues are a humorous, possibly unconscious, presentation of this +principle. The audience or the reader is turned by the author into a +contemplative spectator of a simple situation. A play demands a struggle, +but here we have all the restfulness, ease, and repose of life itself. We +all like to sit back and observe, especially when a character is unfolding +itself. + +In the monologue as well as in the play there is no direct teaching. +Things happen as in life, and we see the action of a thought upon a +certain mind and do our own exhorting or preaching. + +The monologue adapts itself to all kinds of characters and to every +species of theme. It does not require a plot, or even a great struggle, as +in the case of the play. Attention is fixed upon one individual; we are +led into the midst of the natural situations of every-day life, and +receive with great force the impressions which events, ideas, or other +characters make upon a specific type of man. + +Eugene Field often makes children talk in monologues. Some persons have +criticized Field's children's poems and said they were not for children at +all. This is true, and Field no doubt intended it so. He made his children +talk naturally and freely, as if to each other, but not as they would talk +to older people. + +"Jes' 'Fore Christmas" is true to a boy's character, but we must be +careful in choosing a listener. The boy would not speak in this way to an +audience, to the family at the dinner table, nor to any one but a +confidant. He must have, in fact, a Hennessey,--possibly some other boy, +or, more likely, some hired man. + +It is a mistake, unfortunately a common one, to give such a poem as a +speech to an audience. It is not a speech, but only one end of a +conversation. It is almost lyric in its portrayal of feeling, but still it +concerns human action and the relations of persons to each other. +Therefore, it is primarily dramatic, and a monologue. The words must be +considered as spoken to some confidential listener. + +A proper conception of the monologue produces a higher appreciation of the +work of Field. As monologues, his poems are always consistent and +beautiful. When considered as mere stories for children, their artistic +form has been misconceived, and interpreters of them with this conception +have often failed. + +Even "Little Boy Blue," a decided lyric, has a definite speaker, and the +objects described and the events indicated are intensely as well as +dramatically realized. Notice the abrupt transitions, the sudden changes +in feeling. It is more easily rendered with a slight suggestion of a +sympathetic listener. + +Many persons regard James Whitcomb Riley's "Knee-deep in June" as a lyric; +but has it enough unconsciousness for this? To me it is far more flexible +and spontaneous when considered as a monologue. The interpreter of the +poem can make longer pauses. He can so identify himself with the character +as to give genial and hearty laughter, and thus indicate dramatically the +sudden arrival of ideas. To reveal the awakening of an idea is the very +soul of spontaneous expression, and such awakening is nearly always +dramatic. So in the following conception, what a sudden, joyous discovery +can be made of + + "Mr. Blue Jay full o' sass, + In them base-ball cloes o' hisn." + +Notice also the sudden breaks in transition that can be indicated in + + "Blue birds' nests tucked up there + Conveniently for the boy 'at's apt to be + Up some other apple tree." + +Notice after "to be" how he suddenly enjoys the birds' cunning and laughs +for the moment at the boys' failure. You can accentuate, too, his dramatic +feeling for May and "'bominate its promises" with more decision and point. + +The "you" in this poem and the frequent imperatives indicate the +conception in the author's mind of a speaker and a sympathetic companion +out in the fields in June. It certainly detracts from the simplicity, +dramatic intensity, naturalness, and spontaneity to make of it a kind of +address to an audience. The same is true of the "Liztown Humorist," +"Kingsby's Mill," "Joney," and many others which are usually considered +and rendered as stories. They are monologues. Possibly a completer title +for them would be lyric monologues. + +While the interpreter of these monologues can easily turn his auditors +into a sympathetic and familiar group who might stand for his listener, he +can transport them in imagination to the right situation; and while this +is often done by interpreters with good effect, to my mind this does not +change their character as monologues. + +Granting, however, that some of Riley's poems are more or less speeches, +it must be admitted that he has written some definite and formal poems +which cannot be so conceived. "Nothin' to Say," for example, is one of the +most decided and formal monologues found anywhere. In this the listener + +NOTHIN' TO SAY + + Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!-- + Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way! + Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me-- + Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she? + + You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size; + And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes: + Like her, too, about her _livin_ here,--because _she_ couldn't stay: + It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got nothin' + to say! + + She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page-- + And left her ear-bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age. + I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away-- + Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! + + You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then! + And now yer--how old air you? W'y, child, not "_twenty!_" When? + And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day? + ... I wisht yer mother was livin'!--But--I hain't got nothin' to say! + + Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found. + There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there--I'll bresh it off--turn + round. + (Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!) + Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say! + +can be as definitely located as the speaker. To conceal his own tears, the +speaker turns or stops and pretends to brush off a straw caught on his +daughter's dress. We have here in this monologue also something unusual, +but very suggestive and strictly dramatic,--an aside wherein he evidently +turns away from his daughter-- + + ("Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away.") + +Since the daughter is definitely located as listener and the other +speeches are spoken to her, this can be given easily as a contrast, as an +aside to himself, and a slight turn of the body will serve to emphasize, +even as an aside often does in a play, the location of the daughter, and +the speaker's relation to her. The sentiment also serves to emphasize the +character of the speaker. + +In "Griggsby's Station" we have a most decided monologue. Who is speaking, +and to whom is the monologue addressed? Is the speaker the daughter in a +family suddenly grown rich, talking to her mother? The character of the +speaker and of the listener must be definitely conceived and carefully +suggested in order to give truth to the rendering or even to realize its +meaning. + +The same is true regarding many of Holman Day's stories in his "Up in +Maine," and other books. With hardly any exception these are best rendered +as monologues. + +Many of the poems of Sam Walter Foss and other popular writers of the +present are monologues. The homelike characters demand sympathetic +listeners, who are, by implication, of the same general type and character +as the speaker. Even "The House by the Side of the Road" is better given +with the spirit of the monologue. It is too personal, too dramatic, to be +turned into a speech. + +Again, notice Mrs. Piatt's "Sometime," and a dozen examples in Webb's +"Vagrom Verse"; also "With Lead and Line along Varying Shores"; and in +Oscar Fay Adams's "Sicut Patribus," where you would hardly expect +monologues, you find that "At Bay" and "Conrad's Choir" have the form of +monologues. + +Many monologues in our popular writers seem at first simple and without +the formal and definite construction of those employed by Browning, yet +after careful examination we feel that the conception of the monologue has +slowly taken possession of our writers, it may be unconsciously, and that +the true interpretation of many of the most popular poems demands from the +reader a dramatic conception. + +For the comprehension of any monologue, those points where the speaker is +directly affected by the hearer need especial attention. The speaker +occasionally echoes the words of his hearer. Mrs. Caudle, for instance, +often quotes the words of her spouse, and these were printed by Douglas +Jerrold in italics and even in separate paragraphs. "For the love of mercy +let you sleep?" for example, was thus printed to emphasize the +interruption by Caudle. These words would be echoed by her with affected +surprise. Then she would pour out her sarcasm: "Mercy indeed; I wish you +would show a little of it to other people." In most authors these echoed +speeches are indicated by quotation marks. Browning sometimes has words in +parentheses. Note "(What 'cicada'? Pooh!)" in "A Tale." "Cicada" was +certainly spoken by the listener, but the other words in the parentheses +and other parentheses in this monologue are more personal remarks by the +speaker. They have reference, however, to the listener's attitude. + +In some cases Browning gives no indication by even quotation marks that +the speaker is echoing words of the hearer. The attitude of the listener +must be varied by the dramatic instinct of the reader. The grasp of the +situation greatly depends upon this. It is one of the most important +aspects of the dramatic instinct. ("Up at a Villa--Down in the City," see +p. 65.) "Why" and "What of a Villa" certainly refers to the words, or at +least the attitude, of the listener, which is realized from the manner of +the speaker. + +In the same poem the question "Is it ever hot in the square?" may be the +echo of a word or a thought of the listener. In this case the speaker +would answer it more abruptly and positively when he says, "There is a +fountain to spout and splash." If, on the contrary, the thought is his +own, and comes up naturally in his mind as one of the points in his +description or as a result of living over his experience down in the city, +he would give it less abruptly, with less force or emphasis. In general, a +quotation or the echo of the words of a listener are given by the speaker +with a different manner. + +Tennyson, though the fact is often overlooked, has written many +monologues. + +Some readers give "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" as a mere story. Is there, +then, no thought of the character of the yeoman who is talking with +burning indignation at the death of his friend? + +LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE + + Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + Of me you shall not win renown: + You thought to break a country heart + For pastime, ere you went to town. + At me you smiled, but unbeguiled + I saw the snare, and I retired: + The daughter of a hundred earls, + You are not one to be desired. + + Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + I know you proud to bear your name, + Your pride is yet no mate for mine, + Too proud to care from whence I came. + Nor would I break for your sweet sake + A heart that doats on truer charms. + A simple maiden in her flower + Is worth a hundred coats of arms. + + Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + Some meeker pupil you must find, + For were you queen of all that is, + I could not stoop to such a mind. + You sought to prove how I could love, + And my disdain is my reply. + The lion on your old stone gates + Is not more cold to you than I. + + Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + You put strange memories in my head; + Nor thrice your branching limes have blown + Since I beheld young Laurence dead. + Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies: + A great enchantress you may be: + But there was that across his throat + Which you had hardly cared to see. + + Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + When thus he met his mother's view, + She had the passions of her kind, + She spake some certain truths of you. + Indeed I heard one bitter word + That scarce is fit for you to hear: + Her manners had not that repose + Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. + + Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + There stands a spectre in your hall: + The guilt of blood is at your door: + You changed a wholesome heart to gall. + You held your course without remorse, + To make him trust his modest worth, + And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, + And slew him with your noble birth. + + Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, + From yon blue heavens above us bent + The gardener Adam and his wife + Smile at the claims of long descent. + Howe'er it be, it seems to me, + 'Tis only noble to be good. + Kind hearts are more than coronets, + And simple faith than Norman blood. + + I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, + You pine among your halls and towers: + The languid light of your proud eyes + Is wearied of the rolling hours. + In glowing health, with boundless wealth, + But sickening of a vague disease, + You know so ill to deal with time, + You needs must play such pranks as these. + + Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, + If Time be heavy on your hands, + Are there no beggars at your gate, + Nor any poor about your lands? + Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, + Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, + Pray Heaven for a human heart, + And let the foolish yeoman go. + +The character of the speaker must be realized from first to last. But +there is something more. Did the yeoman win or lose his case? Does +Tennyson give us no sign of the effect of his words upon the lady to whom +his rebuke was directed? All whom I have heard read it, cause one to think +that she remains stolid, unresponsive, and cold, or else she was not +really present, and the poem is a kind of lyric. But you will notice that +in the last stanza the speaker drops the "Lady," and says "Clara, Clara," +which certainly shows a change in feeling. There are also other +indications that she was affected by his words, and that the speaker saw +it. In the line, "You know so ill to deal with time," he may be excusing +her conduct, while in the last lines he suggests how she should live to +atone for the past: + + "Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, + Or teach the orphan-girl to sew." + +He certainly would not have spoken thus if she had not by word or look +shown indications of repentance. Truth must accomplish its results. Art +must reflect the victory of truth. We perceive the signs of victory in the +very words of the poem, and the character of the speaker's expression must +reflect the response in her. The reader who dramatically or truly +interprets the poem, feeling this, will show a change in feeling and +movement, and give tender coloring to the closing words. + +Of course there is much moralizing in this and a smoother movement than in +a monologue by Browning. Tennyson is not a master of the monologue. Some +may think that Clara would never have endured this long lecture, and that +it is unnatural for us to conceive of her as being really present; but, +though poetry usually takes fewer words to say something than would be +used in life, sometimes--and here possibly--it takes more. Certainly +Tennyson often takes more, and this is one reason why he is not a dramatic +poet. The poem, however, can be effectively rendered as a monologue, and +thus receive a more adequate interpretation. + +There is frequently more than one listener. In "The Bishop orders his Tomb +at Saint Praxed's Church," the Bishop speaks to many "sons," though he +calls out Anselm especially, his chief heir, perhaps. In "The Ring and the +Book" some of the speakers address the court and almost make speeches, as +do the lawyers in their pleas, for instance. But the Pope, who acts, it +will be remembered, as the judge, is in many cases the person addressed. +The principle is the same, though the situations may differ. In every +case, such a situation, listener, or listeners are chosen as will best +express the character of the speaker. Notice, for example, that Pompilia +tells her story on her dying bed to the sympathetic nuns, who would best +call forth the points in her story. + +The listener is sometimes changed, or may change, positions. In Riley's +"There, Little Girl, Don't Cry," the three great periods in a woman's life +are portrayed, and the location of the listener must be changed to show +the different situations and changes of time and place as well as the +character of the listener. Long pauses and extreme variations in the +modulations of the voice are also necessary in such a transition. This +poem also affords an example of the age and experience of the listener +affecting expression. + +In many monologues the person about whom the speaker talks is of great +importance. In "The Flight of the Duchess" we almost entirely lose sight +of the speaker and of the hearer, and our thought successively centres +upon the Duke, on his mother, on the old crone, and, above all, on the +Duchess. These characters are made to live before us, and we see the +impressions they produce upon a simple, loyal heart. The beauty of this +wonderful monologue lies in the portrayal of the honest nature of the +speaker and the revelation of the impressions made upon him by those who +have played parts in his life. + +The series of monologues or soliloquies styled by Browning "James Lee's +Wife" were called "James Lee" in his first edition, and many feel that +Browning made a mistake in changing the title; for the theme in these is +the character, not of the woman who speaks so much as of the man about +whom she speaks. + +In Browning's "Clive," the speaker, who "is by no means a Clive," +according to Professor Dowden, "has to betray something of his own +character and at the same time to set forth the character of the hero of +his tale." Here, of course, both speaker and listener are subordinated to +Clive, the person spoken of. Hence some may be tempted to think that +"Clive" is a mere story. Dowden, Chesterton, and others speak of it as a +story, but it has the movement, the dramatic action, the unity and spirit +of a monologue. The fact that the chief character is the one about whom +the speaker talks makes the poem none the less dramatic. The more "Clive" +is studied, the more will the student feel that its chief theme is the +contact and conflict of characters, and the more, too, will he perceive +that its atmosphere and peculiarities are caused by the sense of a speaker +and a listener, each of a distinct type. + +This indirect narration or suggestion is often important, but in every +case it is the speaker who reflects as from a mirror impressions produced +upon him by the characters of those about whom he speaks. + +The study of the relations of speaker and hearer requires discrimination +to be made between the soliloquy and the monologue. + +Shakespeare's soliloquies may be thought to be unnatural. No man ever +talked to his fellows as Hamlet talks when alone, and Juliet at the window +is made to reveal her deepest feelings. But all love songs express what +the words of the ordinary man can never reveal. All art, and especially +all literature, is a kind of objective embodiment of feeling or the +processes of thinking. While Shakespeare's soliloquies may not seem as +natural as conversation, in one sense they are more natural expressions of +thinking and feeling. The highest poetry may be as natural as prose, or +even more natural; all depends upon the mood or theme. In all art and +literature, naturalness is due not to mere external accidents, but to the +truthfulness of the expression of deeper emotions of the human heart. + +Many feel that any representation in words of a mood or feeling is a +lyric; hence they regard most monologues as lyrics. But are not +Shakespeare's soliloquies dramatic? The lyric spirit gives objective form +to feeling, but dramatic poetry does this in a way to show character and +motives as well as moods. + +To a certain extent, the lyric spirit and the dramatic can never be +completely separated. There has never been a good play that was not lyric +as well as dramatic. There has never been a true lyric poem that has not +revealed some trait of human character and implied certain relations of +human beings to each other. It is only the predominance of feeling and +mood that makes a poem lyric, or the predominance of relations or +conflicts of human beings that makes a passage dramatic. All the elements +of poetry are inseparably united because they express living aspects of +the human heart. + +Shakespeare's soliloquies deserve careful study as the best introduction +to the deep nature of the monologue. They are objective embodiments in +words of feelings and moods of which the speaker himself is only partly +conscious. This is the very climax of literature,--to word what no +individual ever words. In a sense, this is true of a lyric, which may +interpret in the many words of a song what in life is a mere look or the +hardly revealed attitude of a soul. The deepest feelings of love can never +be expressed in the prose of conversation. They can be suggested only in +the exalted language of poetry. + +These principles apply especially to the appreciation of a soliloquy. Of +this phase of dramatic or literary art there has been but one master, and +that was Shakespeare. He could make Hamlet think and feel before us +without relation to another human being. He is the only author, +practically, who has ever been able to portray a character entirely alone. +In the great climaxes of his plays, we feel that he is dealing with the +interpretation of the deepest moods and motives of life. + +The exclamation, "Oh, that this too, too solid flesh would melt," after +the departure of the King and the Court, reveals to us Hamlet's real +condition, his impression or premonition that something is wrong. We are +thus prepared for the effect of the news brought by Horatio and Marcellus, +because his attitude has been first revealed to us by Shakespeare. +Shakespeare alone could perform this marvellous feat. Again, one of the +most important acts closes with a soliloquy which reveals Hamlet's spirit +more definitely than could be done in any other way. This soliloquy comes +naturally. Hamlet drives all from him, that he may arrange the dozen lines +which he wishes to add to the play. This plan has come to him while he was +listening to the actor, and must be shown by his action during the actor's +speech. Hamlet, in a proper stage arrangement, is so placed as to occupy +the attention of the audience while the actor is reciting. The impressions +produced upon him, and not the player's rehearsal, form the centre of +interest. By turning away while listening to the actor, he can indicate +his agitation and the action of his mind in deciding upon the plan which +is definitely stated in the soliloquy and forms the culmination of the +act. + +Notice, too, how Shakespeare makes this soliloquy come naturally between +his dismissal of the two emissaries of the King and the writing of the +addition to the play. Hamlet's soul is laid bare. He is roused to a pitch +of great excitement over the grief of the actor and his own indifference +to his father's murder. Then, taking up the play, he begins to prepare his +extra lines, and with this closes the most passionate of all soliloquies. + +Strictly speaking, a soliloquy is only a revelation of the thinking of a +person entirely alone and uninfluenced by another; but a monologue implies +thinking influenced by some peculiar type of hearer. + +Browning's soliloquies are practically monologues. We feel that the +character almost "others" itself and talks to itself as if to another +person. This is also natural. We know it by observing children. But it is +very different from the lonely soul revealing itself in Shakespeare's +soliloquies. In fact, the monologue has taken such hold upon Browning that +even Pippa's soliloquies in "Pippa Passes" are practically monologues. + +In the "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister," the monk talks to himself +almost as to another person, and his every idea is influenced by Brother +Lawrence, whom he sees in the garden below him, but to whom he does not +speak and who does not see him. + +SOLILOQUY OF THE SPANISH CLOISTER + + Gr-r-r--there go, my heart's abhorrence! + Water your damned flower-pots, do! + If hate killed men, Brother Lawrence, + God's blood, would not mine kill you! + What? your myrtle-bush wants trimming? + Oh, that rose has prior claims-- + Needs its leaden vase filled brimming? + Hell dry you up with its flames! + + At the meal we sit together: + _Salve tibi!_ I must hear + Wise talk of the kind of weather, + Sort of season, time of year: + _Not a plenteous cork-crop: scarcely + Dare we hope oak-galls, I doubt: + What's the Latin name for "parsley"?_ + What's the Greek name for Swine's Snout? + + Whew! We'll have our platter burnished, + Laid with care on our own shelf! + With a fire-new spoon we're furnished, + And a goblet for ourself, + Rinsed like something sacrificial + Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps-- + Marked with L for our initial! + (He-he! There his lily snaps!) + + _Saint_, forsooth! While brown Dolores + Squats outside the Convent bank + With Sanchicha, telling stories, + Steeping tresses in the tank, + Blue-black, lustrous, thick like horsehairs, + --Can't I see his dead eye glow, + Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's? + (That is, if he'd let it show!) + + When he finishes refection, + Knife and fork he never lays + Cross-wise, to my recollection, + As do I, in Jesu's praise. + I the Trinity illustrate, + Drinking watered orange-pulp-- + In three sips the Arian frustrate; + While he drains his at one gulp. + + Oh, those melons? If he's able + We're to have a feast: so nice! + One goes to the Abbot's table, + All of us get each a slice. + How go on your flowers? None double? + Not one fruit-sort can you spy? + Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble + Keep them close-nipped on the sly! + + There's a great text in Galatians, + Once you trip on it, entails + Twenty-nine distinct damnations, + One sure, if another fails: + If I trip him just a-dying, + Sure of heaven as sure can be, + Spin him round and send him flying + Off to hell, a Manichee? + + Or, my scrofulous French novel + On gray paper with blunt type! + Simply glance at it, you grovel + Hand and foot in Belial's gripe: + If I double down its pages + At the woeful sixteenth print, + When he gathers his greengages, + Ope a sieve and slip it in't? + + Or, there's Satan!--one might venture + Pledge one's soul to him, yet leave + Such a flaw in the indenture + As he'd miss, till, past retrieve, + Blasted lay that rose-acacia + We're so proud of! _Hy, Zy, Hine ..._ + 'St, there's Vespers! _Plena gratia + Ave, Virgo!_ Gr-r-r--you swine! + +In this "soliloquy" we have, in a few lines, possibly the strongest +interpretation of hypocrisy in literature. The soliloquy begins with the +speaker's accidental discovery of the kindly-hearted monk, Brother +Lawrence, attending to his flowers in the court below, and the sight +causes an explosion of rage. So intense is his feeling that, in his +imagination, he talks directly to Brother Lawrence. Note, for example, +such suggestions as, "How go on your flowers?" Of course, Brother Lawrence +knows nothing of the speaker's presence; that worthy, with gusto, answers +his own questions to himself. + +Notice also the abrupt transitions. Browning, even in his soliloquies, +often introduces events. "There his lily snaps!" is given with sudden glee +as the speaker discovers the accident. + +The difference between Browning and Shakespeare may be still more clearly +conceived. "Shakespeare," says some one, "makes his characters live; +Browning makes his think." Shakespeare reveals character by making a man +think alone, or, in contact with others, act. Browning fixes our attention +upon an individual, and shows us what he is by making him think, and +usually he suggests the cause of the thinking in some relation to objects, +events, or characters. The situation in every case is most favorable to +the expression of thought and feeling, and of deeper motives. The chief +difference between Shakespeare and Browning is the difference between a +play and a monologue. The point of view of the two men is not the same, +and we must appreciate that of both. + +Browning's "Saul" may be regarded as a soliloquy. David is alone. +Browning's words here help us to an appreciation of his peculiar kind of +soliloquy. + + "Let me tell out my tale to its ending--my voice to my heart + Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part, + As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, + And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep!" + +"My voice to my heart" is very suggestive. Browning always made his +speaker, when alone, talk to himself. He divides the personality of the +individual much more than did Shakespeare. Shakespeare simply makes a man +think aloud, while Browning almost makes consciousness dual. + +Some one may ask,--Why not take any story or lyric and give it directly to +an imaginary listener, and only indirectly to the audience? + +This is exactly what should be done in some cases. Who can declaim as a +speech or as if to an audience "John Anderson, my Jo," or "The Lover's +Appeal," and not feel the situation to be ludicrous? + +Some of the tenderest lyric poems should be given as though to an +imaginary auditor somewhat to one side. As the lyric is subjective, the +turning to one side is a help to the subjective sympathetic condition, +especially in cases where the words of the lyric are supposed to be +addressed to some individual character. It is very difficult for readers +to speak to an audience directly and not pass into the oratoric attitude +of mind. A little turn to the side, when simple, suggests the indirect +nature of a poem. It gives power to change attention and suggests degrees +of subjectivity, and thus tends to prevent the true spirit of the poem +from being destroyed by oratorical or declamatory effects. + +Perhaps Charles Lamb's famous saying, that recitation perverts a beautiful +poem, would have been qualified had some poem been read to him with full +recognition of its artistic character. The poem is not a speech, but a +work of art, and the speaker must be clearly conceived, his emotion +sympathetically realized, and given, not to an audience, but to an +imaginary listener; thus all the delicacy and tenderness may be truthfully +revealed and declamation and unnaturalness avoided. + +In general, every kind of literature can be adequately rendered aloud. The +true spirit of those poems that have been considered unadapted to such +rendering can possibly be shown by the voice if we find the real +situation, and do not try to give the words the directness of an oration +or a lesson, or the objectivity of a play. + +When a story or a poem can be made more natural and more effective by +being conceived as spoken by a character of a definite type to a definite +type of hearer, it should usually be regarded as a monologue. Readers who +picture not only the peculiar character speaking, but the person to whom +he speaks, will receive and give a more adequate impression, one more +dramatic, more simple, and far more expressive of character than those who +confuse it with a lyric or a story. + +Dramatic art, in fact all art, is indirect, except in some forms of +speaking. The true orator or speaker, however, while having a direct +purpose, never directly commands or dominates his audience. Every true +artist, painter, musician, or even orator, simply awakens the faculties +and powers of others, and leads men to decide for themselves. The true +speaker should appeal to imagination and reason, and not attempt to force +men to accept his ideals and convictions. That would be domination, not +oratory. True art is on the rational basis of kinship of nature. Faculty +awakens faculty, vision quickens vision. + +No hard and fast line can be drawn between the arts, even between the +oration and the monologue. But the oration is more direct, more conscious; +speaker and listener understand, as a rule, exactly the purpose and the +intention. The monologue, on the contrary, is indirect. Its interpreter +endeavors faithfully to portray human nature. He reveals the impressions +produced upon him instead of endeavoring directly to produce a specific +impression upon an audience. + +The conception of the listener in the monologue is different from that of +the listener in the oration. In every monologue, the interpreter shows the +contact of a speaker with a listener and conveys a definite impression +made upon him by each. He especially conveys, not only his identification +with the character speaking, but that character's mental or conversational +attitude towards another human being and the unconscious variation of +mental action resulting from such a relationship. + + + + +IV. PLACE OR SITUATION + + +Whether or not we agree with the ancient rules of the unities regarding +place, time, and action as laws of the drama, every one must recognize the +fact that all three conceptions are in some sense necessary to an +illusion. A dramatic action or position implies not only character, but +specific location and circumstance. The situation helps to reveal the +character and shows its relation to human life. + +Therefore, dramatic effect implies more than contact of different +characters. It is concerned with such a placing of the characters as will +reveal something of motives. + +Two men may meet continually in society or in the ordinary and +conventional relations of business and the peculiar characteristics of +neither may ever be revealed. Steel and flint may lie passively side by +side or may be frozen in the same ice without any suggestion of heat. The +steel must strike the flint suddenly to bring forth a spark of fire. In +the same way, character must collide with character in such a situation, +such a conflict of interests, such opposite determinations or ambitions, +as will cause a revelation of motives and dispositions. Steel and flint +illustrate character. The stroke is the situation, the spark the dramatic +result. Place, accordingly, is often of great importance in dramatic art. + +The monologue is no exception to this. The reader must definitely imagine +not only a speaker and a listener, but also a location or situation. From +a dramatic point of view, situation is perhaps more necessary to a +monologue than to a play. Without a situation, nothing can be dramatic. + +In Browning's "Up at a Villa--Down in the City," is the speaker located in +the city, at the villa, or at some point between the two? + +UP AT A VILLA--DOWN IN THE CITY + +(AS DISTINGUISHED BY AN ITALIAN PERSON OF QUALITY) + + Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, + The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city-square; + Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window there! + + Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least! + There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; + While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a beast. + + Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull + Just on a mountain's edge as bare as the creature's skull, + Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! + --I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned wool. + + But the city, oh the city--the square with the houses! Why? + They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to take the eye! + Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry! + You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who hurries by: + Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun gets high; + And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly. + + What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights, + 'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights. + You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze, + And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees. + + Is it better in May, I ask you? you've summer all at once; + In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns! + 'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well, + The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell + Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell. + + Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash! + In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash + On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash + Round the lady atop in the conch--fifty gazers do not abash, + Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of + sash! + + All the year long at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger, + Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted forefinger. + Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle + Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. + Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill, + And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the + hill. + Enough of the seasons,--I spare you the months of the fever and chill. + + Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin: + No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in: + You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. + By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws + teeth; + Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. + At the post-office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot! + And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot. + + Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, + And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the + Duke's! + Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so + Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero, + "And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of Saint Paul has + reached, + Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he + preached." + Noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and + smart + With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart! + _Bang, whang, whang_, goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife; + No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life. + + But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate. + They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate + It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city! + Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity! + Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals, + And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles. + One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles, + And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of + scandals. + _Bang, whang, whang_, goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife. + Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! + +Of course, there are arguments in favor of placing the "person of quality" +in the city near his beloved objects. One of the last lines, beginning +"Look, two and two go the priests," seems to imply the discovery and +actual presence of the procession. But if Browning had located the speaker +in the city, would he not say "here" and not "there," as he does at the +end of the third line? + +If at the villa, why does he say to his listener, "Well, now, look at our +villa!" The fact that he points to it and says, + + "stuck like the horn of a bull + Just on a mountain's edge," + +seems to imply, though in plain sight of it, that he is some distance +away. Again, if at the villa, how can he discover the procession? + +Was the monologue spoken during a walk? We can easily imagine the "person +of quality" and his companion starting from the villa and talking while +coming down into the city. But this is hardly possible, because when +Browning changes his situation in this way, he always suggests definitely +the stages of the journey. He never makes a mistake regarding the location +or situation of his characters. His conceptions are so dramatic that he is +always consistent regarding his characters and the situations or points of +view they occupy. However obscure he may be in other points, he never +confuses time and place or dramatic situation. + +Is it not best to imagine him as having walked out with a friend to some +point where the villa above and the city below are both clearly visible? +And as the humor of the monologue consists in the impressions which the +two places make upon the speaker, the contrasts are sharp and sudden. In +such a position we can distinctly realize him now looking with longing +towards the city that he loves and then turning with disgust and contempt +towards the villa he despises. + +Possibly his listener is located on the side towards the villa, as that +unknown and almost unnoticed personage seems once or twice, at least, to +make a mild defence. That his listener does not wholly agree with him, is +indicated by "Why?" at the end of the eleventh line, to which he replies, +heaping encomiums upon the city, careless of the fact that his arguments +would make any lover of beauty smile: "Houses in four straight lines." + + "And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly." + +"What of a villa?" may also be an echo of the listener's question or +remark, or apply to a look expressive of his attitude of mind. "Is it ever +hot in the square?" suggests some satire on his part. The listener, +however, is barely noticed, as the speaker seems to scorn the slightest +opposition or expression of opinion. + +In such a position, we can easily imagine him with the whole city at his +feet in sufficiently plain view to allow him to discover enough of the +procession to waken memory and enthusiasm, and bring all up as a present +reality. The procession can be easily imagined as starting from some +convent outside the walls and appearing below them on its way to town. All +the facts of the procession need not be discovered. It is a scene he has +often observed and delighted in, and distance would lend enchantment to +the speaker and serve as the climax of his enthusiasm, as he portrayed to +his less responsive friend the details of the procession. + +Some of his references to both villa and city are certainly from memory. +For example, the different sights and sounds that he has seen and heard +from time to time in the city, such as the "diligence," the "scene-picture +at the post-office." + +The spirit of the monologue, the enthusiasm and exultation over what +gives anything but pleasure to others, requires such a character as will +enjoy "the travelling doctor" who "gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth." +Notice Browning's touch for the reformers, he makes such a man rejoice at +the news, "only this morning three liberal thieves were shot." The +"liberal thieves" are doubtless three Italian reformers who had been +trying to deliver their country. It is possible to imagine the procession +as wholly from memory, and "noon strikes" to be simply a part of his +imagination and exultation. How gaily he skips as our Lady, the Madonna, +is + + "borne smiling and smart, + With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her + heart!" + +He has no conception of the symbol of the seven deadly sins, but dances +away at the music, "No keeping one's haunches still." Later, however, when +he exclaims to his listener, "Look," he seems to make an actual discovery. +Does he start as he actually sees a procession in the distance? A real one +coming before him would give life and variety to the monologue. Browning +intentionally leaves the conceptions gradually to dawn in the imagination. +The doubts, and the questions which may be asked, have been dwelt upon in +order to emphasize the point that the speaker must be conceived in a +definite situation. When once a situation is located, this will modify +some of the shades of feeling and expression. + +The point, then, is, that a reader or interpreter must conceive the +speaker as occupying a definite place, and when this is done, the position +will determine somewhat the feeling and the expression. Difference in +situation causes many differences in action and in voice modulations. +Whatever location, therefore, the reader decides upon, everything else +must be consistent with it. + +One point in this monologue may be especially obscure, where reference is +made to the city being "dear!" "fowls, wine, at double the rate." I was +one of three in a carriage who were once stopped at a gate in Florence and +examined to see whether we carried any "salt," "oil," or anything on which +there was a tax, which, according to the owner of the villa, "is a horror +to think of." Some Italian cities do not have free trade with the +surrounding country; food stuffs are taxed upon "passing the gate," thus +making life in the city more expensive. And here is the reason why this +man sadly mourns: + + "And so, the villa for me, not the city! + Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity!" + +Whatever may be said regarding Browning's obscurity, however far he may +have gone into the most technical knowledge of science in any department +of life, however remote his allusions to events or objects or lines of +knowledge which are unfamiliar to the world, there is one thing about +which he is always definite, possibly more definite than any other writer. +In every monologue we can find an indication of the place or situation in +which the monologue is located. + +Browning has given us one monologue which takes place during a walk, "A +Grammarian's Funeral." The speaker is one of the band carrying the body of +his master from the "common crofts," and so he is represented as looking +up to the top of the hill and talking about the appropriateness of +burying the master on the hilltop. Browning's intimate knowledge of Greek +was shown by the phrase "gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_." The +London "Times" criticized this severely when the poem was published, +saying that with all respect to Mr. Browning, there was no such enclitic. +Browning answered in a note that proved his fine scholarship, and called +attention to the fact that this was the point in dispute which the +grammarian had tried to settle. + +Even the stages of the journey are shown, + + "Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place + Gaping before us." + +In another place he says, + + "Caution redoubled, + Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!" + +while all the time he pours out his tribute to his master: + + "Oh, if we draw a circle premature + Heedless of far gain, + Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure + Bad is our bargain!... + That low man seeks a little thing to do, + Sees it and does it: + This high man, with a great thing to pursue, + Dies ere he knows it. + That low man goes on adding one to one, + His hundred's soon hit: + This high man, aiming at a million, + Misses an unit. + That, has the world here--should he need the next, + Let the world mind him! + This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed + Seeking, shall find him." + +Then, when they arrive at the top, he says, + + "Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place," + +and addressing the birds, + + "All ye highfliers of the feathered race," + +he continues, giving his thoughts, as suggested by the very situation: + + "This man decided not to Live but Know-- + Bury this man there? + Here, here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form, + Lightnings are loosened, + Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm, + Peace let the dew send! + Lofty designs must close in like effects: + Loftily lying, + Leave him, still loftier than the world suspects, + Living and dying." + +Browning's "At the 'Mermaid'" reproduces a scene of historic interest. The +inn where Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and other sympathetic friends used to +meet, is presented to the imagination, and Shakespeare is the speaker. +Some one has proposed a toast to him as the next poet. Shakespeare +protests, and the poem is his answer. Here are shown his modesty, his +optimism, his reverence, and his noble views of life. He smilingly points +to his works and talks about them to these his friends in a simple, frank +way. + + "Look and tell me! Written, spoken, + Here's my lifelong work: and where-- + Where's your warrant or my token + I'm the dead king's son and heir? + + "Here's my work: does work discover-- + What was rest from work--my life? + Did I live man's hater, lover? + Leave the world at peace, at strife?... + + "Blank of such a record, truly, + Here's the work I hand, this scroll, + Yours to take or leave; as duly, + Mine remains the unproffered soul. + So much, no whit more, my debtors-- + How should one like me lay claim + To that largest elders, betters + Sell you cheap their souls for--fame?... + + "Have you found your life distasteful? + My life did, and does, smack sweet. + Was your youth of pleasure wasteful? + Mine I saved and hold complete. + Do your joys with age diminish? + When mine fail me, I'll complain. + Must in death your daylight finish? + My sun sets to rise again.... + + "My experience being other, + How should I contribute verse + Worthy of your king and brother? + Balaam-like I bless, not curse. + I find earth not gray, but rosy, + Heaven not grim, but fair of hue. + Do I stoop? I pluck a posy. + Do I stand and stare? All's blue.... + + "Meanwhile greet me--'friend, good fellow, + Gentle Will,' my merry men! + As for making Envy yellow + With 'Next Poet'--(Manners, Ben!)" + +It is difficult to imagine any other situation, any other place, any other +group of friends, chosen by Browning, that would have been more favorable +to the frank unfolding by Shakespeare of the motives which underlie his +work and his character. This any one may recognize, whatever his opinions +may be regarding the success of this monologue. + +The poem is meaningless without a grasp of the situation. "Manners, Ben!" +at the close is a protest against Ben's drinking too soon. Is this a +delicate hint at Ben's habits? Or was his beginning to drink a method by +which Browning suggests a comment of Ben's to the effect that Shakespeare +talked too much? + +Browning here brings out the true Shakespeare spirit, not, of course, to +the satisfaction of those who have their hobbies and systems and consider +Shakespeare the only poet, but to others who wish to comprehend the real +man. + +Douglas Jerrold has indicated the situation of his series of monologues in +the title, "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures." The mind easily pictures an +old-fashioned bed, the draperies drawn around it, with Mr. and Mrs. Caudle +retired to rest. Mrs. Caudle seizes this moment when she has her busy +spouse at her mercy. Before she falls asleep, she refers to his various +shortcomings and fully discusses future contingencies or consequences of +his evil deeds as a kind of slumber song for poor Caudle. The imagination +distinctly sees Caudle holding himself still, trying to go to sleep. No +word can relieve the tension of his mind, and Mrs. Caudle monopolizes all +the conversation. Caudle is exercising those powers which Epictetus says +that "God has given us by which we can keep ourselves calm and reposeful, +as Socrates did, without change of face under the most trying +circumstances." + +A study of any monologue will furnish an illustration of situation, but we +are naturally, in the study of the subject, led back again to Browning. + +In his "Andrea del Sarto," we are introduced to a scene common in the +lives of artists. It has grown too dark to paint, and, dropping his brush, +the painter sits in the gray twilight and talks with his wife, who serves +him as a model, and muses over his work and his life. No one can fully +appreciate the poem who has not been in a studio at some such moment when +the artist stopped work and came out of his absorption to talk to those +dear to him. At such a time the artist will be personal, will criticize +himself severely, and throw out hints of what he has tried to do, of his +higher aims, visions, and possibilities, and, while showing appreciation +of what other artists have said of him, will recognize, also, the mistakes +and failures of his art or life. It is the unfolding of a sensitive soul, +a transition from a world of ideals, imaginations, and visions, to one of +reality. + +Nowhere else in poetry has any author so fully caught the essence of such +an hour. Nowhere else can there be found art criticism equal to this +self-revelation of the artist who is called "the faultless painter." What +a revelation! What might he have done! What has he been! What a woman is +beside him, his greatest curse, but one whose willing slave he recognizes +himself to be! What a weak acquiescence, and what a fall! + +Notice also the abrupt beginning: "But do not let us quarrel any more." +She is asking ostensibly for money for her "cousin," but really, to pay +the gambling debts of one of her lovers. He grants her request, but pleads +that she stay with him in his loneliness and promises to work harder, and +again and again in his criticism of himself, of his very perfection, even +while he shows Raphael's weakness in drawing, he hints that there is +something in the others not in him. In fact, he recognizes one of the +deepest principles of life, as well as art, and exclaims, + + "Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, + Or what's heaven for? All is silver-gray, + Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!" + +He reveals his deep grief, how he dare not venture abroad all day lest the +French nobles in the city should recognize him and deal with him for +having used for himself--or rather for his wife, to build her a house, at +her entreaty--the money which had been given by Francis for the purchase +of pictures and for his return to Paris. And yet we find a weak soul's +acquiescence in fate-- + + "All is as God o'errules." + +How sympathetically does Browning reproduce the painter's point of view +in-- + + "... why, there's my picture ready made, + There's what we painters call our harmony! + A common grayness silvers everything,-- + All in a twilight." + +Or again: + + "... let me sit + The gray remainder of the evening out." + +While this poem is recognized as a great art criticism, its spirit can be +realized only by one recognizing the dramatic situation and appreciating +the delicate suggestions of the atmosphere of a studio and of time and +place in relation to an artist's life. + +One of the finest situations in Browning's verse is that in "La Saisiaz." +The poet has an appointment to climb a mountain with one of his friends, a +Miss Smith, daughter of one of the firm of Smith, Elder & Co., but when +the time comes, she is dead. The other, himself, keeps the appointment, +walks up alone, and pausing on the height, utters aloud his reflections +upon the immortality of the soul. + +The poem is none the less a monologue because it is Browning himself that +speaks, and because the friend of whom and to whom he speaks has just +passed to the unseen world. She whom he had expected as his companion in +this climb is so near to him as to be almost literally realized as a +listener. The poem fulfils the conditions of a monologue: a living soul +intensely realizing a thought and situation with relation to another soul. + +It is hardly possible to exaggerate the importance of situation in art. It +is the situation that gives us the background. An isolated object can +hardly be made the subject of a work of art. Art is relation, and shows +the kinship of things. "It is where the bird is," said Hunt, "that makes +the bird." + + + + +V. TIME AND CONNECTION + + +The monologue touches only indirectly the progressive development of +character as regards time. It deals with only one instant, the present, +which reflects the past and the future. But for this very reason its +aspect differs from that of the drama, since it focuses attention upon the +instant and reveals motives, possibilities, and even results. The +monologue is not "still-life" in any sense of the word. In an instant's +flash it may show the turning point of a life. + +The most important words in the study of a monologue are usually the +first. As a monologue is a sudden vision of a life, it of course breaks +into the continuity of thought or discussion. The first words are nearly +always spoken in answer to something previously said or in reference to +some event or circumstance which is only suggested, yet which must be +definitely imagined. One of the most important questions for the student +to settle is the connection of what is printed with what is not printed. +When does a character begin to speak, that is, in answer to what,--as a +result of what event, act, or word? + +For this reason the first words of a monologue must usually be delivered +slowly and emphatically, if auditors are to be given a clue to the +processes of the thought. The inflections and other modulations of the +voice in uttering the first words must always directly suggest the +connection with what precedes. + +"Rabbi Ben Ezra" begins abruptly: "Grow old along with me!" This poem has +already been discussed with reference to the necessity of conceiving the +listener, but we must also apprehend the thought which the listener has +uttered before we can get the speaker's point of view. The young man has, +no doubt, expressed pity or regret for the old man's isolation, for the +loss of all his friends, and must have remarked something about how gloomy +a thing it is to grow old. This is the cause of the older man's outburst +of joyous expostulation amounting almost to a rebuke. Now the reader must +realize this, must make it appear in the emphasis which he gives to the +first words of the Rabbi: that is, he must so render these words as to +bring the ideas of the Rabbi in opposition to those of the young man. The +antithesis to what has been said or implied gives the keynote of the poem, +whether we are interpreting it to another or endeavoring to understand it +for ourselves. + +We perceive here a striking contrast between the dramatic monologue and +the story. The story may begin, "Once upon a time," but the monologue as a +part of real life must suggest a direct continuity of thought and also of +contact with human beings. Even a play may introduce characters, gradually +lead up to a collision, and make emphatic an outbreak of passion, but the +monologue must, as a rule, break in at once with the specific answer of a +definite character in a living situation to a definite thought which has +been uttered by another. The reader must receive an impression of the +character at the moment, but in relation to a continuous succession of +ideas. + +Accordingly, the right starting of the monologue is of vital importance. +In a story we often wait a long while for it to unfold. But except in the +first preliminary reading, one cannot read on in the monologue, hoping +that the meaning will gradually become clear. When a reader fully +understands the meaning, he must turn and express this at the very +beginning. The very first phrase must be colored by the whole. + +Frequently the settling of the connection of the thought is the most +difficult part in the study of a monologue, yet, on account of the unique +difference of this type of literature from a story and other literary +forms, the study of the beginning is apt to be overlooked. The reader must +first find out where he is. I was once in search of Bishopsgate Street in +London, and meeting, in a very narrow part of a narrow street a unique old +man, who reminded me of Ralph Nickleby, I asked him to tell me the way. +He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Where are you now?" I told him +I thought I was in Threadneedle Street. "Right," and then he pointed out +the street, which was only a few steps away, but which I had been seeking +for some time in vain. He was wise, for unless I knew where I was, he +could not direct me. + +In the study of a monologue, if we will find exactly where we are, many +difficult questions will be settled at once; and the interpreter by +pausing and using care can make clear, through the emphatic interpretation +of the first sentences, a vast number of points which would otherwise be +of great difficulty. + +Mr. Macfadyen has well said, "Much of the apparent obscurity of Browning +is due to his habit of climbing up a precipice of thought, and then +kicking away the ladder by which he climbed." + +The opening of Browning's "Fra Lippo Lippi" requires a conception of night +and a sudden surprise-- + + "I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave! + You need not clap your torches to my face. + Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk!" + +These words cannot be given excitedly or dramatically without realizing +the role the police are playing, their rough handling of Lippo, and their +discovery that they have seized a monk at an unseemly hour of the night +and not in a respectable part of the city. We must identify ourselves with +Lippo and feel the torches of the police in the face, and the hand +"fiddling" on his throat. This whole situation must be as definitely +conceived as if a part of a play. The reference to "Cosimo of the Medici" +should be spoken very suggestively, and we should feel with Lippo the +consequent relief that resulted, and the dismay also of the police on +finding they have in hand an artist friend of the greatest man in +Florence. "Boh! you were best!" means that the hands of the policeman have +been released from his throat. + +All this dramatic action, however, must be secondary to the conception of +the character of the monk-painter. Almost immediately, in the very midst +of the excitement, possibly with reference to the very fellow who had +grasped his throat, the artist, with the true spirit of a painter, +exclaims, + + "He's Judas to a tittle, that man is! + Just such a face!" + +and as the chief of the squad of police sends his watchmen away, the +painter's heart once more awakes and discovers a picture, and he says, +almost to himself: + + "I'd like his face-- + His, elbowing on his comrade in the door + With the pike and lantern,--for the slave that holds + John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair + With one hand ('Look you, now,' as who should say) + And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped! + It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk, + A wood-coal or the like? or you should see! + Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so. + What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down, + You know them, and they take you? like enough! + I saw the proper twinkle in your eye-- + 'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first. + Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch." + +Thus the monologue is introduced, and with a captain of a night-watch in +Florence as listener, this great painter, who tried to paint things +truly, pours out his critical reflections,-- + + "A fine way to paint soul, by painting body + So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further + And can't fare worse!" + +This great reformer in art is made by Browning to declare why men should +paint + + "God's works--paint anyone, and count it crime + To let a truth slip by," + +for according to this man, who initiated a new movement in art, + + "Art was given for that; + God uses us to help each other so, + Lending our minds out.... + This world's no blot for us + Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: + To find its meaning is my meat and drink." + +This monologue, while only a fragment of simple conversation, touches +those profound moments which only an artist can realize, and unfolds the +real essence of a character. + +Abrupt beginnings are very common in monologues, but the student will find +that these are often the easiest to master. They can be easily interpreted +by dramatic instinct. There is always a situation, dramatic in proportion +to the abruptness of the beginning, and a few glances will fasten +attention upon the real theme. The monologue will never stir one who +desires long preliminary chapters of descriptions before the real story is +opened, but one with true dramatic imagination can easily make a sudden +plunge into the very midst of life and action. + +The unity of time on account of the momentary character of a monologue +needs no discussion. And yet we find in one otherwise strong monologue, +"Before Sedan," by Austin Dobson, a strange violation of the principle of +time. + +BEFORE SEDAN + +"THE DEAD HAND CLASPED A LETTER." + + Here, in this leafy place, + Quiet he lies, + Cold, with his sightless face + Turned to the skies; + 'Tis but another dead; + All you can say is said. + + Carry his body hence,-- + Kings must have slaves; + Kings climb to eminence + Over men's graves: + So this man's eye is dim;-- + Throw the earth over him. + + What was the white you touched, + There, at his side? + Paper his hand had clutched + Tight ere he died;-- + Message or wish, maybe;-- + Smooth the folds out and see. + + Hardly the worst of us + Here could have smiled:-- + Only the tremulous + Words of a child;-- + Prattle, that has for stops + Just a few ruddy drops. + + Look. She is sad to miss, + Morning and night, + His--her dead father's--kiss; + Tries to be bright, + Good to mamma, and sweet, + That is all. "Marguerite." + + Ah, if beside the dead + Slumbered the pain! + Ah, if the hearts that bled + Slept with the slain! + If the grief died;--but no;-- + Death will not have it so. + +The title of this monologue suggests something of the situation, and from +the first sentence we gather that it is spoken by one searching for the +dead in remote nooks of the battle-field. From the remarks against war, +the speaker seems to be one of the citizens searching their farms for any +who, wounded, have crawled away for water, or have died in an obscure +corner. + +A body is found, and something white, a paper, in the soldier's hand, is +discovered; the leader, who is the speaker, asks another to smooth out the +folds, as it may express some dying wish. It is found to be a letter from +his child, which the dying man has taken out and kissed. All this is in +the true spirit of the monologue. But now we come to a blemish,--"could +have smiled." So far, all has been in the present tense, dramatically +discovered and represented as a living, passing scene; but here there is a +relapse into mere narration, and the speaker appears to be telling the +story long afterwards. + +We never have such a blemish in a production of Browning's. In his hands +the monologue is always a present, living, moving thing. It is not a +narrative of some past action. + +All dramatic art is related to time, but the only time in which we can act +is the present. This fact is a help to the understanding of the +monologue, for we must bring a living character into immediate action and +contact with some other, or with many other, human beings. + + + + +VI. ARGUMENT + + +To comprehend the meaning of a monologue, it is necessary to grasp, fully +and clearly, the relation of the ideas, or the continuity of thought. + +In an essay or speech, the argument is everything, and even a story +depends upon a sequence of events. Many persons object to the monologue +because the full comprehension of the meaning can only come last, and seem +to think that the characters and situations should be mere accidents. Mr. +Chesterton has well said: "If a man comes to tell us that he has +discovered perpetual motion, or been swallowed by the sea-serpent, there +will yet be some point in the story where he will tell us about himself +almost all that we require to know." + +Not only is this true, but the impression of every event or truth, which +is all any man can tell, is dependent upon the character of the man, and +while the monologue seems to reverse the natural method in requiring us to +conceive of character and situation before the thought, it thus presents a +deeper truth and causes a more adequate impression. + +Both the person talking and the scene must be apprehended by the +imagination; then the meaning is no longer abstract; it is presented with +the living witnesses. Persons who want only the meaning usually ignore all +situation or environment. The co-ordination of many elements is the secret +of the peculiar power and force of the monologue. + +The monologue is not unnatural. Life is complex, and elements in nature +are not found in isolation. The colors of nature are always found in +combination, and primary colors are rare. Art is composed of a very few +elements, but how rarely do we find one of these separated from the +others. So an emphatically demonstrated abstract truth is rarely found. +Truth gives reality to truth. Thought implies a thinking soul. No thought +is completed until expressed; art is ever necessary to show relations. In +every age the parable, or some other indirect method, has been employed +for the simplest lessons. Words can only hint at truth. An abstraction +verges toward an untruth. A mere rule, even an abstract statement of law, +is worth little except as obeyed or its working seen among men. + +Men or women of the finest type rarely discuss their fellow-beings, for +the smallest remark quoted from another may produce a false impression. +What was the occasion? What was the spirit with which it was spoken? What +was the smile upon the face? What was the tenderness in the voice? The +exact words may be quoted, yet without the tone and action these may be +falsified. Even facts may convey an utterly false impression. + +Everything in nature is related. An interpretation of truth, accordingly, +demands the presentation of right relations. The flower that is cut and +placed in a vase has lost the bower of green leaves, the glimmer of the +sunlight, the sparkle of the dew, and the blue sky "full of light and +deity." + +In the monologue we must pass from "the letter that killeth" to "the +spirit that giveth life." The primary meaning hides itself, that we may +take account of the witnesses first, for in the mouth of "two or three +witnesses every word may be established." + +"The word that he speaks is the man himself." But how rarely do we realize +this. It is impossible to do so without a conception of the voice. The +smile and the actions of the body and natural modulations of the voice +reveal the fulness of the impression and the life that is merely suggested +by a word. The monologue, implying all these, makes men realize a truth +more vividly by showing the feeling and attitude toward truth of a living, +thinking man. + +It is not to superficialize the truth that the monologue adopts an +indirect method. It does not concern itself with situations and characters +for mere amusement or adornment. It does not introduce scenery to atone +for lack of thought, but seeks to awaken the right powers to realize it. + +A profound theme may be discussed dramatically as well, and at times much +better than in an essay or a speech. To receive a right impression from +"Abt Vogler," for example, the reader must consciously or unconsciously +realize the point of view, and also the philosophic arguments for the +highest idealism of the age. We must know the depth of meaning in the +line: + + "On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round." + +We must perceive, too, the philosophy beneath such words as these: + + "All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist," + +and even the argument that makes "Our failure here but a triumph's +evidence." + + "Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear, + Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: + But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; + The rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we musicians know." + +"Musicians" is used in a suggestive sense to indicate mystics and +idealists. + +The argument of the monologue, accordingly, is found in dramatic sequence +of natural thinking. It is not a logical or systematic arrangement of +points, but the association of ideas as they spring up in the mind. + +As has been shown, the start is everything, since it indicates the +connection of the speaker with the unwritten situation or preceding +thought of his listener. The argument then follows naturally. + +The argument of "A Death in the Desert" is one of the most complex and +difficult to follow. Browning opens and closes the poem with a bracketed +passage, and inserts one also in another place. These bracketed lines are +written or said by another than Pamphylax, the speaker in the main part of +the monologue. They refer to the old fragments and parchments with their +methods of enumeration by Greek letters. This gives the impression and +feeling of the ancient documents and the peculiar difficulties in the +criticism of the texts of the New Testament, upon which so much of the +evidence of Christianity depends. Pamphylax gives in the monologue an +account of the death of John, the beloved disciple, who was supposed to +have been the last man who had actually seen the Christ with his own eyes. +It occurs in the midst of the persecution which came about this time. The +dying John is in the cave, near Ephesus, with a boy outside pretending to +care for the sheep, but ready to give warning of the approach of Roman +soldiers. The speaker, who was present, describes all that happened, and +repeats the words of the dying apostle. Browning makes John foresee that +the evidences of Christianity would no longer depend upon simply "I saw," +as there would be no one left when John was dead who could say it. He thus +makes him foresee all the critical difficulties of modern times in +relation to the evidences of Christianity, and, in the spirit of John's +gospel and of the whole philosophy of that time, as well as with a +profound understanding of the needs of the nineteenth century, he makes +John unfold a solution of the difficulties. + +This profoundly significant poem will tax to the very utmost any method of +explaining the monologue. But Browning anticipates this difficulty in +part, and gives the atmosphere of the ancient manuscripts, introducing to +us details about the rolls, the situation, the spectators, and the +appearance of John. In fact, a monologue is found within a monologue, the +words of John himself constituting the essence or spirit of the passage; +and thus Browning is enabled to present the deepest thought through the +words of the beloved disciple. The difficulties are thus brought into +relation with the philosophy of that age, and at the same time the +strongest critical and philosophical thought of the poet's time is +expounded. + +One special difficulty in tracing the argument of a monologue will be +found in the sudden and abrupt transitions. These, however, are perfectly +natural; in fact, they are the peculiar characteristics of all good +monologues, and express the dramatic spirit. Since the monologue is the +direct revelation of this spirit in human thinking rather than in human +acting, which is shown by the play, these sudden changes of mood or +feeling are necessary to the monologue as the drama of the thinking mind. + +The person who reads a monologue aloud will find that its abrupt +transitions are a great help, and not a hindrance. When properly +emphasized and accentuated by voice and action, they become the chief +means of making the thought luminous and forcible. + +One of the best examples of what we may call the dramatic argument of a +monologue is found in Browning's "The Bishop orders his Tomb at Saint +Praxed's Church," one of the ablest criticisms ever offered upon both the +moral and the artistic spirit of the Renaissance. Notice that "Rome, 15--" +is a subtitle. The Bishop begins with the conventional lament, "Vanity, +saith the preacher, vanity!" He is dying, and has called his nephews,--now +owned as sons, for he has been unfaithful to his priestly vow of +chastity,--about his bed for his farewell instructions. His greatest +anxiety is regarding his monument, and as he thinks of this purpose of his +life, his whole character reveals itself. We perceive his old jealousy and +envy of a former bishop, and the very thought of this predecessor causes +sudden transitions and agitations in the dying man's mind. We discover +that his seeming love of the beautiful is only a sensuous admiration +entirely different from that true love of art which Browning endeavored to +interpret. To his sons he speaks frankly of his sins. His pompous and +egotistical likings are shown in his causing his sons to march in and out +in a stately ceremonial. This adds color to the poem and helps to +concentrate attention upon the character of the speaker. + +Ruskin has some important words in his "Modern Painters" upon this poem: +"I know no other piece of modern English, prose or poetry, in which there +is so much told as in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit,--its +worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of +art, of luxury, and of good Latin. It is nearly all I said of the central +Renaissance in thirty pages in 'The Stones of Venice,' put into as many +lines, Browning's being also the antecedent work. The worst of it is that +this kind of concentrated writing needs so much solution before the reader +can fairly get the good of it, that people's patience fails them, and they +give the thing up as insoluble." + +In studying the argument the reader should note the many sudden changes in +almost every phrase, especially at first. For example, + + "Nephews--sons mine ... ah God, I know not!" + +And so he continues: "She is dead beside," and + + "Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace." + +Note his break into business: + + "And so, about this tomb of mine...." + +This must be given with much saliency in order to show that it is the +chief point he has in mind and the purpose of his bringing them together. +Most of the other sayings are only dramatic asides, which, however, must +be strongly emphasized as indicative of his character. + +Note the expression of his hate in "Old Gandolf cozened me," though he +fought tooth and nail to save his niche. But still, his enemy had secured +the south corner: + + "He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!" + +Yet he accepts the result, and feels that his niche is not so bad: + + "One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side." + +"Onion-stone" and "true peach" are, of course, in direct opposition. Then +he tells the great secret of his life, how he has hidden a great lump of + + "... lapis lazuli, + Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape," + +and where it can be found to place between his knees on the monument. And +in this he shall have a great triumph over his enemy-- + + "For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!" + +After this outbreak of selfishness and envy he resumes the conventional +whine: + + "Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years." + +Suddenly, with a totally different inflection, he returns to the thought +of his tomb: + + "Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black-- + 'Twas ever antique-black I meant!" + +This is said suddenly, and with the most positive and abrupt inflections. +Notice that amid the gloom he will even laugh over the bad Latin of old +Gandolf the "elucescebat" of his inscription, and abruptly demands of his +sons that his epitaph be + + "Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word." + +Observe his sudden transition from + + "Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then!" + +to his appeal to their superstition because he has + + "... Saint Praxed's ear to pray + Horses for ye...." + +and his sudden threat: + + "Else I give the Pope + My villas!" + +If we realize his character, this kind of "concentrated writing" will not +need "so much solution" before the reader can "get the good of it." +Certainly people's patience should not fail them, nor should they "give +the thing up as insoluble." On the contrary, one who follows the +suggestions indicated, understands the natural languages, and has any +appreciation of the dramatic spirit, will feel that Browning's form is the +best means of giving with a few strokes a thorough understanding of the +character of a great movement and era in human history. + +This is one of Browning's "difficult" poems. Why difficult? Because most +"concentrated"; because it gives the fundamental spirit of a certain era +of the world; because the poet uses in every case the exact word, however +unusual it may be, to express the idea. He should not be blamed if he send +the reader to the dictionary to correct his ignorance. Why should not art +be as accurate as science? Why should it perpetuate ignorance? + + * * * * * + +To understand a monologue according to these suggestions the student must +first answer such questions as, Who speaks? What kind of a man says this? +To whom does he speak? Of whom is he talking? Where is he? At what point +in the conversation do we break in upon him in the unconscious utterance +of his life and motives? Then, last of all,--What is the argument? The +general subject and thought will gradually become plain from the first +question and the argument may be pretty clear before all the points are +presented. + +When the points are taken up in this order, the meaning of a monologue +will unfold as naturally as that of an essay or a simple story, and at the +same time afford greater enjoyment and express deeper truth in fewer +words. + +All of these questions are not applicable to every monologue. Sometimes +one has greater force than the others. Some monologues are given without +any necessity of conceiving a distinct place; some require no definite +time in the conversation; in a few the listener may be almost any one; but +in some monologues every one of these questions will have force. The +application of these points, however, is easy, and will be spontaneous to +one with dramatic instinct. Only at first do they demand special attention +and care. + +The application of all the points suggested or questions to be answered +will be shown best by an illustration,--a short monologue which +exemplifies them all. Let us choose for this purpose Browning's "My Last +Duchess." + +The speaker is the Duke, and the meaning of the whole is dependent upon +the right conception of his character. He stands before us puffed up with +pride, one who chooses "Never to stoop." + +The person spoken of, the Duchess, and her character form the real theme +of the poem, and the character of the Duke is made to look blacker by +contrast. How her youth, beauty, and loveliness shine through his sneers! +"She liked whatever she looked on, and her looks went everywhere," and he +was offended that she recognized "anybody's gift" on a plane with his gift +of a "nine-hundred-year-old name." This grew, and he "gave commands, then +all smiles stopped together." + +MY LAST DUCHESS + +FERRARA + + That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, + Looking as if she were alive. I call + That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands + Worked busily a day, and there she stands. + Will't please you sit and look at her? I said + "Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read + Strangers like you that pictured countenance, + The depth and passion of its earnest glance, + But to myself they turned (since none puts by + The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) + And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, + How such a glance came there; so, not the first + Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not + Her husband's presence only called that spot + Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps + Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps + Over my lady's wrist too much," or, "Paint + Must never hope to reproduce the faint + Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff + Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough + For calling up that spot of joy. She had + A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad, + Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er + She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. + Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast, + The dropping of the daylight in the West, + The bough of cherries some officious fool + Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule + She rode with round the terrace,--all and each + Would draw from her alike the approving speech, + Or blush at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked + Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked + My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name + With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame + This sort of trifling? Even had you skill + In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will + Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this + Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, + Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let + Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set + Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, + E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose + Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, + When'er I passed her; but who passed without + Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; + Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands + As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet + The company below, then. I repeat, + The Count your master's known munificence + Is ample warrant that no just pretence + Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; + Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed + At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go + Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, + Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, + Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! + +To whom is the Duke speaking? From the phrase, "The Count your master," +and other hints, we infer that the listener is the legal agent of the +Count who is father of the next victim, the new Duchess, and that this +legal agent has stepped aside to talk with the Duke about the "dowry." The +Duke has led the agent upstairs, drawn aside the curtain from the portrait +of his last Duchess, and monopolizes the conversation. + +The situation is marvellously suggestive. He draws the curtain which +"none puts by" but himself, and assumes an attitude of a connoisseur of +art, and calls the portrait "a wonder." Does this admiring of art for +art's sake suggest the degeneracy of his soul? He asks the other to "sit +and look at her." The subject in hand is shown by the word "last." How +suggestive is the emphasis upon the word, for they have been talking about +the new Duchess. In a few lines, as dramatically suggestive as any in +literature, his character and motives are all revealed, as he intimates to +his hearer what is expected from him. + +Why did he say all this to such a person? To overawe him, to show him what +kind of man he had to deal with, and the necessity of accepting the Duke's +terms lest "commands" might also be given regarding him, and his "smiles" +stop, like those of the lovely Duchess. It is only an insinuation, but in +keeping with the Duke's character. The rising at the end shows that he +takes it for granted that everything is settled as he wished it. Notice +that the agent falls behind, like an obedient lackey, but as this would +not appear well to the "company below," the Duke says:-- + + "Nay, we'll go + Together down." + +By the time the reader has answered these questions the whole argument +becomes luminous. A company has gathered at the Duke's palace to arrange +the final settlement for a marriage between the Duke and the daughter of a +count. The Duke and the steward of the Count, or some person acting as +agent, have stepped aside to consult regarding the dowry. The place is +chosen by the Duke; in drawing the curtain in front of the picture of his +last Duchess, he unfolds his character and also the story, and forcibly +portrays the character of his last victim. She was one who loved everybody +and everything in life with true human sympathy. She "thanked" him for +every gift, but that was not enough. She smiled at others. She was a +flower he had plucked for himself alone, and she must not show love or +tenderness, or blush at + + "The bough of cherries some officious fool + Broke in the orchard for her, ..." + +It is doubtful whether she died of a broken heart or was deliberately +murdered. His commands, of course, would not be given to her, but to his +lackeys. Many think she was murdered. Browning leaves it artistically +suggestive and uncertain. + +These questions, of course, will not be answered in any regular order. One +point will suggest another. The meaning will be partially apparent from +the first; but usually the points will be discovered in this sequence. +When completed, the whole is as simple as a story. The pompous, +contemptuous air of the Duke, the insinuating way in which he speaks, the +hint afforded by his voice that he will have no trifling, that he had made +his demands, and that was the end of it; all these details slowly unfold +until the whole story, nay, even the deepest motives of his life and +character, are clearly perceived. + +What a wonderful portrayal in fifty-six lines! Many a long novel does not +say so much, nor give such insight into human beings. Many a play does not +reveal processes so deep, so profound as this. + +Browning hints in his subtitle, "Ferrara," the part of the world and the +age in which such a piece of villany would have been possible. + +If the reader will examine some of the most difficult monologues of +Browning, or any of the more popular monologues, by the questions given, +he will see at once the peculiar character of the monologue as a form of +dramatic poetry. Such work must be at first conscious, but when it has +been thoroughly done, the rendering or reading of a monologue will be as +easy as that of a play. The enjoyment awakened by a good monologue, and +the insight it gives into human nature, will well repay the study +necessary to realize the artistic peculiarities of this form of poetry. + + + + +VII. THE MONOLOGUE AS A FORM OF LITERATURE + + +The nature of the monologue will be seen more clearly and forcibly if +compared with other forms of literature. + +Forms of literature have not been invented or evolved suddenly. They have +been in every case slowly recognized; in fact, one of the last, if not +most difficult phases of literary education and culture is the definite +conception of the difference between the various forms of poetry. To many +persons the word lyric and the word epic are loose terms, the one standing +for a short poem and the other for a long one. The real spirit and +character of the most elemental forms of poetry are often indefinitely and +inadequately realized. + +If this is true of the oldest and most fundamental forms of poetry, it is +still more true of the monologue. The word awakens in most minds only the +vaguest conceptions. + +If the monologue be discriminated at all from other forms of literature, +it is apt to be regarded as an accidental, if not an unnecessary or +unnatural, phase of literary creation. Even in books on Browning, +nine-tenths of whose work is in this form, the monologue is often spoken +of as if it were a speech. It is sometimes treated as if it were simply a +long monotonous harangue of some talker like Coleridge, the outflow of +whose ideas and words subordinates or puts to silence a whole company. But +unless the peculiar nature of the monologue is understood, much modern +verse will fail to produce an adequate impression. + +Like the speech, the monologue implies one speaker. But an oration implies +an audience, a platform, conscious preparation, and a direct and +deliberate purpose. The monologue, on the contrary, implies merely a +conversation on the street, in the shop, or in the home. Usually, only one +listener is found, and rarely is there an assembled audience or the formal +occasion implied by a speech. The occasion is some natural situation in +life capable of causing spontaneous outflow of thought and feeling and an +involuntary revelation of motive. + +The monologue is not a poetic interpretation of an oration, though the +latter is frequently found in poetry. Burns's poem on the speech of Bruce +at Bannockburn was called by Carlyle "the finest war-ode in any language," +and it is none the less noble because it suggests a speaker. It is a +poetic realization of an address to an army. Burns gives the situation and +the chief actor speaking as the artistic means of awakening a realization +of the event. But it is the poetic interpretation of oratory, a lyric, and +not a monologue. + +Dr. Holmes's "Our Boys" is an after dinner speech in metric form, full of +good-natured allusions to members of the class who were well-known men, +but even such a definite situation does not make his work a monologue. + +"Anything may be poetic by being intensely realized." Poetry may have as +its theme any phase of human life or endeavor, and the spirit of oratory +has often been interpreted by poetry. Oratory has a direct, conscious +purpose. It implies a human being earnestly presenting arguments to move +and persuade men to a course of action. + +The monologue reflects the unconscious and spontaneous effect of one human +being upon another, but it does not express the poet's own feelings, +convictions, or motives, except indirectly. We must not take the words of +any one of Browning's characters as an echo of the poet's personal +convictions. The monologue expresses the impressions which a certain +character receives from events or from other people. + +Epic poetry, from its application to an individual case or situation, is +made to suggest the ideals, aspirations, or characteristics of the race. +The epic makes events or characters more typical or universal, and hence +more suggestive and expressive. Its personations embody universal ideals. +Odysseus is not simply a man, but the representative of every patient, +long-suffering Hellenic hero, persevering and enduring trials with +fortitude. Achilles is not merely a youth full of anger, but a type of the +passionate, liberty-loving and aspiring Greek. Both Achilles and Odysseus +are not so much individual characters as typical Greeks. They express +noble emotions breathed into the hearts of mortals by Athena. Odysseus +embodies the virtue of temperance and patience symbolized by the cloudless +sky, represented by Athena's robe, and of perseverance shown by her +unstooping helmet. Achilles with his "destructive wrath," embodies the +spirit of youth and eager passion corresponding to the lightning and the +storm which are shown by the serpents on Athena's breast. + +We are apt to regard the epic as simply differing in form from the drama; +the drama being adapted to stage representation, while the epic is not. +But there are deeper differences. Though the drama may portray a character +as noble as the suffering Prometheus, a representative of the race, or one +as low as Nick Bottom; and though the epic may portray by the side of the +swift-footed Achilles and the wise Ulysses the physical and rough Ajax, +still at the heart of every form of poetry is found a different spirit. +Even when the same subject is introduced, a different aspect will be +suggested. Every form of human art expresses something which can be +adequately expressed in no other way. + +Dramatic art is recognized as being complex. From the following definition +of the term "dramatic" by Freytag in his "Technique of the Drama," many +points may be inferred regarding its unique character: + +"The term dramatic is applicable to two classes of emotions: those which +are sufficiently vigorous to crystallize into will and act, and those +which are aroused by an act. It accordingly includes the psychical +processes which go on within the human soul from the initiation of a +feeling up to passionate desire and activity, and also the influences +exerted upon the soul by the acts of oneself or of others. In other words, +it includes the outward movement of the will from the depths of the nature +toward the external world, and the inward movement of impression from the +external world which influence the inner nature: or, in fine, the coming +into existence of an act; and its consequences for the soul. Neither +action in itself nor passionate emotion in itself is dramatic. The +function of dramatic art is not the representation of passion in itself, +but of passion leading to action; it is not the representation of an event +in itself, but of its reflections in the human soul. The representation of +passionate emotion in itself, as such, is the function of the lyric; the +depicting of interesting events, as such, is the business of the epic."[1] + +This explanation of dramatic art at first seems very thorough and +complete. It certainly includes more than the play, although worked out +with special reference to the play. But any true study of dramatic art +must recognize the fact that the play, important as it is, is only one of +its aspects. + +This definition, fine as it is, needs careful consideration, and possibly +may be found, after all, inadequate. If it refers at all to some of the +most important aspects, the reference is vague. Dramatic art must also +include points of view, insight into motives, the nature and necessity of +situation, and especially the discovery by one man of another's attitude +of mind. + +The definition is notable because it does not define dramatic art, as is +so apt to be the case, by limitation. When any form of art is defined by +limitation, the next great artist that arises will break the shackles of +such a rule, and show its utter inadequacy. When Sir Joshua Reynolds said +blue could not be used as the general color scheme of a picture, +Gainsborough responded with the now famous painting, "The Blue Boy." + +Dramatic art is especially difficult to define because it is the very +essence of poetry, and deals with that most difficult of all subjects, the +human soul. Accordingly, illustrations of dramatic art are not only safer +than definitions, but more suggestive of its true nature. Definitions are +especially inadequate in our endeavors to perceive the differences between +the dramatic elements of a play and those of a monologue. + +To realize more completely the general nature of dramatic art, let us note +how a play differs from a story. + +A certain noble and his wife slew their king while he was their guest, and +usurped the crown. In order to conceal their crime and keep themselves on +the throne, the new king slew other persons, and even murdered the wife +and children of a noble who had fled to England and espoused the cause of +the rightful heir to the throne, the son of the murdered king. The usurper +was finally overthrown and killed in battle by the knight whose family he +had slain. + +Such are the bare items of the story of "Macbeth." When these facts were +fashioned into a play, the interest was transferred from the events to the +characters of the principal individuals concerned. Their ambitious +motives, their resolution or hesitation to perform the murder, and the +effects of this crime upon them were not only portrayed by Shakespeare, +but to Lady Macbeth is given a different type of conscience from that of +her husband. While at first, or before Macbeth committed his first crime, +he hesitated long, his conscience afterward became "seared as with a hot +iron." Although he hesitated greatly over the murder of Duncan, he later +pursued his purpose without faltering for a moment. The conscience of Lady +Macbeth, on the contrary, is awakened by crime. These two types of +conscience are often found in life, but have never been so truly +represented as in Shakespeare's interpretation of them. Possibly no other +art except dramatic art could have portrayed this experience and +interpreted such deep differences between human beings. + +Now note the peculiarities of the monologue. + +A man must part from a woman he loves. He has been rejected, or for other +reasons it is necessary for him to speak the parting word; they may meet +as friends, but never again can they meet as lovers. + +There are not enough events here to make a story, and the mere statement +of them awakens little interest. But Browning writes a monologue upon this +slender theme which is so short that it can be printed here entire. + +THE LOST MISTRESS + + All's over, then: does truth sound bitter + As one at first believes? + Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter + About your cottage eaves! + + And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, + I noticed that, to-day; + One day more bursts them open fully: + You know the red turns gray. + + To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? + May I take your hand in mine? + Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest + Keep much that I resign: + + For each glance of the eye so bright and black, + Tho' I keep with heart's endeavor,-- + Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, + Tho' it stay in my soul for ever!-- + + Yet I will but say what mere friends say, + Or only a thought stronger; + I will hold your hand but as long as all may, + Or so very little longer! + +Here we have as speaker a distinct type of man, and the precise moment is +chosen when he is bidding good-bye. Attention is focussed upon him for a +single moment during a single speech. Observe the naturalness of the +reference to insignificant objects in stanzas one and two. In the hour of +bitterest experience, every one remembers some leaf or tree or spot of +sunshine that seems burnt into the mind forever. Note the speaker's +hesitation, and how in the struggle for self-control he makes seemingly +careless remarks. How true to human nature! Here we have presented an +instant in the life of a soul; a trying moment, when, if ever, weakness +will be shown; when refuge is taken in little things to stem the tide of +feeling, as the man gives up the supreme hope of his life. This is +dramatic, and the disclosure of character is unconscious, spontaneous, +involuntary. + +Again, take as an illustration a longer monologue. + +A certain young duke has been taken away by his mother to foreign parts +and there educated, and has come back proud and conventional. He must +marry; and a beautiful woman, chosen from a convent, is elevated to his +exalted sphere. But, regarded as a mere flower cut from the woods and +brought to adorn his room, she is not allowed to exercise any influence +over her supposed home. Desiring to revive the medieval customs, the Duke +arranges a ceremonious hunt, with costumes of the period, and the Duchess +is given the part of presiding at the killing of the victim. This part she +refuses. As the angry Duke rides away to the hunt, he meets an old gypsy, +and, to punish the Duchess, instructs this old crone to give his wife a +fright, promising her money for the service. When the Duke returns, +Duchess and gypsy have fled. + +This is the story of "The Flight of the Duchess." Browning chooses a +family servant who was witness to the whole transaction to tell the story, +when long after the event he comes in contact with a friend, a sympathetic +foreigner, who will not betray him, and to whom he can safely confide the +real facts. + +The speaker starts out with a sudden reference to his being beckoned by +the Duke to lead the gypsy back to his mistress. He describes the place, +the character of the Duke,--born on the same day with himself,-- + + "... the pertest little ape + That ever affronted human shape;" + +his education, his return, his marriage with the Duchess, and gives, not a +mere story, but his own point of view, his impressions, while the complex +effect of the actions and character of the Duke, the Duchess, and the rest +upon himself are meanwhile suggested. + +Vividly he describes the first entrance of the Duchess into the old castle +and her desire to transfigure it all, as was her right, into the beauty +and loveliness of a home; and how she was shut up, entirely idle. + +As a participant in the hunting scene, he describes the bringing out of +ancestral articles of clothing, the tugging on of old jack-boots, and the +putting on of discarded articles of medieval dress. What a touch regarding +the experiences of the Duke's tailor! Then follows the long study as to +the role the Duchess should play,--she, of course, being supposed to sit +idly awaiting it, whatever it might be. When, to the astonishment of the +Duke, she refuses the part, his cruelty and that of his mother is shown in +the fearful description of the latter's tongue. At last they leave the +Duchess alone to become aware of her sins. + +What pictures does the servant paint! The old gypsy crone sidles up to the +Duke as he is riding off to the hunt. He gives no response until she says +she has come to pay her respects to the new Duchess. Then his face lights +up, and he whispers in her ear and tells her of the fright she is to give +the Duchess; and beckoning a servant,--the speaker in the monologue, sends +him as her guide. + +This man, as he guides the old woman toward the castle, sees her become +transfigured before him. Later he, with Jacinth, his sweetheart, waits +outside on the balcony until, awakened by her crooning song, he becomes +aware that the gypsy is bewitching the Duchess. Yet, when his mistress +issues forth, a changed woman, with transfigured face and a look of +determination, he obeys her least motion, brings her palfrey, and thus +aids in her escape. Browning gives a characteristic final touch, and we +see this man gazing into the distance and expressing his determination +soon to leave all and go forth into the wide world to find the lost +Duchess. + +The theme of all art is to interpret impressions or to produce upon the +human heart an adequate impression of events and of truth. Dramatic art +has always led the other arts in its power to present the motives of +different characters, show the various processes of passion passing into +action, the consequences of action, or the working of the complex elements +of a human character. + +Professor Dowden in his recent life of Browning, in endeavoring to explain +the peculiarities of Browning's plays, makes an important point, which is +still more applicable to the dramatic form which he calls "the short +monodrama," but which I call the monologue. "Dramatic, in the sense that +he (Browning) created and studied minds and hearts other than his own, he +pre-eminently was; if he desired to set forth or to vindicate his most +intimate ideas or impulses, he effected this indirectly, by detaching them +from his own personality and giving them a brain and a heart other than +his own in which to live and move and have their being. There is a kind of +dramatic art which we may term static, and another kind which we may term +dynamic. The former deals especially with characters in position, the +latter with characters in movement. Passion and thought may be exhibited +and interpreted by dramatic genius of either type; to represent passion +and thought and action--action incarnating and developing thought and +passion--the dynamic power is required. And by action we are to +understand not merely a visible deed, but also a word, a feeling, an idea, +which has in it a direct operative force. The dramatic genius of Browning +was in the main of the static kind; it studies with extraordinary skill +and subtlety character in position; it attains only an imperfect or +labored success with character in movement" ("Browning," by Edward Dowden, +p. 53). + +The expression "static dramatic" is more applicable to Browning's plays, +paradoxical as it may seem, than to his monologues. The monologues are +full of dynamic force. Even Dowden himself speaks in another place of +"Muleykeh," and calls it "one of the most delightful of Browning's later +poems, uniting as it does the poetry of swift motion with the poetry of +high-hearted passion." Browning certainly does in many of his monologues +suggest most decided action. The expression "static" must be understood as +referring to the dramatic elements or manifestations of character, which +result from situation and thinking rather than through action and plot. + +If the scope of dramatic art be confined to a formal play with its unity +of action among many characters, with its introduction, slow development, +explosion, and catastrophe, then the monologue must have a very +subordinate place. The dramatic element, however, is in reality much +broader than this. It is not a mere invention of a poet, but the +expression of a phase of life. This may be open, the result of a conflict +on the street, or concealed, the result of deep emotions and motives. It +may be the outward and direct effect of one human being upon another, or +the result of unconscious influence. + +Nor is it mere external action, mere conflicts of men in opposition to +each other that reveal character. Its fundamental revelations are found in +thinking and feeling. Whatever method or literary form can reveal or +interpret the thought, emotion, motive, or bearing of a soul in a specific +situation, is dramatic. The essence of the dramatic spirit is seen when +Shakespeare presents Macbeth thinking alone, after speaking to a +servant:-- + + "Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, + She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed." + +While waiting for this signal that all is ready, Shakespeare uncovers the +conflicts of a soul about to commit a crime. The inner excitement, the +roused imagination and feeling, the chaotic whirl of thoughts and passions +reveal the nature of the human conscience. What would Macbeth be to us +without the soliloquies? What would the play of "Hamlet" be without the +uncoverings of Hamlet's inmost thought when alone? Nay, what is the +essence of the spirit of Shakespeare, the most dramatic of all poets? Not +the plots, frequently borrowed and always very simple, but the uncovering +of souls. He makes men think and feel before us. The unities of time, +place, and action are all transcended by a higher unity of character. It +is because Shakespeare reveals the thinking and feeling heart that he is +the supreme dramatic poet. + +No spectacular show, no mere plot, however involved, no mere record of +events, however thrilling, interprets human character. Nor does dramatic +art centre in any stage or formal play, nor is the play dramatic unless it +centres in thinking and reveals the attitude of the mind. The dramatic +element in art shows the result of soul in conflict with soul; and more +than this, it implies the revelation of a soul only half conscious of its +motives and the meaning of life, revealing indirectly its fiercest +battles, its truest nature. + + + + +VIII. HISTORY OF THE MONOLOGUE + + +A glance over English literature shows us the fact that the monologue was +no sudden invention of Browning's, but that it has been gradually +developed, and is a natural form, as natural as the play. A genuine form +of poetry is never invented. It is a mode of expressing the fundamental +life of man, and while authors may develop it, bring it to perfection, and +make it a means for their "criticism of life," we can always find hints of +the same form in the works of other authors, nations, and ages. + +If we examine the monologue carefully, comparing it with various poems, +ancient and modern, we shall find that the form has been long since +anticipated, and was simply carried to perfection by Browning. It is not +artificial nor mechanical, but natural and necessary for the presentation +of certain phases of experience. + +The monologue, as has already been shown, is closely akin to the lyric; +hence, among lyric poems we find in all ages some which are monologues in +spirit. If criticism is to appreciate this form and its function in +literary expression, and show that it is the outcome of advancement in +culture and of the necessity for a broader realization of human nature, +some attention should be given to its early examples. + +If we go no farther back than English poetry, and in this only to Sir +Thomas Wyatt (b. 1503) we find that "The Lover's Appeal" has some of the +characteristics of a monologue. The words are spoken by a distinct +character directly to a specific hearer. + + "And wilt thou leave me thus? + Say nay! say nay! for shame, + To save thee from the blame + Of all my grief and shame. + And wilt thou leave me thus? + Say nay! say nay!" + +Marlowe's "The Passionate Shepherd to His Love," beginning-- + + "Come live with me and be my love," + +also represents a lover talking to his beloved. In reading it we should +picture their relations to each other. The poem may be spoilt by +introducing a transcendence of the dramatic element. It is a simple lyric. +The shepherd is idealized, and expresses the universal love of the human +heart. Still it is not the kind of love that one would directly express to +an audience. The reader will instinctively imagine his character and his +hearer, and, if reading to others, will unconsciously place her a little +to the side. This objective element aids lyric expression. To address it +to an audience, as some public readers do, implies that the loving youth +is a Mormon. + +Both these poems imply two characters, one speaking, one listening, and an +adequate interpretation of each poem must suggest a feeling between two +human beings. + +In Sir Walter Raleigh's "Reply to Marlowe's Shepherd," the positions of +the listener and the speaker are simply reversed. + +These poems are, of course, lyrics. They may be said by any lover. The +emotion is everything. The situation or idea is simple. The expression of +intense personal feeling predominates, and the impetuous, spontaneous +movement of passion subordinates or eliminates all conception of +character. Still, though primarily lyrics, in form these poems are +monologues. In each there is one person directly addressing another. In +the expression of these lyrics, we find the naturalness of the situation +represented by a monologue. + +While "The Passionate Shepherd to his Love" is one of the distinctive +lyrics in the language, yet the intense realization of the object loved +will cause the sympathetic interpreter to turn a little away from the +audience. The subjective and personal elements in the poem awaken emotion +so exalted in its nature that the speaker is unconscious of all except his +beloved. + +Still there is a slight objective element. The words are spoken by a +shepherd in love and are addressed directly, at least in imagination, to +his beloved. But when not carried too far or made dramatic and other than +lyric, this monologue element may be an aid, not a hindrance; it may +intensify the expression of the lyric feeling. + +Such poems, which are very common, may be called monologue lyrics or +lyrical monologues. They show the naturalness of the form of the +monologue, its unconscious use, its gradual recognition, and completion. + +Forms of poetry are complemental to each other, and one who tries to be +merely dramatic without appreciating the lyric spirit becomes theatric. + +In rendering such lyrics, the turning aside demands greater intensity of +lyric feeling, otherwise it is better that they be given with simple +directness to the audience. + + "Why so pale and wan, fond lover? + Prythee, why so pale? + Will, if looking well can't move her, + Looking ill prevail? + Prythee, why so pale? + + "Why so dull and mute, young sinner? + Prythee, why so mute? + Will, when speaking well can't win her, + Saying nothing do't? + Prythee, why so mute? + + "Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, + This cannot take her; + If of herself she will not love, + Nothing can make her: + The D--l take her!" + +This poem implies a speaker who is laughing at a lover, and both speaker +and listener remain distinct. Its rendering seems dramatic. Its jollity +and good nature must be strongly emphasized and it must be directly +addressed to the lover. It is still lyric, however, because the ideas and +feelings are more pronounced than any distinct type of character, in +either the speaker or the listener. + +The same is true of Michael Drayton's "Come, let us kiss and part." This +implies a situation still more dramatic. The characters of the speaker and +the listener seem to be brought in immediate contact, revealing not only +intense feeling, but something of their peculiarities. + + "Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part; + Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; + And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart + That thus so cleanly I myself can free; + Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows; + And when we meet at any time again, + Be it not seen in either of our brows + That we one jot of former love retain.-- + Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, + When his pulse failing, passion speechless lies, + When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, + And Innocence is closing up his eyes, + Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, + From death to life thou might'st him yet recover." + +Burns's "John Anderson, my Jo" has possibly more of the elements of a +monologue. We must conceive the character of an old Scottish wife, enter +into sympathy with her love for her "Jo," and fully express this to him. +Her love is the theme. Yet it is not the feeling of any lover, but +instead, that of an aged wife, a noble, a faithful and loving character of +a specific type. + +Still, though the poem can be rendered dramatically, in dialect, and with +the conception of a specific type of woman, the poet realized the emotion +as universal, and the specific picture is furnished only as a kind of +objective means of showing the nobleness of love. Some persons, in +rendering it, make it so subjective that they represent the woman as +talking to a mental picture of her husband, rather than to his actual +presence. But it would seem that some dramatic interpretation is +necessary. We do not identify ourselves completely with the thought and +feeling, but rather with her situation or point of view as the source of +the feeling, and certainly it may be rendered with the interest centred in +her character. + +Many other poems of Burns's have a dramatic element. The failure to +recognize some of his poems as monologues has possibly been the cause of +some of the adverse criticism upon him. He was not insincere in "Afton +Water." It is not a personal love poem. In fact, it expresses admiration +for nature more than any other emotion. The Mary in this poem is an +imaginary being. Dr. Currie was no doubt correct when he said the poem was +written in honor of Mrs. Stewart of Stair. It may also be in honor of +Highland Mary, as the poet's brother, Gilbert, thought. The two views will +not seem inconsistent to one who knows Burns's custom in writing his +poems. + +Burns frequently used this indirect or dramatic method. In situations +calling only for the expression of simple friendship, he adopted the +manner of a lover pouring out his feelings to his beloved, and many poems +which are nothing more than celebrations of friendly and kindly relations +are yet conceived as uttered by a lover. + +One of his last poems, written, in fact, when he was on his death-bed, was +addressed to Jessie Lewars, the sister of a brother exciseman, a young +girl who took care of the poet and of his sick wife and family during his +last illness, and without whose kindness the dying poet would have lacked +many comforts. In writing this poem, however, his manner still clung to +him, and he expresses his gratitude in the tone of a lover. + + "Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast + On yonder lea, on yonder lea, + My plaidie to the angry airt, + I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: + Or did misfortune's bitter storms + Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, + Thy bield should be my bosom, + To share it a', to share it a'. + + "Or were I in the wildest waste, + Of earth and air, of earth and air, + The desert were a paradise + If thou wert there, if thou wert there. + Or were I monarch o' the globe, + Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, + The brightest jewel in my crown + Wad be my queen, wad be my queen." + +Of course, this is lyric. Though not the lover of Jessie, in imagination +he became such, and hence the lover's feeling, though the result of an +imaginary situation, completely predominates. The point, however, here is +that it has a monologue form, and that we make a mistake in conceiving +that every poem which Burns wrote is purely personal. + +The monologue situation was so intensely realized by his imagination that +his poetry, while lyric in form, cannot be adequately understood unless we +perceive the species of dramatic element which a true understanding of the +monologue should enable us to realize. + +Burns's poems often contain dramatic elements peculiar to the monologue +and must be rendered with an imaginary speaker and an imaginary listener. +Little conception of character is given, and, of course, the lyric element +greatly predominates over all else. Those poems in which he speaks +directly out of his own heart in a purely lyric spirit, such as "Highland +Mary," are more highly prized. But if we did not constantly overlook the +peculiar dramatic element in some of his other poems we should doubtless +appreciate them more highly. Even "To a Mountain Daisy" and "To a Field +Mouse" are monologues in form. + +Coming to the consideration of more recent literature, we find in lyric +poems an increasing prevalence of the objective or dramatic element. +Whitman's "Oh, Captain, my Captain," seems to be the direct unburdening of +the writer's overweighted heart. He does not materially differ in his +feeling for Lincoln from his fellow-citizens, and every one, in reading +the poem aloud, adopts the emotion as his own. There is certainly no +dramatic emotion in the heart of the speaker in the poem. But there is a +definite figurative situation and representation of the Ship of State, +coming in from its long voyage,--that is, the Civil War,--and a picture of +Lincoln, the captain, lying upon the deck. This objective element enables +us to grasp the situation and more delicately suggests Lincoln, whose name +does not occur in the poem. + +It is almost impossible to separate the different forms of poetry. We can +discern differences, but they are not "separable entities." The monologue +is possibly as much the outgrowth of the lyric as of the dramatic spirit. +It is, in fact, a union of the two. Notice the title of some of Browning's +books: "Dramatic Idyls," "Dramatic Lyrics," "Dramatic Romances." + +Mr. Palgrave calls "Sally in our Alley," by Carey, "a little masterpiece +in a very difficult style; Catullus himself could hardly have bettered it. +In grace, tenderness, simplicity, and humor it is worthy of the ancients, +and even more so from the unity and completeness of the picture +presented." He neglects, however, to add that its "unity and completeness" +are due to the fact that it is in form a monologue. The person addressed +is indefinitely conceived, but we can hardly imagine the poem to be a +speech to a company. It must therefore be imagined as spoken to some +sympathetic friend. The necessity of a right conception of the person +addressed was not definitely included in the monologue until Browning +wrote. The character of the speaker in this poem, however, is most +definitely drawn, and is the centre of interest. We must adequately +conceive this before understanding the spirit of the poem. Then we shall +be able to agree with what Mr. Palgrave says, not only regarding the +picture presented, but the direct relationship of every figure, word, and +turn of phrase as consistent with the character. + +SALLY IN OUR ALLEY + + Of all the girls that are so smart + There's none like pretty Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + There is no lady in the land + Is half so sweet as Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + + Her father he makes cabbage-nets + And through the streets does cry 'em; + Her mother she sells laces long + To such as please to buy 'em: + But sure such folks could ne'er beget + So sweet a girl as Sally! + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + + When she is by, I leave my work, + I love her so sincerely; + My master comes like any Turk, + And bangs me most severely-- + But let him bang his bellyful, + I'll bear it all for Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + + Of all the days that's in the week + I dearly love but one day-- + And that's the day that comes betwixt + A Saturday and Monday; + For then I'm drest all in my best + To walk abroad with Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + + My master carries me to church, + And often am I blamed + Because I leave him in the lurch + As soon as text is named; + I leave the church in sermon-time + And slink away to Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + + When Christmas comes about again + O then I shall have money; + I'll hoard it up, and box it all, + I'll give it to my honey: + I would it were ten thousand pound, + I'd give it all to Sally; + She is the darling of my heart, + And she lives in our alley. + + My master and the neighbors all + Make game of me and Sally, + And, but for her, I'd better be + A slave and row a galley; + But when my seven long years are out + O then I'll marry Sally,-- + O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed, + But not in our alley! + +All these poems show the necessity for classification as lyric monologues; +that is, poems lyric in every sense of the word, which yet have a certain +dramatic or objective form peculiar to the monologue to give definiteness +and point. + +The reader, however, must be very careful not to turn lyrics into +monologues. The pure lyric should be rendered subjectively, neither as +dramatic, on the one hand, nor as oratoric on the other. To render a lyric +as a dramatic monologue is as bad as to give it as a speech. The +discussion of the peculiar differences between the lyric and the +monologue, and the discrimination of lyric monologues as a special class, +should suggest the great variety of lyrics and monologues, how nearly they +approach and how widely they differ from each other. Whether a poem is a +lyric or a monologue must be decided without regard to types or +classifications, except in so far as comparison may throw light upon the +general nature and spirit of the poetry. Different forms are often used to +interpret each other, and the spirit of nearly all may be combined in one +poem. + +A peculiar type of the monologue, found occasionally in recent literature, +may be called the epic monologue. Tennyson's "Ulysses" seems at first, in +form at least, a monologue. Ulysses speaks throughout in character, and +addresses his companions. But we presently find that Ulysses stands for +the spirit of the race. He is not an individual, but a type, as he was in +Homer, though he is a different type in Tennyson; and the poem typifies +the human spirit advancing from its achievements in the art and philosophy +of Greece into a newer world. Western civilization is prefigured in this +poem, and Ulysses meeting again the great Achilles symbolizes the spirit +of mankind once more entering upon new endeavors, these being represented +by Achilles. "Ulysses" is thus allegoric or epic. The monologue elements +are but a part of the objective form that gives it unity and character. + +The same is true of "Sir Galahad." While Sir Galahad is the speaker, and +the poem is in form a monologue, yet to regard him as a mere literal +character would make him appear egotistic and boastful, and this would +totally pervert the poem. The knight stands for an ideal human soul. Every +person identifies himself with Sir Galahad, but not in the dramatic sense. +While in the form of a monologue, it is, nevertheless, allegoric or epic, +and the search for the Holy Grail is given in its most suggestive and +spiritual significance. + +If the monologue is a true literary form, it has not been invented. If it +is only a mechanism, such as the rondeau, it is unworthy of prolonged +discussion; but that it is a true literary form is proven by the fact that +it necessarily co-ordinates with the lyric, epic, and dramatic forms of +literature. These show that it is not mechanical or isolated, but as +natural as any poetic or literary form. That the monologue is fundamental, +no one can doubt who has listened to a little child talking to an +imaginary listener, or telephoning in imagination to Santa Claus. That the +monologue can reveal profound depths of human nature, no one familiar with +Browning can deny. That the form and the spirit of the monologue are +almost universal, no one who has looked into English literature can fail +to see. This power of the monologue to unite and enrich other phases or +forms of literature proves that it is an essential dramatic form, and that +its use by recent authors cannot be regarded as a mere desire to be odd. + +The fact that a story is told by a single speaker does not necessarily +make a poem a monologue. Longfellow's "Paul Revere's Ride" is told by the +old innkeeper, but the only indication of this is in the opening clause, +"Listen, my children." There is hardly another word in the story that +takes color from his individual character. The poem is simply a narrative, +and the same is true of all "The Tales of a Wayside Inn." + +Mr. Chesterton calls "Muleykeh" and "Clive," by Browning, "possibly the +two best stories in poetry told in the best manner of story-telling." Now, +are these poems stories or monologues? They are both of them monologues. +The chief interest is not in the events, but in the characters portrayed. +Every event, every word, and every phrase has the coloring of human +motives and experience. + +The events of "Muleykeh" from the narrative point of view are few. +Muleykeh, or Pearl, is the name of a beautiful horse belonging to Hoseyn, +a poor Arab. The rich Duhl offers the price of a thousand camels for +Muleykeh, but his offer is rejected. He steals Pearl by night. Hoseyn is +awakened and pursues on another horse. He sees that "dog, Duhl," does not +know how to ride Muleykeh, and shouts to the fellow what to do to get +better speed. The thief takes the hint, and touching the "right ear" and +pressing with the foot Pearl's "left flank," escapes. His neighbors +"jeered him" for not holding his tongue, when he might easily have had +her. + + "'And beaten in speed!' wept Hoseyn: + 'You never have loved my Pearl.'" + +This poem is in the form of a story, but it is colored not only by the +character of the Arab and his well-known love of a horse, but by a +narrator who can reveal the character and the peculiar love of the weeping +Hoseyn. + +Any one reading the poem aloud must feel that though Browning may have +intended it as a story, he was so affected by the dramatic point of view, +that it is in spirit, though not in form, essentially a monologue. + +If there is any doubt about "Muleykeh," there can be none that "Clive" is +a monologue. + +"Clive" may seem to some to be involved. Why did not Browning make his +hero tell his own story? Because it was better to take another person, one +not so strong, and thus to reveal the impressions which Clive's deed makes +upon the average man. Such a man's quotation of Clive's words can be made +more exciting and dramatic in its expression. + +It is difficult at times to decide whether a story is a monologue or a +mere narrative. But, in general, when a story receives a distinct coloring +from a peculiar type of character, even though in the form of a narrative, +it may be given with advantage as a monologue. Its general spirit is best +interpreted by this conception. + +"Herve Riel," for example, seems at first a mere story, but it has a +certain spirited and dramatic movement, and though there is no hint of who +the speaker is, it yet possesses the unity of conversation and of the +utterance of some specific admirer of "Herve Riel." This may be Browning +himself. He wrote the poem and gave it to a magazine,--a rare thing with +Browning,--and sent the proceeds to the sufferers in the French Commune; +hence, its French subject and its French spirit. The narrator appears to +be a Frenchman; at least he is permeated with admiration for the noble +qualities in the French character at a time when part of the world was +criticizing France, if not sneering at it on account of the victory of +the Germans and the chaos of the Commune. + +One who compares its rendition as an impersonal story with a rendering +when conceived by a definite character, by one who realizes the greatness +of the forgotten hero of France, will perceive at once the spirit and +importance of the monologue. + +One must look below mere phrases or verbal forms to understand the nature +or spirit of the monologue. The monologue is primarily dramatic, and the +word "dramatic" need hardly be added to it any more than to a play, +because the idea is implied. + +Whatever may be said regarding the monologue, certainly the number has +constantly increased of those who appreciate the importance of this form +in art, which, if Browning did not discover, he extended and elevated. + +We can hardly open a book of modern poetry which is not full of +monologues. Kipling's "Barrack-Room Ballads" are all monologues. There is +a rollicking, grotesque humor in "Fuzzy-Wuzzy" that makes it at first +resemble a ballad, as it is called by the author, but it interests because +of its truthful portrayal of the character of a generous soldier. Kipling +is dramatic in every fibre. He even portrays the characters of animals, +and certain of his animal stories are practically monologues. What a +conception of the camel is awakened by "Oonts!" "Rikki-tikki-tavi" awakens +a feeling of sympathy for the little mongoose. In his portrayal of +animals, Kipling even reproduces the rhythm of their movements. The very +words they are supposed to utter are given in the character of the army +mule, the army bullock, and the elephants. + +All Kipling's sketches and so-called ditties, or "Barrack-Room Ballads," +are practically dramatic monologues. To render vocally or even to +understand Kipling requires some appreciation of the peculiarities of the +monologue. The Duke of Connaught asked Kipling what he would like to do. +The author replied, "I should like to live with the army on the frontier +and write up Tommy Atkins." Monologue after monologue has appeared with +Tommy Atkins as a character type. The monologue was almost the only form +of art possible for "ballads" or "ditties" or studies of unique types of +character in such situations. + +All poetry, according to Aristotle, expresses the universal element in +human nature. Lyric, epic, and dramatic writing alike must become poetic +by such an intense realization of an idea, situation, or character that +the soul is lifted into a realization of the emotions of the race. Some +forget this in studying the differences between lyric and dramatic poetry. +It is not the lyric alone that idealizes human experience and +universalizes emotion. + +The study of Kipling's "Mandalay" especially illustrates the differences +between the lyric and the dramatic spirit, and their necessary union in +the portrayal of human experience. This is both a lyric and a monologue. +It has a dramatic character. A British soldier in a specific place, +London, is talking to some one who can appreciate his feeling, and every +word is true to the character speaking and to the situation. But this +dramatic element does not interfere with, but on the contrary aids, the +realization and expression of a profoundly lyric feeling and spirit. The +soldier reveals his love,--love deeper than racial prejudices,--and +though "there aren't no Ten Commandments" in the land of his beloved, he +feels the universal emotion in the human heart, a profound love that is +superior to any national bound or racial limit. In the poem this love +dominates everything,--the rhythm, the color of the voice. He even turns +from his hearer, and sees far away the vision of the old Moulmein Pagoda, +and the suddenness of the dawn, coming up + + "... like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!" + +The fact that poetry expresses the "universal element in human nature" is +true not only of lyric poetry, but also of dramatic poetry; and in the +noblest exaltation of emotion, lyric, dramatic, and epic elements +coalesce. + +It is the affinity of the monologue with lyric and epic poetry that proves +its own specific character. The fact that there can be a lyric, epic, and +narrative monologue, proves its naturalness. + +Many of America's most popular writers have adopted the monologue as their +chief mode of expression. James Whitcomb Riley's sketches in the Hoosier +dialect present the Hoosier point of view with a homely and sympathetic +character as speaker. Even his dialect is but an aspect of the types of +character conceived. The centre of interest is not always in the emotion +or the ideas, but in the type of person that is the subject of a +monologue. + +The same is true of the poems by the late Dr. Drummond of Montreal. + +The peculiar French-Canadian dialect was never so well portrayed; but this +is only accidental. The chief interest lies in his creation or realization +of types of character. The artistic form is the monologue, however +conscious or unconscious may have been the author's adoption of the form. + +A recent popular book, "The Second Mrs. Jim," uses a series of monologues +as the means of interpreting a new kind of heroine, the mother-in-law. The +centre of interest being in this character, the author adopted a series of +eight monologues with the same listener, a friend to whom Mrs. Jim unfolds +her inmost heart. With this person she can "come and talk without its +bein' spread all over the township." She remarks once that she took +something she wanted to be told to a neighbor who was a "good spreader, +just as you're the other kind." + +All the conditions of the monologue are complied with; the situation +changes, sometimes being in Mrs. Jim's house, but four or five times in +that of her friend. Speaker and listener are always the same. The author +wishes to centre attention upon the character of the speaker, her +common-sense, her insight into human nature, her skill in managing Jim, +and especially the boys; hence a listener is chosen who will be discreet +and say but little, and who is in full sympathy with the speaker. There is +little if any plot; but while Mrs. Jim narrates what has happened in the +meantime, it is her character, her insight, her humor, her point of view +and mode of expression, in which the chief interest centres. This book +might be called a narrative monologue, but the narrative is of secondary +importance; the centre of interest lies in the portrayal of a character. + +The use of the monologue as a literary form has grown every year, and no +reason can be seen why its adoption or application may not go on +increasing until it becomes as truly a recognized literary form as the +play. The varieties that can be found from the epic monologue "Ulysses" of +Tennyson to such a popular poem as "Griggsby's Station" by James Whitcomb +Riley, indicate the uses to which the monologue can be turned and its +importance as a form of poetry. + +The fact that we meet a number of monologues before Browning's time shows +the naturalness and the necessity of this dramatic form; yet it is only in +Browning that the monologue becomes profoundly significant. Browning +remains the supreme master of the monologue. Here we find the deepest +interpretation of the problems of existence, and the expression of the +depths of human character. So strongly did this form fit his great +personality and conception of art that his plays cannot compare with his +monologues. It was by means of the monologue that he made his deepest +revelations. It is safe to say that, without his adoption of the +monologue, the best of his poetry would never have been written; and where +else in literature can we find such interpretation of hypocrisy? Where +else can we find a more adequate suggestion of the true nature of human +love, especially the interpretation of the love of a true man, except in +Browning? Who can thoroughly comprehend the spirit of the middle part of +the nineteenth century, and get a key to the later spiritual unfolding, +without studying this great poet's interpretation of the burden of his +time? + +Who can contemplate, even for a few moments, some good example of this +dramatic form, especially one of Browning's great monologues, and not +feel that this overlooked form is capable of revealing and interpreting +phases of character which cannot be interpreted even by the play or the +novel? + +One form of art should never be compared with another. No form of art can +ever be substituted for the play in revealing human action and motive, or +even for the novel, with its deep and suggestive interpretation of human +life. While the monologue will never displace any other form of art, the +fact that it can interpret phases of human life and character which no +other mode of art can express, proves it to be a distinct form and worthy +of critical investigation. Its recognition constitutes one of the phases +of the development of art in the nineteenth century, and it is safe to say +that it will remain and occupy a permanent place as a literary form. We +must not, however, exaggerate its importance on the one hand, nor on the +other too readily pronounce it to be a mere incident and passing oddity. +Its instinctive employment by leading authors, those with a message and +philosophy of life, proves that its true nature and possibilities deserve +study. + + + + +PART II + +DRAMATIC RENDERING OF THE MONOLOGUE + + + + +IX. NECESSITY OF ORAL RENDITION + + +The monologue, in common with all forms of literature, but especially with +the drama, implies something more than words,--only its verbal shell can +be printed. As the expression of a living character, it necessarily +requires the natural signs of feeling, the modulations of the voice, and +the actions of the body. + +After all questions regarding speaker, hearer, person spoken of, place, +connection, subject, and meaning have been settled, the real problem of +interpretation begins. The result of the reader's study of these questions +must be revealed in the first word or phrase he utters as speaker. Since +the poem may be unknown to his auditors, each point must be made clear to +them, each question answered, by the suggestive modulations of his voice +and the expressive action of his body. + +This is the real problem of the dramatic artist, and without its solution +he can give no interpretation. The long meditation over a monologue, the +serious questionings and comparisons, are not enough. He must have a +complete comprehension of all the points enumerated,--but this is only the +beginning. He must next discover the bearings of the supposed speaker, the +attitude of his mind, his feelings and motives. + +To do this, the reader must carefully study those things which the writer +could only suggest or imply in words. The poem must be re-created in his +imagination. His feeling must be more awake, if possible, than that of the +author. + +In one sense, the terms "vocal expression" and "vocal interpretation of +literature," are a misuse of words. The histrionic presentation of a play +is not, strictly speaking, a vocal interpretation, nor an interpretation +by action. Vocal modulations, motions, and attitudes, the movements of +living men and women, are all implied in the very conception of a drama. +The voice and action are only the completion of the play. + +The same is true of the monologue. The rendering of it is not an +adjunctive performance, not a mere extraneous decoration. It is more than +a personal comment; to render a monologue is to make it complete. "Words," +said Emerson, "are fossilized poetry." If a monologue is fossilized +poetry, its true rendering should restore the original being to life. The +written or printed monologue is like an empty garment, to be understood +only as it is worn. A living man inside the garment will show the +adaptation of all its parts at once. + +The presentation of a play or of a monologue is its fulfilment, its +completion, expressing more fully the conceptions which were in the mind +of the writer himself, though with the individuality and the true personal +realization of another artist. No two Hamlets have ever been alike, nor +ever can be alike, unless one of the two is an imitation of the other. +Dramatic art implies two artists,--the writer, who gives broad outlines +and suggestions; and the living, sympathetic dramatic interpreter, who +realizes and completes the creation. The author creates a poem and puts it +into words, and the vocal interpreter then gives it life. + +A true vocal interpretation of the monologue, as of the play, does not +require the changing of one word or syllable used by the author. It is the +supplying of the living languages. + +Words and actions are complemental languages. Verbal expression is more or +less intellectual. It can be recorded. It names ideas and pictures. It is +composed of conventional symbols, and only when the words are understood +by another mind can it suggest a true sequence of ideas and events. Vocal +expression, however, shows the attitude of the mind of the man towards +these ideas. Words are objective symbols of ideas. The modulations of the +voice reveal the process of thinking and feeling. The word, then, in all +cases, implies the living voice. It is but an external form: the voice +reveals the life. Action shows, possibly, even more than tones do, the +character of the man, his relations, his "bearings," his impressions or +points of view. + +These three languages are, accordingly, living witnesses. One of them is +not complete, strictly speaking, without the others, and the artistic +rendering of a monologue is simply taking the objective third which the +author gives, and which can be printed, and supplying the subjective +two-thirds which the imagination of the reader must create and realize +from the author's suggestion. + +All printed language is but a part of one of these three languages, which +belong together in an organic unity. In the very nature of the case, the +better the writing, the greater the suggestion of the modulations of +voice and body. The highest literature is that which suggests life itself, +and a living man has a beaming eye, a smiling face, a moving body, and a +voice that modulates with every change in idea and feeling. No process has +ever been able to record the complexity of these natural languages. Their +co-ordination depends upon dramatic instinct. + +As the play always implies dramatic action, as the mind must picture a +real scene and the characters must move and speak as animated beings +before there can be the least appreciation of its nature as a play, so the +monologue also implies and suggests a real scene or moment of human life. + +The monologue is an artistic whole, and must be understood as a whole. +Each part must be felt to be like the limb of a tree, a part of an +organism. As each leaf on the tree quivers with the life hidden in trunk +and root, so each word of the monologue must vibrate with the thought and +feeling of the whole. + +Hence, the interpreter of the monologue must command all the natural, +expressive modulations of voice and body. He must have imagination and +insight into human motives, and his voice and body must respond to this +insight and understanding. He must know the language of pause, of touch, +of change of pitch, of inflection, of the modulation of resonance, of +changes in movement. He must realize, consciously or subconsciously, the +importance of a look, of a turn of the head, of a smile, of a transition +of the body, of a motion of the hand; in brief, throughout all the complex +parts constituting the bodily organism he should be master of natural +action, which appeals directly to the eye and precedes all speech. + +Every inflection must be natural; every variation of pitch must be +spontaneous; every emotion must modulate the color of the voice; every +attitude of the interpreter must be simple and sustained. He must have +what is known as the "mercurial temperament" to assume every point of view +and assimilate every feeling. + +The first great law of art is consistency, hence all the parts of a higher +work of art must inhere, as do all parts of a plant or flower; but this +unity and consistency should not be mechanical or artificial. Delivery can +never be built; it must grow. True expression must be spontaneous and +free. One must enjoy a monologue; one must live it. Every act or +inflection must suggest a dozen others that might be given. The fulness of +the life within, in thinking and feeling, must be delicately suggested. +The most important point to be considered is a suggestion of the reality +of life and the intensity of feeling. The interpreter must study nature. +He must speak as the bird sings, not mechanically, but out of a full +heart, yet not chaotically or from random impulses. All his movements must +come, like the blooming of the rose, from within outward; but this can +only result from meditation and command of mind, body, and voice. +"Everything in nature," said Carlyle, "has an index finger pointing to +something beyond it"; so every phrase, every word, action, or pause, every +voice modulation, must have a relation to every other modulation. + +In the art of interpreting the monologue, which is a different art from +the writing of one, all must be as much like nature as possible. Yet this +likeness is secured, not by imitation or by reproducing external +experiences, but by sympathetic identification and imaginative +realization. + +Every art has a technique. The modulations of the voice and the actions of +the body must be directly studied, or there can be no naturalness. +Meaningless movements and modulations lead to mannerisms. The reader must +know the value of every action of voice or body, and so master them that +he can bring them all into a kind of subconscious unity for the expression +of the living realization of a thought or situation. + +The interpreter must use no artificial methods, but must study the +fundamental principles of the expressive modulations of voice and body and +supplement these by a sympathetic observation of nature. + +The questions to be settled by the reader have been shown by the analysis +of the structure of the monologue. He must first consider the character +which he is to impersonate, and his conception of it must be definite and +clear as that of any actor in a play. In one sense, conception of +character is more important in the monologue than in the play, on account +of the fact that the speaker stands alone, and the monologue is only one +end of a conversation. In a play the actor is always associated with +others; has some peculiarity of dress; has freedom of movement, and his +character is shown by others. He is only one of many persons in a moving +scene, and often fills a subordinate place. But in the monologue, the +interpreter is never subordinate, and has few accessories, or none. He +must not only reveal the character that is speaking, but also indicate the +character of the supposed listener. He must suggest by simple sounds and +movements, not by make-up or artificial properties. Thus the +interpretation of a monologue is more difficult than that of a play. The +actor has long periods of listening when another is speaking, so that he +has better opportunities to show the impression produced upon him by each +idea. The interpreter of a monologue must often show that he, too, is +listening, and express the impression received from another. + +To illustrate the necessity of the vocal rendering of a monologue and the +peculiar character of the interpretation needed, take one of the simplest +examples, a humorous monologue of Douglas Jerrold's, one of "Mrs. Caudle's +Curtain Lectures." + +Take, for example, the lecture she gives after Mr. Caudle has lent an +umbrella: + + MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY UMBRELLA + + Bah! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. "What were you to + do?" Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain + there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He + doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have + better taken cold than taken our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain, + Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if it isn't + St. Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense; you + don't impose upon me. You can't be asleep with such a shower as that! + Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you do hear it! Well, that's a pretty + flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time + out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't + insult me. He return the umbrella! Anybody would think you were born + yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella! There--do you + hear it! Worse and worse! Cats and dogs, and for six weeks, always six + weeks. And no umbrella! + + I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow? + They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No; they shall + stop at home and never learn anything--the blessed creatures!--sooner + than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have + to thank for knowing nothing--who, indeed, but their father? People + who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers. + + But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes, I know very well. I was + going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow--you knew that; and you + did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and take + every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle. + No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more. No; + and I won't have a cab. Where do you think the money's to come from? + You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed! + Cost me sixteenpence at least--sixteenpence, two-and-eight-pence, for + there's back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay + for 'em; I can't pay for 'em, and I'm sure you can't, if you go on as + you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your + children--buying umbrellas! + + Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't + care--I'll go to mother's to-morrow; I will; and what's more, I'll + walk every step of the way,--and you know that will give me my death. + Don't call me a foolish woman, it's you that's the foolish man. You + know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give + me a cold--it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at + all. I may be laid up, for what you care, as I daresay I shall--and a + pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! I shouldn't + wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent the + umbrella for. Of course!... + + Men, indeed!--call themselves lords of the creation!--pretty lords, + when they can't even take care of an umbrella! + + I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what + you want--then you may go to your club and do as you like--and then, + nicely my poor dear children will be used--but then, sir, you'll be + happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you'd never have lent + the umbrella!... + + The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet; for they + shan't stop at home--they shan't lose their learning; it's all their + father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't + tell me I said they shouldn't: you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd + spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school; mark that. And + if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault--I didn't lend the + umbrella. + +The peculiar character of Mrs. Caudle must be definitely conceived, and +the interpreter must express her feelings and reveal with great emphasis +the impressions produced upon her, for these are the very soul of the +rendering. The sudden awakening of ideas in her mind, or the way she +receives an impression, must be definitely shown, for such manifestations +are the chief characteristics of a monologue. Such mental action is the +one element that makes the delivery of a monologue differ from that of +other forms of literature. + +The fact that one end of the conversation is omitted, or only echoed, +concentrates our attention upon the workings of Mrs. Caudle's mind. The +interpreter must vividly portray the arrival of every idea, the horrors +with which she contemplates every successive conjecture. + +The reader must express Mrs. Caudle's astonishment after she has found out +Mr. Caudle's offence. "'What were you to do?'" is no doubt an echo of the +question made by Mr. Caudle. Sarcastic surprise possesses her at the very +thought of his asking such a question. "Let him go home in the rain, to be +sure," is given with positiveness, as if it settled the whole matter. +"Take cold, indeed!" is also, no doubt, a sarcastic echo of Mr. Caudle's +words. The abrupt explosion and extreme change from the preceding +indicates clearly her repetition of Mr. Caudle's words. The pun: "He'd +have better taken cold than taken our umbrella," may sound like a jest, +but with Mrs. Caudle it is too sarcastic for a smile. + +Mrs. Caudle must "hear the rain" and appear startled. The thought of the +following day causes sudden and extreme change of feeling, face, and +voice. Her wrath is aroused to a high pitch when Caudle snores or gives +some evidence that he is asleep, and she is most abrupt and bitter in: +"Nonsense; you don't impose upon me; you can't be asleep with such a +shower as that." She repeats her question with emphasis. Then there must +have been some groan or assent from poor Caudle, which is shown by a +change of pitch and a sarcastic acceptance of his answer, "Oh, you _do_ +hear it!" Presently, Mr. Caudle causes another explosion by evidently +suggesting that the borrower would return the umbrella, "as if anybody +ever did return an umbrella!" + +A dramatic imagination can easily realize the continuity of thought in +Mrs. Caudle's mind, her expression of profound grief over the poor +children, the sudden thought of "poor mother" that awakens in her the +reason for his doing the terrible deed, and her self-pity. Every change +must be expressed decidedly, to show the working of her mind. + +Such a monologue is decidedly dramatic, and to interpret it requires vivid +imagination, quick perceptions, a realization of the relation of a +specific type of character to a distinct situation and the interaction of +situation and character upon each other. The interpreter must have a very +flexible voice and responsive body. He must have command of the technique +of expression and be able to suggest depth of meaning. + +It is easy enough to study a monologue superficially, and find its meaning +for ourselves in a vague way, sufficient to satisfy us for the moment, but +there is necessity for more study when we attempt to make the monologue +clear and forcible to others. + +The interpreter will discover, when he tries to read the monologue aloud, +that his subjective studies were crude and inconclusive. He will find +difficulties in most unexpected places; but as he contemplates the work +with dramatic instinct, or imaginative and sympathetic attention to each +point, new light will dawn upon him. There is need always for great power +of accentuation. Discoveries should be sudden, and the connections +vigorously sustained. The modulations of the voice must often be extreme, +while yet suggesting the utmost naturalness. + +The length and abruptness of the inflections must change very suddenly. +There must be breaks in the thought, with a startled discovery of many +points, and extreme changes in pitch to show these. Some parts should go +very slowly, while others should have great quickness of movement. + +Any serious monologue will serve to illustrate the necessity of vocal +expression for its interpretation. Take, for example, Browning's "Tray," +and express the strong contrasts by the voice. + +TRAY + + Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst + Of soul, ye bards! + Quoth Bard the first: + "Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don + His helm and eke his habergeon ..." + Sir Olaf and his bard.--! + + "That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second), + "That eye wide ope as though Fate beckoned + My hero to some steep, beneath + Which precipice smiled tempting Death...." + You too without your host have reckoned! + + "A beggar-child" (let's hear this third!) + "Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird + Sang to herself at careless play, + And fell into the stream. 'Dismay! + Help, you the stander-by!' None stirred. + + "Bystanders reason, think of wives + And children ere they risk their lives. + Over the balustrade has bounced + A mere instinctive dog, and pounced + Plumb on his prize. 'How well he dives! + + "'Up he comes with the child, see, tight + In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite + A depth of ten feet--twelve, I bet! + Good dog! What, off again? There's yet + Another child to save? All right! + + "'How strange we saw no other fall! + It's instinct in the animal. + Good dog! But he's a long while under: + If he got drowned I should not wonder-- + Strong current, that against the wall! + + "'Here he comes, holds in mouth this time + --What may the thing be? Well, that's prime! + Now, did you ever? Reason reigns + In man alone, since all Tray's pains + Have fished--the child's doll from the slime!' + + "And so, amid the laughter gay, + Trotted my hero off,--old Tray,-- + Till somebody, prerogatived + With reason, reasoned: 'Why he dived, + His brain would show us, I should say. + + "'John, go and catch--or, if needs be, + Purchase that animal for me! + By vivisection, at expense + Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence, + How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'" + +This short poem well illustrates Browning's peculiar spirit and +earnestness, and also the strong hold which his chosen dramatic form had +upon him. It was written as a protest against vivisection. Browning +represents the speaker as one seeking for an expression among the poets of +the true heroic spirit. "Bard the first" opens with the traditions and +spirit of knighthood, but the speaker interrupts him suddenly in the midst +of his first sentence, implying by his tone of disgust that such views of +heroism are out of date. + +The second bard begins in the spirit of a later age, + + "'That sin-scathed brow ... + That eye wide ope, ...'" + +and starts to portray a hero facing death on some precipice, but the +speaker again interrupts. He is equally dissatisfied with this type of +hero found in the pages of Byron or Bret Harte. + +When the third begins--"A beggar child,"--the speaker indicates a sudden +interest, "let's hear this third!" The speech of the third bard must be +given with greater interest and simplicity, and in accordance with the +spirit of the age,--the change from the extravagant to the perfectly +simple and true, from the giant in his mail, or the desperado, to just a +little child and a dog. + +Approval and tenderness should be shown by the modulations of the voice. +Long, abrupt inflections express the excitement resulting from the +discovery that the child has fallen into the stream, "Dismay! Help." Then +observe the sarcastic reference to human selfishness, and, in tender +contrast to the action of the bystanders, old Tray is introduced, followed +by the remarks of the on-lookers and their patronizing description of the +dog's conduct. Notice that the quotation is long, and that the point of +view of the careless bystanders is preserved. The spirit of these +bystanders is given in their own words until they laugh at old Tray's +pains and blind instinct in fishing up the child's doll from the stream. +Now follows the real spirit of bard the third, who portrays the +sympathetic admiration for the dog. + + "'And so, amid the laughter gay,'" + +requires a sudden change of key and tone-color to express the intensity of +feeling and the general appreciation of the mystery of "a mere instinctive +dog." + +The poem closes with an example of the cold, analytic spirit of the age, +that hopes to settle the deepest problems merely by experiment. + + "'By vivisection, at expense, + Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence, + How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'" + +The student will soon discover that the monologue is not only a new +literary or poetic form, but that it demands a new histrionic method of +representation. + +The monologue should be taken seriously. It is not an accidental form, the +odd freak of some peculiar writer. Browning has said that he never +intended his poetry to be a substitute for an after-dinner cigar. A +similar statement is true of all great monologues. A few so-called +monologues on a low plane can be understood and rendered by any one. Every +form of dramatic art has its caricature and perversion. Burlesque seems +necessary as a caricature of all forms of dramatic art and so there are +burlesques of monologues. These, however, must not blind the eyes to the +existence of monologues on the highest plane. Many monologues, though +short and seemingly simple, probe the profoundest depths of the human +soul. Such require patient study; imagination, sympathetic insight, and +passion are all necessary in their interpretation. + + + + +X. ACTIONS OF MIND AND VOICE + + +The complex and difficult language of vocal expression cannot, of course, +be explained in such a book as this, but there are a few points which are +of especial moment in considering the monologue. + +All vocal expression is the revelation of the processes of thinking or the +elemental actions of the mind. The meaning of the expressive modulations +of the voice must be gained from a study of the actions of the mind and +their expression in common conversation. While words are conventional +symbols, modulations of the voice are natural signs, which accompany the +pronunciation of words, and are necessary elements of natural speech. + +Such expressive modulations of the voice as inflections are developed in +the child before words. Hence, vocal expression can never be acquired from +mechanical rules or by imitation. As the monologue reveals primarily the +thinking and feeling of a living character, it affords a very important +means of studying vocal expression. + +In all dramatic work there is a temptation to assume merely outward +bearings and characteristics, attitudes, and tones without making the +character think. The monologue is a direct revelation of the mind and can +be interpreted only by naturally expressing the thought. + +The interpreter of the monologue must reveal the point of view of his +character, and must show the awakening or arrival of every idea. All +changes in point of view, the simplest transitions in feeling and +impressions produced by an idea, must be suggested. The mental life, in +short, must be genuinely and definitely revealed by the actions of voice +and body. + +The first sign or expression of life is rhythm. All life begins and ends +in rhythm, and accordingly, rhythm is the basis of all naturalness. In +vocal expression the rhythmic process of thinking, the successive +focussing and leaping of the mind from idea to idea, must be revealed by +the rhythmic alternation in speech of pause and touch. + +Without these, genuine thinking cannot be expressed in speaking. The pause +indicates the stay of attention; the touch locates or affirms the centre +of concentration. The mind receives an impression in silence, and speech +follows as a natural result. + +The interpretation of a poem or any work of literature demands an +intensifying of the processes of thinking, and the pause and touch +constitute the language by which this increase of thinking is expressed. A +language is always necessary to the completion or, at least, to the +accentuation of, any mental action. The impression received from each +successive idea must be so vivid as to dominate the rhythm of breathing, +and the expansion and other actions of the body. + +The progressive movement of mind from idea to idea implies consequent +variation and discrimination more or less vigorous. This is revealed by +change of pitch in passing from idea to idea or phrase to phrase, and the +extent of this variation is due, as a rule, to the degree of +discrimination in thinking. + +In the employment of these three modulations, pause, touch, and change of +pitch, each implies the others. The degree of change in pitch and the +vigor of touch justify the length of pause. Lengthening the pause without +increasing the touch suggests tameness, sluggishness, or dullness of +thought. + +Notice the long pauses, the intense strokes of the voice, and the decided +changes of pitch harmoniously accentuated, which are employed to indicate +the depth of passion in rendering "In a Year" (p. 201). Pauses are of +special importance in a monologue. This woman shows by long pauses and +abrupt changes her struggle to comprehend the real meaning of the coldness +of the man whom she loves,--to whom she has given all. The touch and the +changes of pitch show the abruptness and the intensity of her passion. + +The careful student will further perceive an inflection in conversation, +or change of pitch, during the utterance of the central vowel of each +word, and a longer inflection in the word standing for a central idea. +Inflections show the relations of ideas to each other, the logical method, +the relative value of centres of attention, and the like. Marked changes +of topics, for example, will be indicated by a long inflection upon the +key-word. + +In rendering Browning's "One Way of Love," the word "rose" in the first +line is given saliency. It is the centre of his first effort. Note the +long pause followed by decided rising inflections on the words: + + "She will not turn aside?..." + +succeeded by a pause with a firm fall,-- + + "Alas! + Let them lie...." + +In the second stanza, note the falling inflection upon "lute," which +introduces a new theme, a new endeavor to win her love. Then follows +another disappointment with suspensive or rising inflections denoting +surprise with agitation, and then new realization + +ONE WAY OF LOVE + + All June I bound the rose in sheaves. + Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves + And strow them where Pauline may pass. + She will not turn aside? Alas! + Let them lie. Suppose they die? + The chance was they might take her eye. + + How many a month I strove to suit + These stubborn fingers to the lute! + To-day I venture all I know. + She will not hear my music? So! + Break the string; fold music's wing: + Suppose Pauline had bade me sing! + + My whole life long I learn'd to love. + This hour my utmost art I prove + And speak my passion--heaven or hell? + She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well! + Lose who may--I still can say, + Those who win heaven, bless'd are they! + +of failure with a falling inflection indicating submission. The same is +true of the word "love" in the last stanza which brings one to the climax +of the poem. This has a long, firm falling inflection. Note the suspensive +intense rise upon "heaven" and the falling on "hell." The question: + + "She will not give me heaven?..." + +reiterates the earlier questions, only with greater grief and intensity. +The character of his "love," which a poor reader may slight, neglect, or +wholly pervert, must suggest the nobility of the man, and the last words +must reveal his intensity, tenderness, and, especially, his self-control +and hopeful dignity. + +Note in Browning's "Confessions" (p. 7) that the rising inflections on the +first words indicate doubt or uncertainty, and seem to say, "Did I hear +aright?" But the firm falling inflection in the answer, + + "Ah, reverend sir, not I!" + +indicates that the speaker has settled the doubt and now expresses his +protest against such a view of life. The inflections after this become +more colloquial. + +There is, however, still a suggestion of earnestness as the description +continues until at the last a decided inflection on the word "sweet" +expresses his real conviction. Though life may appear but vanity to his +listener, such is not his experience. The modulations of the voice in +speaking "sad and bad and mad" can show that they embody his hearers' +opinions and convictions, not his own, and "it was sweet!" can be given to +show that they are his own. + +Inflection, especially in union with pause, serves an important function +in indicating the saliency of specific ideas or words. Note, for example, +in Browning's "The Italian in England" that in the phrase "That second +time they hunted me," there is a specific emphasis on "second." This word +shows that he is talking of his many trials when in Italy and the +narrowness of his escape, while also indicating some other time when he +was hunted by the Austrians. This sentence, and especially this word +"second," should be given the pointedness of conversation, and then will +naturally follow the account of his escape. + +In this poem, Browning suggests what difficulties were encountered by the +Italian patriots who labored to free their country from Austrian rule. It +is a strange and unique story told in London to some one who is planning +with the speaker for Italian liberty. + +THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND + + That second time they hunted me + From hill to plain, from shore to sea, + And Austria, hounding far and wide + Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side, + Breathed hot an instant on my trace,-- + I made, six days, a hiding-place + Of that dry green old aqueduct + Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked + The fire-flies from the roof above, + Bright creeping thro' the moss they love: + --How long it seems since Charles was lost! + Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed + The country in my very sight; + And when that peril ceased at night, + The sky broke out in red dismay + With signal-fires. Well, there I lay + Close covered o'er in my recess, + Up to the neck in ferns and cress, + Thinking on Metternich our friend, + And Charles's miserable end, + And much beside, two days; the third, + Hunger o'ercame me when I heard + The peasants from the village go + To work among the maize; you know, + With us in Lombardy, they bring + Provisions packed on mules, a string + With little bells that cheer their task, + And casks, and boughs on every cask + To keep the sun's heat from the wine; + These I let pass in jingling line, + And, close on them, dear, noisy crew, + The peasants from the village, too; + For at the very rear would troop + Their wives and sisters in a group + To help, I knew. When these had passed, + I threw my glove to strike the last, + Taking the chance: she did not start, + Much less cry out, but stooped apart, + One instant rapidly glanced round, + And saw me beckon from the ground. + A wild bush grows and hides my crypt; + She picked my glove up while she stripped + A branch off, then rejoined the rest + With that; my glove lay in her breast. + Then I drew breath; they disappeared: + It was for Italy I feared. + + An hour, and she returned alone + Exactly where my glove was thrown. + Meanwhile came many thoughts: on me + Rested the hopes of Italy. + I had devised a certain tale + Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail + Persuade a peasant of its truth; + I meant to call a freak of youth + This hiding, and give hopes of pay, + And no temptation to betray. + But when I saw that woman's face, + Its calm simplicity of grace, + Our Italy's own attitude + In which she walked thus far, and stood, + Planting each naked foot so firm, + To crush the snake and spare the worm-- + At first sight of her eyes, I said, + "I am that man upon whose head + They fix the price, because I hate + The Austrians over us; the State + Will give you gold--oh, gold so much!-- + If you betray me to their clutch, + And be your death, for aught I know, + If once they find you saved their foe. + Now, you must bring me food and drink, + And also paper, pen and ink, + And carry safe what I shall write + To Padua, which you'll reach at night + Before the duomo shuts; go in, + And wait till Tenebrae begin; + Walk to the third confessional, + Between the pillar and the wall, + And kneeling whisper, '_Whence comes peace?_' + Say it a second time, then cease; + And if the voice inside returns, + '_From Christ and Freedom; what concerns + The cause of Peace?_' for answer, slip + My letter where you placed your lip; + Then come back happy we have done + Our mother service--I, the son, + As you the daughter of our land!" + + Three mornings more, she took her stand + In the same place, with the same eyes: + I was no surer of sun-rise + Than of her coming. We conferred + Of her own prospects, and I heard + She had a lover--stout and tall, + She said--then let her eyelids fall, + "He could do much"--as if some doubt + Entered her heart,--then, passing out, + "She could not speak for others, who + Had other thoughts; herself she knew:" + And so she brought me drink and food. + After four days, the scouts pursued + Another path; at last arrived + The help my Paduan friends contrived + To furnish me: she brought the news. + For the first time I could not choose + But kiss her hand, and lay my own + Upon her head--"This faith was shown + To Italy, our mother, she + Uses my hand and blesses thee." + She followed down to the sea-shore; + I left and never saw her more. + + How very long since I have thought + Concerning--much less wished for--aught + Beside the good of Italy. + For which I live and mean to die! + I never was in love; and since + Charles proved false, what shall now convince + My inmost heart I have a friend? + However, if I pleased to spend + Real wishes on myself--say, three-- + I know at least what one should be + I would grasp Metternich until + I felt his red wet throat distil + In blood thro' these two hands. And next, + --Nor much for that am I perplexed-- + Charles, perjured traitor, for his part, + Should die slow of a broken heart + Under his new employers. Last + --Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast + Do I grow old and out of strength. + If I resolved to seek at length + My father's house again, how scared + They all would look, and unprepared! + My brothers live in Austria's pay + --Disowned me long ago, men say; + And all my early mates who used + To praise me so--perhaps induced + More than one early step of mine-- + Are turning wise: while some opine + "Freedom grows license," some suspect + "Haste breeds delay," and recollect + They always said, such premature + Beginnings never could endure! + So, with a sullen "All's for best," + The land seems settling to its rest. + I think then, I should wish to stand + This evening in that dear, lost land, + Over the sea the thousand miles + And know if yet that woman smiles + With the calm smile; some little farm + She lives in there, no doubt: what harm + If I sat on the door-side bench, + And while her spindle made a trench + Fantastically in the dust, + Inquired of all her fortunes--just + Her children's ages and their names, + And what may be the husband's aims + For each of them. I'd talk this out, + And sit there, for an hour about, + Then kiss her hand once more, and lay + Mine on her head, and go my way. + + So much for idle wishing--how + It steals the time! To business now. + +The conversation takes place preliminary "to business." It is a fine +example of the monologue for many reasons. It takes simply a single moment +in life, a moment in this case when a turn is made from serious business +into personal experiences. The speaker is probably waiting for other +reformers to take active measures for the liberation of his country. In +this moment, seemingly wasted, light is thrown upon the inner life of this +patriot. + +This beautiful example of Browning's best work will serve as a good +illustration of the force and power of a monologue to interpret life and +character and also the elements necessary to its delivery. The student +will do well to thoroughly master it, noting every emphatic word and the +necessity of long pauses and salient inflections to make manifest the +inner thought and feeling of this man. + +From such a theme some may infer that the monologue portrays accidental +parts of human life, but Browning in this poem has given deep insight into +a great struggle for liberty. Such irrelevant words spoken even on the +verge of what seems to us the greater business of life may more definitely +indicate character, and on account of the fact that they spring up +spontaneously may reveal men more completely than when they proceed "to +business." + +Note the importance of inflection in "Wanting is--what?" In giving +"Wanting is--" there is a suspensive action of the voice with an abrupt +pause, as if the speaker were going to continue with "everywhere" or +something of the kind. The dash helps to indicate this. The idea is still +incomplete, when the attitude of the mind totally changes, and he gives a +very strong and abrupt rise in "what," as if to say: "Will you, Browning, +with your optimistic beliefs, utter a note of despair?" The understanding +of the whole poem, of the passing from one point of view to another, +depends upon the way in which this abrupt change of thought in the first +short line is given by the voice. + +WANTING IS--WHAT? + + Wanting is--what? + Summer redundant, + Blueness abundant,-- + Where is the blot? + Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same,-- + Framework which waits for a picture to frame: + What of the leafage, what of the flower? + Roses embowering with naught they embower! + Come then, complete incompletion, O Comer, + Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer! + Breathe but one breath + Rose-beauty above, + And all that was death + Grows life, grows love, + Grows love! + +Change of point of view, situation, or emotion is revealed by a change in +the modulation of the resonance of the voice, or tone-color. In this poem, +note the joyous, confident feeling in the short lines, beginning with the +word "what," then after a long pause, the change in key and resonance to +the regret and despair expressed in the first of the long lines. Then +there is a passing to a point of view above both the optimistic and +pessimistic attitudes which have been contrasted. This truer attitude +accepts the dark facts, but sees deeper than the external, and prays for +the "Comer" and the transfiguring of all despair and death into life and +love. + +Note also the importance of pause after a long falling inflection on the +word "roses" to indicate an answer to the previous question. The first two +words of the poem, this word, and the contrast of the three moods by +tone-color are the chief points in the interpretation. + +Read over again also "One Way of Love" (p. 150), and note that there are +not merely changes in inflection in passing from the successive questions +and from disappointment to acquiescence, but change also in the texture or +tone-color of the voice. This contrast in tone-color becomes still more +marked in the last stanza between the vigorous suspense and disappointment +in + + "She will not give me heaven?..." + +and the heroic resignation of "'Tis well!" with a change of key still more +marked. Between these clauses there is a long pause and an extreme change +of pitch which are suggestive of the intensity of his sorrow as well as of +the nobility and dignity of his character. He does not exclaim +contemptuously, that "the grapes are green." + +Everywhere we find that changes in situation, dramatic points of view, +imaginative relations, sympathetic attitudes of mind, or feeling resulting +from whatever cause, are expressed by corresponding changes in the +modulations of the texture or resonance of the tone, which may here be +called tone-color. + +One of the most elemental characteristics of conversation is the flexible +variation of the successive rhythmic pulsations, that is to say, the +movement. This variation is especially necessary in all dramatic +expression. One clause will move very slowly, and show deliberative +thinking, importance, weight, a more dignified point of view or firm +control; another will be given rapidly, as indicative of triviality, mere +formality, uncontrollable excitement, lack of weight and sympathy, or of +subordination and disparagement. A slow movement indicates what is weighty +and important; a rapid one excitement or what is unimportant. + +These are the elements of naturalness or the expressive modulations of the +voice in every-day conversation. For the rendering of no other form of +literature is the study and mastery of these elements so necessary as in +that of the monologue. Monologues are so infinitely varied in character, +they reproduce so definitely all the elements of conversation, even +requiring them to be accentuated; they embody such sudden transitions in +thought and feeling, such contrasts in the attitude of the mind, that a +thorough command of the voice is necessary for their interpretation. + +Not only must the modulations of the voice be studied to render the +monologue, but a thorough study of the monologue becomes a great help in +developing power in vocal expression. Because of the necessary +accentuation of otherwise overlooked points in vocal expression, the +orator or the teacher, the reader or the actor, can be led to understand +and realize more adequately those expressive modulations upon the mastery +of which all naturalness in speaking depends. + +Not only must we appreciate the distinct meaning of each of these +modulations, but also that of their combination and degrees of +accentuation, which indicate marked transitions in feeling and situation. +In fact, no voice modulation is ever perceived in isolation. They may not +all be found in a sentence, but some of them cannot be present without +others. For example, touch is meaningless without pause, and a pause is +justified by change of pitch. Inflection and change of pitch constitute +the elements of vocal form which reveal thought, and all combine with +tone-color and movement, which reveal feeling and experience. Naturalness +is the right union and combination of all the modulations. + +MEMORABILIA + + Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, + And did he stop and speak to you, + And did you speak to him again? + How strange it seems, and new! + + But you were living before that, + And also you are living after; + And the memory I started at-- + My starting moves your laughter! + + I crossed a moor, with a name of its own + And a certain use in the world, no doubt, + Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone + 'Mid the blank miles round about: + + For there I picked up on the heather + And there I put inside my breast + A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! + Well, I forget the rest. + +Read over any short monologue several times and satisfactorily locate and +define the meaning of each of these modulations. Observe also the great +variety of changes among these modulations and their necessary union for +right interpretation. + +Take for example "Memorabilia," one of Browning's shortest monologues, and +observe in every phrase the nature and necessity of these modulations of +the voice. + +The reading of a volume of Shelley is said to have greatly influenced +Browning when a boy, and this monologue is a tribute to that poet. Some +lover of Shelley, possibly Browning himself, meets one who has seen +Shelley face to face. He is agitated at the thought of facing one who had +been in the presence of that marvellous man. Note the abrupt inflections, +the quick movement indicating excitement, the decided touches, and +animated changes of pitch. + +At the seventh line a great break is indicated by a dash. The speaker +seems to be going on to say: "The memory I started at must have been the +greatest event of your life." But as he notes the action of the other, the +contemptuous smile at his enthusiasm, perhaps a sarcastic remark about +Shelley, there is a sudden, abrupt pause after "started at" which is given +with a rising or suspensive inflection. "My starting" has extreme change +in pitch, color, and movement. Astonishment is mingled with disappointment +and grief. Then follows a still greater transition. In the last eight +lines of the poem, the speaker, after a long pause, possibly turning +slightly away from the other and becoming more subjective, in a slow +movement and a total change of tone-color, pays a noble, poetic, and +grateful tribute to the object of his admiration. He carefully weighs +every word, and accentuates his thought with long pauses, and decided +touches upon the words. He gives "moor" a long falling inflection, pausing +after it to suggest that he meant more than a moor, possibly all modern or +English literature or poetry. He adds + + "... with a name of its own + And a certain use in the world, no doubt," + +as a reference to English poetry or literature and to show that he was not +ignorant of its beauties and glories. Still stronger emphasis should be +given to "hand's-breadth," with a pause after it, subordinating the next +words, for he is trying to bring his listener indirectly up to the thought +of Shelley. "Miles" may also receive an accent in contrast to +"hand's-breadth." Then there is great tenderness: + + "For there I picked up ..." + +Note the change in the resonance of the voice and the low and dignified +movement. There is a long inflection, followed by a pause on the word +"feather" and a still longer one on the word "eagle." Now follows another +extreme transition. Thought and feeling change. He comes back to the +familiarity of conversation. He shows uncertainty or hesitation by +inflection and a long pause after the word "Well." He has no word of +disparagement of other writers, but simply adds, + + "Well, I forget the rest." + +All else is forgotten in contemplating that one precious "feather" which +is, of course, Shelley's poetry. + +It is impossible to indicate in words all the mental and emotional +actions, or the modulations of the voice necessary to express them. The +more complex the imaginative conditions, the more all these modulations +are combined. Notice that change of movement, of key, and also of +tone-color combine to express extreme changes in situation, feeling, or +direction of attention. When there is a very strong emphatic inflection, +there is usually an emphatic pause after it. Wherever there is a long +pause there is always a salient change of pitch or some variation in the +expression to justify it. After an emphatic pause when words are closely +connected, there is always a decided subordination, and thus a whole +sentence, or, by a series of such changes, an entire poem, is given unity +of atmosphere, coloring, and form. + +No rules can be laid down for such artistic rendering; for the higher the +poetry and the deeper the feeling, the less applicable is any so-called +rule. Only the deepest principles can be of lasting use. + +Take, for example, Browning's epilogue to "The Two Poets of Croisic," +printed also by him in his book of selections under the title of "A Tale:" + +A TALE + + What a pretty tale you told me + Once upon a time + --Said you found it somewhere (scold me!) + Was it prose or was it rhyme, + Greek or Latin? Greek, you said, + While your shoulder propped my head. + + Anyhow there's no forgetting + This much if no more, + That a poet (pray, no petting!) + Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore, + Went where suchlike used to go, + Singing for a prize, you know. + + Well, he had to sing, nor merely + Sing but play the lyre; + Playing was important clearly + Quite as singing: I desire, + Sir, you keep the fact in mind + For a purpose that's behind. + + There stood he, while deep attention + Held the judges round, + --Judges able, I should mention, + To detect the slightest sound + Sung or played amiss: such ears + Had old judges, it appears! + + None the less he sang out boldly, + Played in time and tune, + Till the judges, weighing coldly + Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon, + Sure to smile "In vain one tries + Picking faults out: take the prize!" + + When, a mischief! Were they seven + Strings the lyre possessed? + Oh, and afterwards eleven, + Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed + Such ill luck in store?--it happed + One of those same seven strings snapped. + + All was lost, then! No! a cricket + (What "cicada"? Pooh!) + --Some mad thing that left its thicket + For mere love of music--flew + With its little heart on fire, + Lighted on the crippled lyre. + + So that when (Ah joy!) our singer + For his truant string + Feels with disconcerted finger, + What does cricket else but fling + Fiery heart forth, sound the note + Wanted by the throbbing throat? + + Ay and, ever to the ending, + Cricket chirps at need, + Executes the hand's intending, + Promptly, perfectly,--indeed + Saves the singer from defeat + With her chirrup low and sweet. + + Till, at ending, all the judges + Cry with one assent + "Take the prize--a prize who grudges + Such a voice and instrument? + Why, we took your lyre for harp, + So it shrilled us forth F sharp!" + + Did the conqueror spurn the creature, + Once its service done? + That's no such uncommon feature + In the case when Music's son + Finds his Lotte's power too spent + For aiding soul-development. + + No! This other, on returning + Homeward, prize in hand, + Satisfied his bosom's yearning: + (Sir, I hope you understand!) + --Said "Some record there must be + Of this cricket's help to me!" + + So, he made himself a statue: + Marble stood, life-size; + On the lyre, he pointed at you, + Perched his partner in the prize; + Never more apart you found + Her, he throned, from him, she crowned. + + That's the tale: its application? + Somebody I know + Hopes one day for reputation + Thro' his poetry that's--Oh, + All so learned and so wise + And deserving of a prize! + + If he gains one, will some ticket, + When his statue's built, + Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket + Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt + Sweet and low, when strength usurped + Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped? + + "For as victory was nighest, + While I sang and played,-- + With my lyre at lowest, highest, + Right alike,--one string that made + 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain, + Never to be heard again,-- + + "Had not a kind cricket fluttered, + Perched upon the place + Vacant left, and duly uttered + 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the bass + Asked the treble to atone + For its somewhat sombre drone." + + But you don't know music! Wherefore + Keep on casting pearls + To a--poet? All I care for + Is--to tell him that a girl's + "Love" comes aptly in when gruff + Grows his singing. (There, enough!) + +We have a suggestion of the position of the speaker, a woman upon the arm +of the chair of her lover or husband. How pointed and simple is the first +statement: "Scold me!" an apology for not remembering or for not having +given more attention. The humorous or pretended effort to remember whether +it was prose or rhyme, Greek or Latin, is given by slow, gradual +inflections followed by a marked, abrupt inflection upon the word "Greek," +as if she were absolutely sure of that point and her memory of it +definite. Again, note toward the last, how the impression of his +pretending not to understand causes her to give a humorous and abrupt +emphasis to the point of her story. + +The flexibility and great variety in the modulations of the voice +requisite in the interpretation of a monologue will be made clear by +comparing such a monologue with some short poem which suggests a speech. +Byron's "To Tom Moore," though there is one speaker, is not a monologue. + + "My boat is on the shore, + And my bark is on the sea; + But before I go, Tom Moore, + Here's a double health to thee." + +It is a kind of after-dinner speech, or lyric full of feeling, an +imaginative proposal by Byron of a health to Tom Moore. But Moore is not +expected to say anything. Byron is dominated entirely by his own mood. It +is therefore quite lyric and not at all dramatic. Note how intense but +regular are the rhythmic pulsations, the pause and the touch. While there +are changes of pitch and inflection, variety of movement and tone-color, +yet all of these are used in a very simple and ordinary sense. There is +none of that extreme use of inflection, pause or tone-color found in +Browning's "Memorabilia." + +The difference between the modulations of the voice in a monologue and in +a play should be noted. Take, for example, the words of the Archbishop in +"Henry V" regarding the character of the King. They are addressed to +friends in conversation and are almost a speech. They have the force of a +judicial decision and are given with a great deal of emphasis as well as +with logical continuity of ideas. But this emphasis is regular and simple. +It can be noted in any animated or emphatic conversation, and the +argument of the speech may be studied to advantage by speakers on account +of the few and salient or emphatic ideas. + +In rendering some monologues, however, which embody the same ideas, such +as the "Memorabilia" (see p. 160), which has been made the central +illustration of this chapter, greater range, greater abruptness in +transitions, more and greater complexity of the modulations of the voice +as well as sudden and strong impressions are required of the reader. He +should read both passages in contrast, and note the difference in +delivery. + +One distinct peculiarity of the monologue is the fact that it can give a +past event from a dramatic point of view. Note, for example, that in Jean +Ingelow's familiar poem, "The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire," the +first stanza gives us the spirit or movement of the whole poem. The first +line, + + "The old mayor climbed the belfry tower," + +emphasizes the excitement. + +A definite situation is set before us, and we can see, too, why the events +are given as belonging to the past. A vivid impression of the high tide +along the whole coast of Lincolnshire is afforded by its relation to one +humble cottage and family. An old grandmother tells the story long after +the events have blended in her mind into one lasting tragic impression. +This brings the whole poem into unity, makes a distinct, concrete picture +and a most impressive poetic, not to say dramatic, interpretation of the +event. + +The author by presenting this old mother talking about her beloved +daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, with "her two bairns," and the excited race of +the son to reach home before she went for the cows, appeals to sympathy +and feeling, awakens imagination, and presents not only a vivid and +specific picture, but such distinct types of character as to make the +event real. The poem is a fine example of the union of lyric and dramatic +imagination. + +The speaker becomes more and more excited and animated as she gives her +memories of the successive events, but in the midst of each event relapses +into grief. Again and again at the close of stanzas, a single clause or +line indicates her emotion, rather than her memory of the exciting events. +The event is portrayed dramatically, but these last lines are decidedly +lyric. After the excited calling of "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" by her son the +very name seems to awaken tenderness in her heart, and she utters this +deep lyric conviction:-- + + "A sweeter woman n'er drew breath + Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth." + +The son, when he reaches home after his excited chase to save his wife, +looks across the grassy lea,-- + + "To right, to left," + +and cries + + "Ho, Enderby!" + +For at that moment he hears the bells ring "Enderby!" which seem to be the +knell of his hopes. The next line, + + "They rang 'The Brides of Enderby,'" + +expresses the emotion of the grandmother as she recalls the effect of the +bells upon her son, and possibly her own awakening to the meaning of the +tune which has taken such deep hold of her imagination, and becomes +naturally the central point of the calamity in her memory. + +The poem brings into direct contrast the excited realization of each event +and her feeling over the disaster as a whole. The first is dramatic; the +second, lyric. The mother realizes dramatically her son's exclamations and +feelings, but the line + + "They rang 'The Brides of Enderby'" + +is purely lyric and expressive of her own feeling in remembrance of the +danger. + +The climax of the dramatic movement of the story comes in the intense +realization of the personal danger to herself and her son when they saw +the mighty tidal wave rolling up the river Lindis, which + + "Sobbed in the grasses at our feet: + The feet had hardly time to flee + Before it brake against the knee." + +Then the poet does not mention the son's efforts in her behalf, the flight +to the roof of their dwelling in the midst of the waves, and makes a +sudden transition again from the dramatic situation to the lyric spirit as +she moans with no thought of herself: + + "And all the world was in the sea." + +Another sudden transition in the poem is indicated by a mere dash after +"And I--" Starting to relate her own experience with a loving mother's +instinct she turns instead to the grief of her son,-- + + "... my sonne was at my side, + And yet he moaned beneath his breath." + +This is followed by another passionate dramatic climax,-- + + "And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare, + The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear. + Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, + The lifted sun shone on thy face, + Down drifted to thy dwelling-place." + +Here feeling is deepest in the speaker, and in the listener, and, of +course, in the reader. The rest of the poem is a sweet and mournful lyric: + + "I shall never hear her more + Where the reeds and rushes quiver." + +The poem closes with a crooning over Elizabeth's song as the aged woman +heard it for the last time. + +Many public readers centre their whole interest in the imitation or mere +representation of this song, and all the fervor of the piece is made +accidental to this. But such a method centres all attention in mere vocal +skill, to the loss, if not to the perversion of its spirit. This song must +not be given literally, but in the character of the aged speaker. It lives +in the old mother's mind as a heart-breaking memory, and any artificial or +literal rendering of it destroys the illusion or the true impression of +the poem. It should be given in a very subdued tone with the least +possible suggestion, if any at all, of the music of the song. + +The first stanza is apt also to be given out of character. It is a burst +of passionate remembrance and must be given carefully as the overture +embodying the spirit of the whole. When the grandmother is asked by the +interlocutor regarding the story, she breaks into sudden excitement, and +then gradually passes into the quieter mood of reminiscence. After that, +the poem is rhythmic alternation between her memory of the exciting +events, and her own experiences; in short, a co-ordination of the lyric +and the dramatic spirit. + +The study of this poem affords a fine illustration of movement,--similar +to that of a great symphony. The long pauses, sudden transitions in pitch +and color, and especially the pulsations of feeling, when given in harmony +illustrate the marvellous power of the human voice. + + + + +XI. ACTIONS OF MIND AND BODY + + +As the monologue is a form of dramatic expression, it necessarily implies +action,--the most dramatic of all languages. Dramatic expression, in its +very nature, implies life, and life is shown by movement. For this reason +action is in some sense the primary or most necessary language required +for dramatic interpretation. + +Action is a language that belongs to the whole body. As light moves +quickest in the outer world, so action,--the language that appeals to the +eye--is the first appeal to consciousness. Life expands,--the gleaming +eye, the elevated and gravitating body, the lifted hand,--all these show +character and a living or present realization of ideas, and are most +important in the monologue. + +On account of the abrupt opening of most monologues, the first clause +requires salient and decided action. The speaker must locate his hearer, +and must often indicate, by some decided movement, the effect produced +upon him by some previous speech which has to be imagined. As the words +of the listener are not given but must be suggested, it is necessary that +the action be decided. + +Though action or pantomime always precedes speech, this precedence is +especially pronounced in monologues. Notice, for example, in Bret Harte's +"In a Tunnel," the look of surprise and astonishment followed by the words +given with long rising inflections: "Didn't know Flynn?" + + "Didn't know Flynn--Flynn of Virginia--long as he's been 'yar? Look'ee + here, stranger, whar _hev_ you been? + + "Here in this tunnel,--he was my pardner, that same Tom Flynn--working + together, in wind and weather, day out and in. + + "Didn't know Flynn! Well, that _is_ queer. Why, it's a sin to think of + Tom Flynn--Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear,--stranger, look 'yar! + + "Thar in the drift back to the wall he held the timbers ready to fall; + then in the darkness I heard him call--'Run for your life, Jake! Run + for your wife's sake! Don't wait for me.' And that was all, heard in + the din, heard of Tom Flynn,--Flynn of Virginia. + + "That's all about Flynn of Virginia--that lets me out here in the + damp--out of the sun--that ar' dern'd lamp makes my eyes run. + + "Well, there--I'm done! But, sir, when you'll hear the next fool + asking of Flynn--Flynn of Virginia--just you chip in, say you knew + Flynn; say that you've been 'yar." + +The look of wonder is sustained until there is a change to an intense, +pointed inquiry: "Whar _hev_ you been?" The intense surprise reveals the +rough character of the speaker, a miner in a mining camp, and his +admiration for Flynn, who has saved his life. Then note the sudden +transition as he begins his story. His character must be maintained, and +expressed by action through all the many transitions; but in the first +clause especially there must be a pause with a long continued attitude of +astonishment. + +Action is required to present this vivid scene which is suggested by only +a few words, the admiration of the speaker for Flynn, who in the depths +of the mine, with but a moment to decide, gives his life for another. The +hero calls out "Run for your wife's sake," the heart of the speaker warms +with admiration and the tears come; then the rough Westerner is seen +brushing away his tears and attributing the water in his eyes to the +"dern'd lamp." Truth in depicting human nature, depth of feeling, action, +character, in short, the whole meaning, is dependent upon the decided +actions of the body and the inflections of the voice directly associated +with these. + +In "The Italian in England" (p. 152), the word "second" not only needs +emphasis by the voice, as has been shown, to indicate that the speaker has +already given an account of another experience, but he may possibly throw +up his hands to indicate something unusual, something beyond words in the +experience he is about to relate. + +It is especially necessary in the monologue that action should show the +discovery, arrival, or initiation of ideas. A change in the direction of +attention, a new subject or current of ideas, cannot be indicated wholly +by vocal expression. The mental conjectures of Mrs. Caudle, for example, +are very pronounced, and cannot be fully expressed by the voice without +action. + +Notice how definitely action, in union with vocal expression, shows +whether Mrs. Caudle's new impressions are due to the natural association +of ideas in her mind, or to the words or conduct of Caudle. The last +mentioned give rise to her explosiveness, withering sarcasm, and anger. +Such discriminations produce the illusion of the scene. + +In "Up at a Villa--Down in the City" (p. 65), notice how necessary it is +for the interpreter to show the direction of his attention, whether he is +speaking regarding his villa or the city. Note the disgust and attitude of +gloom in his face and bearing as he gazes towards his villa. + + "Over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees," + +suggests a picture calling for admiration from us, but not from him. To +him the tulip is a great "bubble of blood." All this receives a definite +tone-color, and it must be borne in mind that without action of the body, +the quality of the voice will not change. The emotion diffuses itself +through the whole organism of the impersonator of the "person of quality," +and even hands, feet and face are given a certain attitude by this +emotion. Contempt for the villa will depress his whole body and thus color +his tone. On the contrary, when the speaker turns to the city, his face +lights up. The "fountain--to splash," the "houses in four straight lines," +the "fanciful signs which are painted properly,"--all these are apparently +contemplated by him with such an expansion and elevation of his body as +almost to cause laughter. + +This contrast, which is sustained through the whole monologue, can be +interpreted or presented only by the actions of the body and their effect +on the tone. + +Expression of face and body are necessary to suggest the delicate changes +in thinking and feeling. Notice in "A Tale" (p. 163) that the struggle of +the woman to remember is shown by action. + +The two lines + + "Said you found it somewhere, ... + Was it prose or was it rhyme?" + +are not so much addressed to the listener as to herself, as she tries to +remember, and she would show this by action. Every subtle change in +thought and feeling is indicated by a decided expression in the face. In +her efforts to remember, she would possibly turn away from him at first +with a bewildered look, then she might turn toward him again, as she asked +him the question; but if she asked this of herself, her head would remain +turned away. When she decides with a bow of the head that it is Greek, +note how her face would light up and possibly intimate confidence that she +was right. At the close of the poem, notice the tender mischief of her +glance when she refers to "somebody I know" who is "deserving of a prize." +The monologue is full of the subtlest variations of point of view and +thought, and these variations call for a constant play of feature. + +The struggle for an idea must be frankly disclosed. An interruption, a +thought broken on account of a sudden leap of the mind, must be +interpreted faithfully by the eyes, the face, the walk, or the body, in +union with vocal expression. + +In the soliloquy of the "Spanish Cloister" (p. 58), for example, notice +how the whole face, head, and body of the speaker recoil at the very start +on discovering Brother Lawrence in the garden. Notice, too, the fiendish +delight as he sees the accident, "There his lily snaps!" How sarcastic is +his reference to the actions of Brother Lawrence, who, unconscious that +any one is looking at him, seems to stop and shake his head in a way that +leads the speaker to infer that a "myrtle-bush wants trimming:" but +instantly, with a sneer he adds, "Oh, that rose has prior claims." Such +sarcastic variations occur all through the monologue. "How go on your +flowers?" is given with gleeful expectancy, and he notes with cruel joy +the disappointment of Brother Lawrence when looking to find one "double," +and chuckles to himself + + "Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble, + Keep them close-nipped on the sly!" + +Note, too, the difference in facial action when the speaker is observing +Brother Lawrence and when conjuring up schemes to send this good man "Off +to hell, a Manichee." + +Another point to be noted in the study of the monologue is the giving of +quotations. These, of course, are an echo of what the hearer has said, and +must be rendered with care. + +Look again at Browning's "A Tale," and note "cicada," which is quoted. +This is followed by an interrogation, and refers to the listener's +humorously sarcastic question regarding the scientific aspects of her +subject. She echoes it, of course, with her own feeling of surprise, and +the exclamation "Pooh!" silences him so that she may go on with her story. +Notice how necessary action is here to enable the reader to interpret the +meaning of this to the audience. + +Quotations especially call for action as they reflect the opposition of +the character of the listener to that of the speaker; they are always +given with decided changes. The words only, however, and at times the +ideas only, are quoted; the feeling, the impression, are all the speaker's +own. Quotations are merely the conversational echo of the words of another +such as are frequently heard in every-day life, and demand both action and +vocal expression for their true interpretation. + +The subject of quotations requires special attention in the monologue. +They must be given, not only with decided pauses, inflections, changes of +movement and variations in accentuation, and in all the modulations of the +voice, but with suggestive action, changes in the direction of the eye, +head, and body. In short, there must be a complete change in all the +expression from what preceded, because the impression produced by an idea +in the speaker's own mind is not so forcible as the effect of a word from +a listener; at any rate, the impression is different. In telling our story +to him, his attitude of mind, in demurring or assenting, will cause a +sudden change or recoil on our part. The difference in the impressions +made upon the speaker by his own ideas and by what his listener says must +be indicated, and this can only be indicated by uniting the language of +action and vocal expression with words. A change of idea or some +remembrance awakened in our own mind comes naturally, but a sudden remark +or interruption produces a more decided and definite impression upon us. +The surprised look and abrupt turn of the head are necessary to show the +sense of imaginative reality. + +Observe the definite and extreme, even sudden, transitions which are made +in conversation. These abrupt leaps of the mind from one subject to +another are indicated by a simple turn, it may be, of the head, with +sudden changes in the face, and, of course, with changes of pitch and +movement. The monologue gives the best interpretation of these actions of +the mind to be found in literature. + +As an example, note Riley's "Knee-deep in June." The more decided and +sudden the transitions in this poem, the better. The abrupt arrival of an +idea, the subtle start it gives to face or head or body, should be +naturally suggested. + +Action is especially needed in all abrupt transitions in thought and +feeling. In many of the more humorous monologues, there is often a sudden +pathetic touch towards the last, requiring slower movement in the action +of the body. Occasionally, very sudden and extreme contrasts occur. The +reader must make long pauses in these cases, and accentuate strongly the +action, of which vocal expression is more or less a result. + +As further illustrative of a sudden transition, note how in Riley's +monologue, "When de Folks is Gone," the scared negro grows more and more +excited until a climax of terror is reached in the penultimate line: + + "Wha' dat shinin' fru de front do' crack?" + +Between this line and the last the cause of the light outside is +discovered, and a complete recovery from terror to joy must be indicated. +With the greatest relief he must utter the last line: + + "God bress de Lo'd, hit's de folks got back." + +The study of action in the rendering of a monologue brings us to one of +the most important points in all dramatic expression. No form of dramatic +art is given so directly to an audience as is a story or a speech. The +interpreter of a monologue must feel his audience, but not speak to it. He +must address all his remarks to his imaginary listener. + +Where shall he locate this listener, and why in that particular place? + +The late Joseph Jefferson called attention to the difference between +oratory and acting. "The two arts," he said, "go hand in hand, so far as +magnetism and intelligence are concerned, but there comes a point where +they differ widely. The actor is, or should be, impressionable and +sensitive; the orator, on the other hand, must have the power of +impressing." Accordingly, the orator speaks directly to his audience; the +actor does not. + +This distinction is important. It may possibly go too far, because the +orator must give his attention to his truth, must receive impressions from +his ideas, and reveal his impressions to his audience. He too must be +impressionable and sensitive, but his attentive and responsive attitude is +always to the picture created by his own mind. He is impersonal and gives +direct attention to his auditors. He receives vivid impressions from +truth, and then endeavors to give these to others. + +In a play, on the contrary, the actor receives an impression from his +interlocutor. He must give great attention to what his interlocutor is +saying, and must reveal his impressions to his audience by faithfully +portraying the effect of the other's thought and feeling upon himself. + +In the monologue the same is true. The interlocutor, however, is imagined. +More imagination is called for, and greater impressionability and +sensitiveness, because there is no interlocutor there for the audience to +see. The hearer must judge entirely from the impressions made upon the +speaker. + +Action, therefore, is most important. The impersonator must reveal +decidedly and definitely every impression made upon him, but must speak +to, and act toward, his imaginary auditor, and only indirectly to his +audience. + +The interpretation of the monologue thus brings us to a unique form of +what may be called platform action, demanding specific attention. If the +interpreter is not supposed to speak directly to his audience but to +address an imaginary hearer, where must this imaginary hearer be located, +and why there? Usually somewhat to one side. Only in this way can the +speaker suggest his differing relations to listener and audience. + +The suggestion of these relations is an aspect of expression frequently +overlooked. In society or on the street it is not polite to talk to any +one over the shoulder, and turning the back upon a man repels him most +effectively. The turning away of the body may show contempt or +inattention. It may, however, also show subjectivity and indicate the fact +that the man is turning his attention within to ponder upon the subject +another has mentioned, or is reflecting on what he is going to say. + +Attention is the basis of all expression, and the first cause of all +action, since we turn our attention toward a person and listen to what he +has to say before we speak to him. Accordingly, pivotal action of the body +is important in life, and is of great importance in all forms of dramatic +art, whether on the stage or in the rendering of a monologue. + +A speaker, especially a dramatic speaker, pivots from his audience when he +becomes subjective, and suggests an imaginary listener, or represents a +conversation between two or more in a story. He does not do this +consciously and deliberately, but from instinct. Primarily, it is +obedience to the dramatic instinct that causes this pivotal action. Any +one who will observe the natural actions of men on the street, in +business, in society, or in impassioned oratory, can recognize the meaning +and importance of the pivotal actions of the body. It is one of the +fundamental manifestations of dramatic instinct. + +Pivoting toward any one expresses attention and politeness. Attention is +the secret of politeness. To listen to another is a primary characteristic +of good breeding. Pivoting toward one is also indicative of emphasis. In +conversation, even in walking on the street, when one has something +emphatic to say he turns directly to his interlocutor, and often adds +gesture; on the other hand, turning away, or failing to pivot toward some +one, indicates an estimate that something is trivial or unimportant. + +In the delivery of a monologue there is often an object referred to which +the interlocutor naturally places on one side, while he locates his +listener on the other. Thus, in the unemphatic parts he would turn away +and not be continually "nosing his interlocutor" or talking directly to +him. This would cause him to give his ideas to the audience directly or +indirectly. Whenever he talks emphatically, he would turn toward his +interlocutor. When the object referred to is more directly in the field of +attention, he would turn toward that. + +Ruth McEnery Stuart, for example, is the author of a monologue in which an +old countryman talks about his son winning a "diplomy." The speaker in the +monologue would naturally locate the diploma on one side and the listener +on the other. + +It is easy to see that this pivotal action is of great importance on the +stage. It is the very basis of all true stage representation. The amateur +always "noses" his interlocutor. The artist is able to show all degrees of +attention by the pivotal action of the body, and thus reveal to an +audience the very rank of the person addressed, whether that consists in +dignity of character, which makes him a special object of interest, or in +a royal or conventionally superior station. + +That the pivotal action of the body in a monologue is especially important +can be seen at once. The object of attention is an invisible listener, and +the turning of the body to the side not only shows the speaker's own +attention, but it helps the auditor to locate the person addressed. + +Without this pivotal action, the reader is apt to declaim a monologue, and +confuse it with a speech. The monologue is never a direct endeavor to +impress an audience. Only occasionally can the audience be made to stand +for the person addressed. + +Some one will ask, Why at the side? Because if we hold out two objects for +an audience to observe, we shall put them side by side. The placing of one +before the other will cause confusion or prevent the possibility of +discrimination. In art, the law of rhythm, or of composition, demands that +objects be distributed side by side in order to win different degrees of +attention. A picture of any kind demands such an arrangement of objects as +will hold the attention concentrated. An object in the background may aid +the sustaining of attention upon something in the foreground. Objects are +placed in opposition to cause the mind to alternate from one to the other, +and thus to sustain attention until it penetrates the meaning of the +smallest scene. This is the soul, not only of pictorial, but of dramatic +art. + +Placing an imaginary character at the side does not make words necessarily +dramatic. This may be only an external aspect of the poem. The most +passionate lyrics may be given with this change of attitude because of +their great subjectivity. They are often as subjective as a soliloquy. +Again, this turning of the body to the side does not mean that the person +to whom the speaker seems to be talking is definitely represented. The +listener may be located at the side for a moment, it may be unconsciously, +and lost sight of almost entirely. The feeling must often absorb the +speaker and pass into the most subjective lyric intensity. Dramatic art +must move; there must be continual progressive transitions. Hence, the +picture must continually change, and pivotal flexibility is especially +necessary. Such turning of the body can be seen in every-day conversation. +The degree of attention to a listener varies in all intercourse. While +talking to another, the speaker may become dominated by a subjective idea +or mood and turn away; yet the listener's presence is always felt. + +Transition to the side as expressive of attention takes place in the +platform reading of a drama with several characters. In this case, the +interpreter distributes the characters in various directions; but this +must be done according to their importance, and as each one speaks, the +person addressed must be indicated as in the monologue. + +Hence, it is not an artificial arrangement to place the character you +address somewhat to the side, but in accordance with the laws of the mind +and with every-day conversation. By this placing of an imaginary listener, +all degrees of attention and inattention toward another can be indicated. +You can show a subjective action of the mind by pivoting naturally away +from the person to whom you speak, but at the moment an idea comes to you +clearly and definitely, it dominates you, and you turn towards him. + +In pivoting the body, or showing attention, the eye always leads. An +impolite man has little control of his eyes or of his pivotal action. An +embarrassed or nervous man shows his agitation especially in his eye. The +polite man gives the attention of his eye, the head follows that, and then +the whole body turns attentively. Accordingly, the turn of the eye, the +head, and the whole body must be brought into sympathetic unity. + +The interpreter of the monologue must have a free use of his entire body, +must be able to step and move with ease in any direction. But a single +step is all that is necessary, except in rare cases. The simpler the +movements and attitudes of the interpreter the better, and the more +impressive and suggestive will he be to the imagination of his audience. +Chaotic movements backward and forward will confuse the hearer's attention +and fail to indicate the direction of his own, which is of vital moment. +Often the slightest turn of the head is all that is necessary. + +The interpretation of a monologue must be more suggestive in its action +than that of a play. On the stage there may be many actors, and the +pivotal movements of many characters toward each other must often bring a +large number into unity, so that a group can express the situation by +co-operative action. The attention of a hundred can be focussed on one +picture or on one idea. But the interpreter of the monologue has only his +own eye, head, and body to lead the attention of his auditors and to +suggest the most profound impressions. + +In the nature of the case, accordingly, the situation of the monologue +must be more simple and definite; and for the same reason, the actions +must be more pronounced and sustained. The interpretation of the monologue +thus calls for the ablest dramatic artist. + +There are many important phases of this peculiar pivotal action. The speed +of the movement, for example, shows the degree of excitement. The eye +only, or the eye and the head, or both with the body, may turn. Each of +these cases indicates a difference in the degree of attention or in the +relations of the speaker to the listener. + +Again, this pivotal action has a direct relation to the advancing of the +body forward toward a listener, the gravitation of passion which shows +sympathy and feeling as well as attention. + +The student may think such directions mechanical, especially when it is +said that the body in turning must sustain its centrality, and that there +must be no confusion or useless steps; but in this case the foot acts as a +kind of eye, by a peculiar instinct which always indicates the proper +direction, if the speaker is really thinking dramatically. + +The turning action of the body has been discussed more at length than the +other elements of action on account of its importance in the rendering of +a monologue, and also because it is usually misunderstood or entirely +overlooked. There are many other expressive actions associated with this +turning of the body which need discussion. They, however, belong to the +subject of pantomimic expression, rather than to a general discussion of +the nature of the monologue and the chief peculiarities of its +interpretation. + +The same may be said regarding the innumerable and extremely subtle and +complex actions of other parts of the body. The actions concerned in the +rendering of a monologue are those associated with the every-day +intercourse of men in conversation, and are often so delicate and +unpronounced that an auditor will hardly notice them. He will simply feel +the general impression of truthfulness. The interpreter of the monologue, +for this very reason, needs to give the most careful attention to action +as a language. Neglect of action is the most surprising fault of modern +delivery. + +Anything like an adequate discussion of action as a language is impossible +in this place. There are, however, certain dangers which call for special +though brief attention. + +In the first place, action must never be declamatory or oratoric. Swinging +actions of the arms and extravagant movements of the body--possibly +pardonable in oratory, on account of the great desire to impress truth +upon men, to drive home a point energetically--are out of place in a +monologue. The manner must be forcible, but simple and natural. Activity +must manifest thought and passion; it should not be merely descriptive, +but must arise from the relations of the interlocutor. The monologue +requires great accentuation of the subjective element in pantomime. + +This brings us to a second danger. The dramatic artist is tempted merely +to represent or imitate. He desires to locate not only his listener, but +every object, and so is tempted to objective descriptions. + +Action is of two kinds,--representative and manifestative. In +representative action one illustrates, describes, indicates objects, +places, and directions. One shows the objective situations and relations. +Manifestative pantomime, on the contrary, reveals the feelings and +experiences of the human mind, or the subjective situations and relations. +Representative pantomime is apt to degenerate into mere imitative +movements. Manifestative pantomime centres in the eye or the face, but +belongs to the whole body. Even when we make representative movements with +the hand and arm, the attitude of the hand shows the conditions prompting +the gesture, and face and body show the real experiences and feelings. + +In the giving of humorous monologues, representative action is often +appropriate and necessary. The hearer must be located, objects must often +be distributed and rightly related to assist the audience in conceiving +the situation. + +The need of representative action is seen in Day's "Old Boggs' Slarnt." + +OLD BOGGS' SLARNT + + Old Bill Boggs is always sayin' that he'd like to, but he carnt; + He hain't never had no chances, he hain't never got no slarnt. + Says it's all dum foolish tryin', 'less ye git the proper start, + Says he's never seed no op'nin' so he's never had no heart. + But he's chawed enough tobacker for to fill a hogset up, + And has spent his time a-trainin' some all-fired kind of pup; + While his wife has took in washin' and his children hain't been larnt + 'Cause old Boggs is allus whinin' that he's never got no slarnt. + + Them air young uns round the gros'ry hadn't oughter done the thing! + Now it's done, though, and it's over, 'twas a cracker-jack, by jing. + Boggs, ye see, has been a-settin' twenty years on one old plank, + One end h'isted on a saw-hoss, t'other on the cistern tank. + T'other night he was a-chawin' and he says, "I vum-spt-ooo-- + Here I am a-owin' money--not a gol durn thing to do! + 'Tain't no use er buckin' chances, ner er fightin' back at Luck, + --Less ye have some way er startin', feller's sartin to be stuck. + Needs a slarnt to get yer going"--then them young uns give a carnt, + --Plank went up an' down old Boggs went--yas, he got it, got his slarnt. + Course, the young uns shouldn't done it--sent mine off along to bed-- + Helped to pry Boggs out the cistern--he warn't more 'n three-quarters + dead. + Didn't no one 'prove the actions, but when all them kids was gone, + Thunder mighty! How we hollered! Gab'rel couldn't heered his horn. + +When the speaker in the monologue describes the plank which has + + "One end h'isted on a saw-hoss, t'other on the cistern tank," + +he would naturally in conversation describe and indicate the tank and the +saw-horse and the direction of the slope of the plank. Then, when + + "... them young uns give a carnt," + +and the plank went up, it might be indicated that one end went up, by one +hand, and by the other that old Boggs went down. This can be done easily +and naturally and in character. The genius of the "gros'ry," who is +speaking, would indicate these very simply with hand and eye. This action +will not only express the humor, but help the audience to conceive the +situation. + +In a serious monologue, such as "A Grammarian's Funeral" (p. 72), the +speaker looks down toward the town, and talks about the condition of those +there who did not appreciate his master. The reader must indicate where +the speaker locates his friends who are carrying the body, and suggest +also, by looking upward to the hill-top, where they are to bury him. This +representative action, when only suggestive, in no way interferes with, +but rather assists, the manifestation of feeling. + +It must not be forgotten that there is great danger in exaggerating the +objective or representative action of a monologue. The exaggeration of +accidents is the chief means of degrading noble literature in delivery. + +For example, one of the finest monologues, "The Vagabonds," by J. T. +Trowbridge, has been made by public readers a mere means of imitating the +oddities of a drunkard. The true centring of attention should be on the +mental characteristics of such a man. A degraded method of delivering this +centres everything on the mere accidents and oddities of manner. Thus a +most pathetic and tragic situation may be portrayed in a way not to awaken +sympathy, but laughter. + +THE VAGABONDS + + We are two travellers, Roger and I. + Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp. + Jump for the gentleman--mind your eye! + Over the table--look out for the lamp! + The rogue is growing a little old: + Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, + And slept out doors when nights were cold, + And ate, and drank, and starved together. + + We've learned what comfort is, I tell you: + A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, + A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, + The paw he holds up there has been frozen), + Plenty of catgut for my fiddle + (This out-door business is bad for strings), + Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, + And Roger and I set up for kings. + + No, thank you, sir, I never drink. + Roger and I are exceedingly moral. + Aren't we, Roger? See him wink. + Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel. + He's thirsty too--see him nod his head. + What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk; + He understands every word that's said, + And he knows good milk from water and chalk. + + The truth is, sir, now I reflect, + I've been so sadly given to grog, + I wonder I've not lost the respect + (Here's to you, sir) even of my dog. + But he sticks by through thick and thin, + And this old coat with its empty pockets, + And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, + He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. + + There isn't another creature living + Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, + So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, + To such a miserable, thankless master. + No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin-- + By George! it makes my old eyes water-- + That is, there's something in this gin + That chokes a fellow, but no matter. + + We'll have some music if you are willing, + And Roger here (what a plague a cough is, sir) + Shall march a little. Start, you villain! + Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer! + 'Bout face! attention! take your rifle! + (Some dogs have arms you see.) Now hold + Your cap while the gentlemen give a trifle + To aid a poor old patriot soldier. + + March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes + When he stands up to hear his sentence; + Now tell how many drams it takes + To honor a jolly new acquaintance. + Five yelps, that's five--he's mighty knowing; + The night's before us, fill the glasses; + Quick, sir! I'm ill; my brain is going; + Some brandy; thank you: there, it passes. + + Why not reform? That's easily said. + But I've gone through such wretched treatment, + Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, + And scarce remembering what meat meant, + That my poor stomach's past reform, + And there are times when, mad with thinking, + I'd sell out Heaven for something warm + To prop a horrible inward sinking. + + Is there a way to forget to think? + At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, + A dear girl's love; but I took to drink; + The same old story, you know how it ends. + If you could have seen these classic features-- + You needn't laugh, sir, I was not then + Such a burning libel on God's creatures; + I was one of your handsome men. + + If you had seen her, so fair, so young, + Whose head was happy on this breast; + If you could have heard the songs I sung + When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd + That ever I, sir, should be straying + From door to door, with fiddle and dog, + Ragged and penniless, and playing + To you to-night for a glass of grog. + + She's married since, a parson's wife; + 'Twas better for her that we should part; + Better the soberest, prosiest life + Than a blasted home and a broken heart. + I have seen her? Once! I was weak and spent + On the dusty road; a carriage stopped, + But little she dreamed as on she went, + Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped. + + You've set me talking, sir, I'm sorry; + It makes me wild to think of the change. + What do you care for a beggar's story? + Is it amusing? you find it strange? + I had a mother so proud of me, + 'Twas well she died before. Do you know, + If the happy spirits in Heaven can see + The ruin and wretchedness here below? + + Another glass, and strong to deaden + This pain; then Roger and I will start. + I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, + Aching thing, in place of a heart? + He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could, + No doubt remembering things that were: + A virtuous kennel with plenty of food, + And himself a sober, respectable cur. + + I'm better now; that glass was warming. + You rascal! limber your lazy feet! + We must be fiddling and performing + For supper and bed, or starve in the street. + Not a very gay life to lead you think? + But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, + And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; + The sooner the better for Roger and me. + +"The Vagabonds" deserves study on account of its revelation of the +subjectivity possible to the monologue. Notice the speaker's talk to his +dog: "Come here, you scamp,"--"Jump for the gentleman,"--"Over the table, +look out for the lamp." Then he begins the story of his life, exhibiting +his pathetic condition, and displaying his realization of his downfall. +After this he resolutely turns to his violin and calls upon his dog to +perform: + + "Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer! + 'Bout face! attention! take your rifle!" + +Then suddenly the note of remorse is sounded; his sense of illness, his +restoration with the brandy, are true in every line to human character. + +The interpretation of such a poem is difficult because it verges so close +upon the imitative that readers are apt to lose the spirit and intention +of the author. It must be made entirely a study of character. The +underlying spirit, not the accidents, must be accentuated by the action of +the body. + +In general, even when representative actions are most appropriate and +helpful, the manifestative actions of face and body must be accentuated +and at all times made to predominate over the representative actions. The +more serious any interpretation is, the more necessary is it that +manifestation transcend representation. Every student should observe how +manifestative action of face and body always supports descriptive gesture. + +Again, in the monologue there must not be too much motion. Motion is +superficial, showing merely extraneous relations, and may indicate +nervousness or lack of control. The attitude must be sustained. Any motion +should be held until it spreads through the whole being. Motions reveal +superficial emotions; attitudes, the deeper conditions. Conditions must +transcend both motions and attitudes, and attitudes must always +predominate over motions. + +The monologue must not be spectacular, and cannot be interpreted by +external and mechanical movements. The whole body must act, but in a +natural way. Expansions of the body, the kindling eye, the animated face, +form the centre of all true dramatic actions. + +The attitude at the climax of any motion makes the motion emphatic. The +monologue is so subtle, and requires such accentuation of deep impression, +that attitudes are especially necessary. An attitude accentuates a +condition or feeling by prolonging its pantomimic suggestion. As the power +to pause, or to stay the attention until the mind realizes a situation and +awakens the depths of passion, is important in vocal expression, so the +staying of a motion at its climax, a sustaining of the attitude that +reveals the deepest emotional condition, is the basis of true dramatic +action. + +Of all languages, action is the least noticeable, the most in the +background, but, on the other hand, of all languages it is the most +continuous. From the cradle to the grave, sleeping or waking, pantomimic +expression is never absent. Consciously or unconsciously, every step we +take, every position we assume, reveals us, our character, emotions, +experiences. Hence, any dramatic interpretation of human experiences or +character, such as a monologue, demands thorough and conscientious study +of this language, which reveals both the highest and the lowest conditions +of the heart. + + + + +XII. THE MONOLOGUE AND METRE + + +One of the most important questions in regard to form in poetry, +especially the form and interpretation of the monologue, relates to metre. + +To most persons metre is something purely arbitrary and artificial. Books +on the subject often give merely an account of the different kinds of feet +with hardly a hint that metre has meaning. But metre is not a mechanical +structure which exists merely for its own sake. When the metre is true, it +expresses the spirit of the poem, as the leaf reveals the life and +character of the tree. + +The attitude of mind of many persons of culture and taste toward metre is +surprising. Rarely, for example, is a hymn read with its true metric +movement. Is this one reason why hymns are no longer read aloud? Not only +ministers and public speakers, but even the best actors and public +readers, often blur the most beautiful lines. How rarely do we find an +Edwin Booth who can give the spirit of Shakespeare's blank verse! Few +actors realize the pain they give to cultivated ears or to those who have +the imagination and feeling to appreciate the expressiveness of the metric +structure in the highest poetry. + +The development of a proper appreciation of metre is of great importance. +Though the student should acquaint himself with the metric feet and the +information conveyed in all the rhetorics and books on metre, still he has +hardly learned the alphabet of the subject. + +To appreciate its metre, one must so enter into the spirit of a poem that +the metric movement is felt as a part of its expression. The nature of the +feet chosen, the length of the lines,--everything connected with the form +of a fine poem, is directly expressive. The sublimer the poem, the +painting, or any work of art, the more will the smallest detail be +consistent with the whole and a necessary part of the expression. + +Metre has been studied too much as a matter of print. Few recognize the +fact that metre is necessarily a part of vocal rather than of verbal +expression, and can only be suggested in print. + +Metre can be revealed only by the human voice. As a printed word is only a +sign, so print can afford a hint only of the nature of metre. Its study, +accordingly, must be associated with the living voice and the vocal +interpretation of literature. + +The mastery of metre requires first of all a development of the sense of +rhythm, a realization especially of the subjective aspects of rhythm, a +consciousness of the rhythm of thinking and feeling and the power we have +of controlling or accentuating this. There must be developed in addition a +sense of form and a realization of the nature of all expression, and of +the necessity that ideas and feelings be revealed through natural and +objective means. + +Another step not to be despised is the training of the ear. At the basis +of every specific problem of education will be found the necessary +training of a sense. How can a painter be developed without education of +the eye as well as control of the hand. So metre must be recognized by the +ear before it can be revealed by the voice. Last of all, the imagination +must recreate the poem and the reader must realize the specific language +of every foot and feel its hidden meaning. + +All these aims will be developed, more or less together, and be in direct +relation to all the elements of expression. + +Metre is a difficult subject in which to lay down general principles, lest +they become artificial rules. Every poem that is really great shows +something new in the way of combining imperfect feet, and the student must +study the movement for himself. + +Many will be tempted to ask, "What has metre to do with the monologue?" It +is true that metre belongs to all poetry, but the monologue has some +specific and peculiar uses of metre, and, more than any other form of +poetry except the poetic drama, demands the living voice. Hence a few +suggestions are necessary at this point upon this much neglected and +misconceived subject. + +To understand the relation of metre to the monologue, it should be held in +mind that metre is far more flexible and free in dramatic than in lyric +poetry. In lyric poetry it is usually more regular and partakes of the +nature of song; but in dramatic poetry it is more changeable and bears +more resemblance to the rhythm of speech. In the lyric, metre expresses a +mood, and mood as a permanent condition of feeling necessitates a more +regular rhythm; but in dramatic poetry, metre expresses the pulse-beat of +one character in contact with another. It must respond to all the sudden +changes of thought and feeling. + +The difference between the metre of Keats or Shelley or Chaucer and that +of Shakespeare or of Browning is not wholly one of personality. It is +often due to a difference in the theme discussed and in the spirit of +their poetry. + +So important is the understanding of metre to the right appreciation of +any exalted poetic monologue, that in general, unless the interpreter +thoroughly masters the subject of metre, he is unprepared to render +anything but so-called monologues on the lowest plane of farce and +vaudeville art. + +Very close to the subject of metre is length of line. A long line is more +stately, a short line more abrupt, passional, and intense. A short line in +connection with longer lines, generally contains more weight, and such an +increase of intensive feeling as causes its rendering to be slow, +requiring about as much time as one of the longer lines. The short line +suggests the necessity of a pause. It is usually found in lyric poetry; +rarely in dramatic. + +The peculiar variation in length of line found in the Pindaric ode belongs +almost entirely to lyric poetry. Monologues and dramatic poems are +frequently found in blank verse. + +We find here a peculiar principle existing. In blank verse there is +greater variation of the feet than in almost any other form of poetry, and +yet in this the length of line is most fixed. In the Pindaric ode, on the +contrary, where the foot is more regular, there are great variations in +the length of line. Is there not discoverable here a law, that where +length of line is more fixed, metre is more variable, but where length of +line is more variable, the metric feet tend to be more regular? + +Art is "order in play"; the free, spontaneous variation is play; the fixed +or regular elements give the sense of order. True art always accentuates +both order and play, not in antagonistic opposition, but in sympathetic +union. Whenever the order is more apparent in one direction, there is +greater freedom of play in another, and the reverse. + +We find this principle specially manifest in pantomimic expression. Man is +only free and flexible in the use of his arms and limbs when he has a +stability of poise and when his movement ends in a stable attitude. There +is opposition between motions and positions. + +This important law has been overlooked both in action and in vocal +expression. It is not quite the same as Delsarte's law: "Stability is +characteristic of the centre; flexibility, of the surface." While this is +true, the necessary co-ordination of the transcendence of stability of +attitude over motion is also a necessary law of all expression. + +Before trying to lay down any general law regarding metre as a mode of +expression, let us examine a few monologues in various feet. + +Notice the use of the trochee to express the loving entreaty in "A Woman's +Last Word" (p. 6). To give this a careless rendering with its metric +movement confused, as is often done, totally perverts its meaning and +spirit. The accent on the initial word of the line gives an intensity of +feeling with tender persuasiveness. This accent must be strong and +vigorous, followed by a most delicate touch upon the following +syllables:-- + + "Be a god, and hold me + With a charm! + Be a man, and fold me + With thine arm!" + +One who has little sense of metre should try to read this poem in some +different foot. He will soon become conscious of the discord. When once he +catches the spirit of the poem with his own voice, he will experience a +satisfaction and confidence in his rhythmic instinct, and in his voice as +its agent, that will enable him to render the poem with power. + +Note in this poem also the shortness of the lines, which express the +abrupt outbursts of intense feeling. The fact that every other line ends +upon an accented syllable adds intensity, sincerity, and earnestness to +the tender appeal. The delicate beauty of the rhymes also aids in +idealizing the speaker's character. The whole form is beautifully adapted +to express her endeavor to lift her husband out of his suspicious and +ignoble jealousy to a higher plane. + +Browning's "In a Year" has seemingly the same foot and the same length of +line as "A Woman's Last Word," but how different its effect! "In a Year" +is made up of bursts of passion from an overburdened heart. It seems more +subjective or more of a soliloquy. + +There is not the same direct appeal to another, but no print can give the +difference between the emotional movement of the two poems. In both, the +trochaic foot and the very short line indicate abrupt outpouring of +feeling. + +Compare these two poems carefully. What is the significance of the form +given them by Browning, the metre, the length of line, and the stanzas? +Why are the stanzas of "In a Year" longer than those of "A Woman's Last +Word"? What is the effect of the difference in rhyme of these two poems? +Does one detect any difference in the metric movement? + +IN A YEAR + + Never any more, + While I live, + Need I hope to see his face + As before. + Once his love grown chill, + Mine may strive: + Bitterly we re-embrace, + Single still. + + Was it something said, + Something done, + Vexed him? was it touch of hand, + Turn of head? + Strange! that very way + Love begun: + I as little understand + Love's decay. + + When I sewed or drew, + I recall + How he looked as if I sung, + --Sweetly too. + If I spoke a word, + First of all + Up his cheek the color sprung, + Then he heard. + + Sitting by my side, + At my feet, + So he breathed but air I breathed, + Satisfied! + I, too, at love's brim + Touched the sweet: + I would die if death bequeathed + Sweet to him. + + "Speak, I love thee best!" + He exclaimed: + "Let thy love my own foretell!" + I confessed: + "Clasp my heart on thine + Now unblamed, + Since upon thy soul as well + Hangeth mine!" + + Was it wrong to own, + Being truth? + Why should all the giving prove + His alone? + I had wealth and ease, + Beauty, youth: + Since my lover gave me love, + I gave these. + + That was all I meant, + --To be just, + And the passion I had raised, + To content. + Since he chose to change + Gold for dust, + If I gave him what he praised + Was it strange? + + Would he loved me yet, + On and on, + While I found some way undreamed + --Paid my debt! + Gave more life and more, + Till all gone, + He should smile "She never seemed + Mine before. + + "What, she felt the while, + Must I think? + Love's so different with us men!" + He should smile: + "Dying for my sake-- + White and pink! + Can't we touch these bubbles then + But they break?" + + Dear, the pang is brief, + Do thy part, + Have thy pleasure! How perplexed + Grows belief! + Well, this cold clay clod + Was man's heart: + Crumble it, and what comes next? + Is it God? + +Why is "Herve Riel" in trochaic movement? It is heroic; why not then +iambic? The poem opens in a mood of anxiety, a state of suspense, a fear +of the certain loss of the fleet. When hope revives and Herve Riel is +introduced in the words, + + "For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these," + +we have a line of mixed anapestic and iambic feet, expressive of +resolution, courage, and confidence; so with the first and second lines of +the sixth stanza expressing indignation at the pilots; also in much of his +speech to the admirals. + +If the poet had led us sympathetically to identify ourselves with Herve +Riel's resolution and endeavor, the metre would have been anapestic or +iambic, but he gives the feeling of admiration for Herve Riel and we are +made to contemplate how easily he performed his great deed, and hence the +prevailing trochaic movement is one of the charms of the poem. + +Criticism of this poem, such as I have heard, reveals a lack of +appreciation of the dramatic spirit of metre. The trochaic delicately +expresses the emotional feeling, admiration, and tenderness for the +forgotten hero, as well as the anxiety and realization of danger in the +first parts of the poem. The change to the iambic in the central part of +the poem only proves the real character of the trochaic feet, and, in +fact, accentuates their spirit. The trochee seems in general to indicate +an outpouring of emotion or sudden burst of feeling too strong for +control. Many of the most tender and prayerful hymns have this foot. It +expresses also, at times, a sense of uneasiness or restlessness. + +The reader must take these statements, however, as mere suggestions, for +the very first poem written in this metre that he reads may give +expression to a different spirit. So complex, so mysterious, is the metric +expression of feeling, that no one poem can be made a standard for +another. + +The iambic foot, more than any other, expresses controlled +passion,--passion expressed with deliberation. It implies resolution, +confidence, or the heroic carrying out of an intention. While the trochee +suggests the bursting out of feeling against the will, the iambic may +suggest the spontaneous cumulation of emotion under the dominion of will +with a definite purpose or conscious realization of a situation. The +iambic can express passion controlled for an end, the trochee seems rather +to float with the passion or be thrust forward by waves or bursts of +feeling, which the will is trying to hold back. + +Note the predominant metric movement of "Rabbi Ben Ezra," and how it +expresses the confidence and noble conviction of the venerable Rabbi. + +Why is "The Last Ride Together" iambic? Because no other metre could so +well express the nobility of the hero, his endurance, his refusal to yield +to despair or become antagonistic, his self-control, and the preservation +of his hopefulness when all his "life seemed meant for fails." + +THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER + + I said--Then, dearest, since 'tis so, + Since now at length my fate I know, + Since nothing all my love avails, + Since all my life seemed meant for fails, + Since this was written and needs must be-- + My whole heart rises up to bless + Your name in pride and thankfulness! + Take back the hope you gave,--I claim + Only a memory of the same, + --And this beside, if you will not blame, + Your leave for one more last ride with me. + + My mistress bent that brow of hers; + Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs + When pity would be softening through, + Fixed me a breathing-while or two + With life or death in the balance: right! + The blood replenished me again; + My last thought was at least not vain: + I and my mistress, side by side, + Shall be together, breathe and ride, + So, one day more am I deified. + Who knows but the world may end to-night? + + Hush! if you saw some western cloud + All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed + By many benedictions--sun's + And moon's and evening-star's at once-- + And so, you, looking and loving best, + Conscious grew, your passion drew + Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, + Down on you, near and yet more near, + Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!-- + Thus leant she and lingered--joy and fear! + Thus lay she a moment on my breast. + + Then we began to ride. My soul + Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll + Freshening and fluttering in the wind. + Past hopes already lay behind. + What need to strive with a life awry? + Had I said that, had I done this, + So might I gain, so might I miss. + Might she have loved me? just as well + She might have hated, who can tell! + Where had I been now if the worst befell? + And here we are riding, she and I. + + Fail I alone, in words and deeds? + Why, all men strive and who succeeds? + We rode; it seemed my spirit flew, + Saw other regions, cities new, + As the world rushed by on either side. + I thought,--All labor, yet no less + Bear up beneath their unsuccess. + Look at the end of work, contrast + The petty done, the undone vast, + This present of theirs with the hopeful past! + I hoped she would love me; here we ride. + + What hand and brain went ever paired? + What heart alike conceived and dared? + What act proved all its thought had been? + What will but felt the fleshy screen? + We ride and I see her bosom heave. + There's many a crown for who can reach. + Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! + The flag stuck on a heap of bones, + A soldier's doing! what atones? + They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. + My riding is better, by their leave. + + What does it all mean, poet? Well, + Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell + What we felt only; you expressed + You hold things beautiful the best, + And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. + 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, + Have you yourself what's best for men? + Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time-- + Nearer one whit your own sublime + Than we who have never turned a rhyme? + Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride. + + And you, great sculptor--so, you gave + A score of years to Art, her slave, + And that's your Venus, whence we turn + To yonder girl that fords the burn! + You acquiesce, and shall I repine? + What, man of music, you grown gray + With notes and nothing else to say, + Is this your sole praise from a friend, + "Greatly his opera's strains intend, + But in music we know how fashions end!" + I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine. + + Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate + Proposed bliss here should sublimate + My being--had I signed the bond-- + Still one must lead some life beyond, + Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. + This foot once planted on the goal, + This glory-garland round my soul, + Could I descry such? Try and test! + I sink back shuddering from the quest. + Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? + Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride. + + And yet--she has not spoke so long! + What if heaven be that, fair and strong + At life's best, with our eyes upturned + Whither life's flower is first discerned, + We, fixed so, ever should so abide? + What if we still ride on, we two, + With life forever old yet new, + Changed not in kind but in degree, + The instant made eternity,-- + And heaven just prove that I and she + Ride, ride together, forever ride? + +Adequate rendering of this poem requires a very decided touch upon the +strong foot, that is, an accentuation of the iambic movement. Notice also +the two, three, or four long syllables at the first of many lines (such as +lines six, seven, and eight), showing the passion and the intense control. +Observe the almost completely spondaic line, indicating deliberation, +patient waiting, or intense, pent-up feeling held in poise: + + "Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs," + +and then the short syllables and lyric effect in the next line. Note the +strong isolation of the word "right" at the end of the fifth line, stanza +two. + +Notice that in stanza four, when the ride begins, the first foot is not +iambic, but choriambic; yet all through the poem where manly resolution +and confidence is asserted and expressed, the iambic movement is strong. + +Tennyson's "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" (p. 50) expresses the severity and +earnestness of the speaker by the predominance of iambic feet, while the +sudden uneasiness, or burst of passion, is best expressed by trochaic +feet. Note the effect of the first line of most of the stanzas, then the +quick change to iambic movement expressing the rebuke which is the real +theme of the poem. + +The spondee is found in solemn hymns or in any verse expressing reverence +and awe. It is contemplative and poised, and is frequently blended with +other feet, especially with iambic, to express deliberation. + +In Browning's "Prospice," the iambus predominates, and expresses heroic +endurance and courage in meeting death; but the first foot--"Fear +death"--is a spondee, and indicates the deliberative realization of the +situation. It is the straightening up, as it were, of the whole manhood of +the soldier before he begins his battle with death. + +Very forcible are the occasional spondees in "Abt Vogler." These give +dignity and weight and sustain the contemplative and reverent meditations. + +It will be noted that the dactyl is very closely related in expression to +the trochee, and the anapest to the iambic. Triple rhythm or metre, +however, implies a more circular and flowing movement. The dactyl is used +in some of the most pathetic and passionate monologues of the language. +Notice the fine use of it in Hood's "Bridge of Sighs." + +THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS + + One more unfortunate, weary of breath, rashly importunate, gone to her + death! Take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fashion'd so + slenderly, young, and so fair! + + Look at her garments clinging like cerements, whilst the wave + constantly drips from her clothing; take her up instantly, loving, not + loathing. Touch her not scornfully; think of her mournfully, gently + and humanly; not of the stains of her--all that remains of her now, is + pure womanly. + + Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny rash and undutiful: past all + dishonor, death has left on her only the beautiful. Still, for all + slips of hers, one of Eve's family--wipe those poor lips of hers + oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses escaped from the comb, her + fair auburn tresses; whilst wonderment guesses where was her home? + + Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a + brother? Or was there a dearer one still, and a nearer one yet, than + all other? Alas! for the rarity of Christian charity under the sun! O! + it was pitiful! near a whole city full, home she had none. Sisterly, + brotherly, fatherly, motherly feelings had changed: love, by harsh + evidence, thrown from its eminence; even God's providence seeming + estranged. + + Where the lamps quiver so far in the river, with many a light, from + window and casement, from garret to basement, she stood, with + amazement, houseless by night. The bleak wind of March made her + tremble and shiver; but not the dark arch, or the black, flowing + river; mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery swift to be + hurl'd--anywhere, anywhere out of the world! In she plunged boldly, no + matter how coldly the rough river ran, over the brink of it,--picture + it, think of it, dissolute Man! lave in it, drink of it, then, if you + can! + + Take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fashion'd so slenderly, + young and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly stiffen too rigidly, + decently, kindly, smooth and compose them; and her eyes close them, + staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring through muddy impurity, as when + with the daring last look of despairing fix'd on futurity. + + Perishing gloomily, spurr'd by contumely, cold inhumanity burning + insanity into her rest.--Cross her hands humbly, as if praying dumbly, + over her breast! Owning her weakness, her evil behavior, and leaving, + with meekness, her sins to her Saviour! + +Some persons may not regard this poem as a monologue. But if not rendered +by a union of dramatic and lyric elements, it will be given, as it often +is, as a kind of a stump speech to an audience on the banks of the Thames +over the body of some poor, betrayed woman, who has ended her life in that +murky stream. + +It is true that we are little concerned with the character of the speaker, +and the feeling is intensely lyric and universal. But the situation is so +definite, and the "One more unfortunate" is so vividly portrayed to us, +that it is, at least, partly dramatic. Even those who are caring for the +body are directly addressed: + + "Take her up tenderly, + Lift her with care." + +It is a lyric monologue. + +The sad, passionate outbursts can hardly be suggested by any other metre +than that which is used by Hood, and we feel that its choice is singularly +appropriate. The poem is intensely subjective. The conceptions regarding +the life just closed arise through the natural association of ideas. The +speaker thinks and feels definitely before us. The whirling circles +suggested by the dactyl, with the occasional passionate break of a single +accented word or syllable at the end of a line, assist the reader. Without +such dactylic movement, the vocal expression of a pathos so intense would +be hardly possible to the human voice. + +Notice the two long syllables at the very beginning of the poem expressive +of the stunned effect at the discovery of the body. + +Render the poem printed as prose to avoid the sing-song of short lines, +and note that in proportion to the depth of passion the metre becomes +pronounced. It is impossible to read it in its proper spirit when not +correctly rendering its metric rhythm. + +The dactyl is used with a very similar effect in Austin Dobson's "Before +Sedan" (p. 84). + +What a difference is expressed by the use of these same feet, with greater +changes, and in longer lines, in Browning's "The Lost Leader"! +Restlessness is here expressed, arising not from pathos, but from +indignation and disappointment. The rhythmic movement of the metre is +totally different in this case. While the feet may be mechanically the +same, the length of the lines and the rhythmic spirit differ greatly in +the two poems. The feeling is different, the tone-color of the voice not +the same, and the whole expression differs, though in a mechanical +scanning they seem nearly alike. + +THE LOST LEADER + + Just for a handful of silver he left us, + Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,-- + Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, + Lost all the others, she lets us devote; + They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, + So much was theirs who so little allowed: + How all our copper had gone for his service! + Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud! + We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, + Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, + Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, + Made him our pattern to live and to die! + Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, + Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves! + He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, + He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! + + We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence; + Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre; + Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, + Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire; + Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, + One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, + One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels, + One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! + Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! + There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, + Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight, + Never glad confident morning again! + Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly, + Menace our heart ere we master his own; + Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, + Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! + +One aid in realizing metre as an element of expression is to examine a +poem printed as prose and attempt to discover the peculiar value and force +of the metric forms, length of lines, length of the stanzas, and even the +rhymes. All these in a true poem are expressive. There is nothing really +artificial or accidental in a true poetic or artistic form. (See p. 175 +and p. 209.) + +Many poems in this book and in the accompanying monologues for further +study are printed as prose, not because metre and length of line are +unimportant, but for the very opposite reason. The form of a printed poem +is so apt to be disregarded or considered a mere matter of print that this +unusual method of printing a poem is adopted to furnish opportunity for +the reader to work out for himself the metre and other elements of the +form. In reading over a poem thus printed, almost any one will become +conscious of the metric movement, and in every case the metric structure +and length of line should be indicated and felt by the reader. + +There is never, in a fine poem, especially in a dramatic poem, a mere +mechanical and regular succession of the same foot, though one foot may +predominate and give the general spirit to the whole. True metre never +interferes with thinking or with the processes of natural speech; on the +contrary, it is an aid to thinking, feeling, and vocal expression. + +If the student will think and feel intensely such a poem as "Rabbi Ben +Ezra" (p. 36), and will strongly accentuate the metre, he will find that +he can read it easily, because, when true to its objective form, he is the +better able to give its spirit. + +Innumerable changes in the metric feet occur in Browning's "Saul," in "Abt +Vogler," or in any great poem. The more deeply we become imbued with the +spirit of a poem, the more do we feel that these variations are necessary. + +The reader must be slow to criticize a seeming discord in metre. An +apparent fault may appear as a real excellence after one has genuinely +seized the true spirit of the passage. + +Notice, for example, the discord in the word "ravines" in Coleridge's +"Hymn before Sunrise." It gives a sudden arrest of feeling almost as if +one stood trembling on the verge of a precipice. With mechanical +regularity of feet such an impression could not be made. A great musical +composer weaves in discords as a means of expression, and the same is true +of a great master of metre. In nearly all cases where there is a seeming +discord of metre, some peculiar vocal expression is necessary. "Ravines" +compels a good reader to make an emphatic pause after it. + +The importance of pause in relation to metre has often been overlooked. In +Tennyson's "Break, break, break," we have a most artistic presentation of +only the strong words of the metric line. A period of silence is necessary +in order to give the whole line its movement. It requires as much time as +if it had its full complement of syllables. This suggests the depth of the +emotion. Such pauses, however, bring us to the subject of rhythm rather +than metre. They have a wonderful effect in awakening a perception of the +spirit of the poem. + +Notice in "My Last Duchess" (p. 96), the lack of rhyme, the stilted blank +verse, the tendency towards iambic feet,--possibly to show the domineering +and tyrannical spirit of the character. The almost prosaic irregularity of +the feet is certainly very expressive of his thinking and feeling. It is +easy, in this passage, to realize the appropriate expressiveness of +Browning's metre. + +The metre of "A Death in the Desert" seems to a dull ear the same as that +in "My Last Duchess." But let one render carefully the dying John in +contrast with the Duke. What a difference! How smooth the flow, what +dignified intensity, when the beloved disciple gives his visions of the +future! The spirit of the two when interpreted by the voice differ in the +metric movement. What a rollicking good-nature is suggested appropriately +by the metre of "Sally in our Alley" (p. 121). Imagine this young fellow +telling his story, as he walks along. It would be impossible for him to +talk in a steady, straight-forward iambic, or even in the hesitating, +emotional trochee. His passion comes in gusts and outbursts, so that now +and then he leaps into a kind of dance. The poem is wholly consistent with +the character, and the metre is not the least important means of revealing +the spirit of the emotions and sentiments. Plain, prosaic criticism, +however, can hardly touch it. The characteristic spirit of the lad must be +so deeply appreciated and felt as to lift the whole, notwithstanding its +homely character, into the realm of exalted poetry, in fact, into a rare +union of lyric and dramatic elements. + +Notice, too, in "Up at a Villa--Down in the City" (p. 65), that the very +mood, the very way an "Italian Person of Quality" would stand, walk, +saunter along, loll in a chair, roll his head, or swing his feet, are +suggested by the metric movement. Changes of movement are required to show +the person's change of feeling and action. Quicker pulsation at his +exaltation over the city will demand a swifter movement, while the slow, +retarded rhythm will show contempt for the villa. Through the whole, the +unity of the feet, the seeming carelessness, and the constant variation +which suggests the commonplace character of the person, are part of the +humorous impression made upon us. The metre, in this case, as in all +monologues expressive of humor, must give the real spirit of the +character; when once we realize the situation and the feeling, the right +vocal expression of the metric form is a natural result. + +Observe the grotesque humor, not only of the rhymes such as "eye's tail +up" and "chromatic scale up," but also the peculiar feet in Browning's +"Youth and Art" (p. 21). The most common foot in the poem, an +amphibrachys, three syllables with the middle one long, is often used with +comical or grotesque effect in poems full of humor. The last line, +however, full of tenderness and sadness, is trochaic. + +Observe the tenderness of "Evelyn Hope." + +EVELYN HOPE + + Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! + Sit and watch by her side an hour. + That is her book-shelf, this her bed; + She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, + Beginning to die too, in the glass; + Little has yet been changed, I think: + The shutters are shut, no light may pass + Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink. + + Sixteen years old when she died! + Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; + It was not her time to love; beside, + Her life had many a hope and aim, + Duties enough and little cares, + And now was quiet, now astir, + Till God's hand beckoned unawares,-- + And the sweet white brow is all of her. + + Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? + What, your soul was pure and true, + The good stars met in your horoscope, + Made you of spirit, fire and dew-- + And, just because I was thrice as old + And our paths in the world diverged so wide, + Each was naught to each, must I be told? + We were fellow mortals, naught beside? + + No, indeed! for God above + Is great to grant, as mighty to make, + And creates the love to reward the love: + I claim you still, for my own love's sake! + Delayed it may be for more lives yet, + Thro' worlds I shall traverse, not a few: + Much is to learn, much to forget + Ere the time be come for taking you. + + But the time will come, at last it will, + When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say) + In the lower earth, in the years long still, + That body and soul so pure and gay? + Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, + And your mouth of your own geranium's red-- + And what you would do with me, in fine, + In the new life come in the old one's stead. + + I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, + Given up myself so many times, + Gained me the gains of various men, + Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; + Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, + Either I missed or itself missed me: + And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! + What is the issue? let us see! + + I loved you, Evelyn, all the while! + My heart seemed full as it could hold; + There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, + And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. + So hush,--I will give you this leaf to keep: + See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! + There, that is our secret: go to sleep! + You will wake, and remember, and understand. + +Note especially the transition from the trochees, expressive of tender +love and feeling, in stanza three, to the iambics, expressing conviction +and confidence, in the following stanzas: + + "For God above + Is great to grant, as mighty to make, + And creates the love to reward the love: + I claim you still, for my own love's sake." + +In Browning's "One Way of Love" (p. 150) the iambics in the first lines +express determination and endeavor, but there is a decided change in the +metric movement caused by the agitation, disappointment, and deep feeling +of the last two lines of each stanza. + +It is never possible to study metre in cold blood. It is the language of +the heart. Only an occasional versifier in a critical or intellectual +spirit grinds out a machine-made metre, every foot of which can be scanned +according to rule. + +A poem which is written seemingly in one metric measure will be found, +when read aloud with proper feeling, to have several. Contrast the last +stanza with the third from the last of "In a Year" (p. 201), and one feels +that the third from the last has the stronger iambic movement. This +possibly expresses hope, or impetuous longing, while the last, returning +to the trochee, expresses intense despair. At any rate, these two stanzas +cannot be read alike. Of course, a different conception on the part of +the reader would affect the metre. The interpreter must take such hints as +he finds, complete them by his imagination, and so assimilate the poem as +to express its metre adequately by the voice. The living voice is the only +revealer, as the ear is the only true judge, of metre. + +In "Confessions" (p. 7), the waking of the sick man, his confusion, his +uncertainty whether he has heard aright, and his repetition of the words +of his visitor, are given with trochaic movement, while his own conviction +and answer are given in iambics; yet his story, possibly on account of the +tenderness of recollections, frequently returns to the trochaic movement. + +In the same way, to his question + + "... Is the curtain blue + Or green to a healthy eye?" + +he gives a slightly trochaic effect as a recognition of his own sick +condition. A positive settling of the question by his own illustration is +indicated by the emphasis of the iambic movement in the next line. + +These are illustrations only. Two persons who have thoroughly assimilated +the spirit of a poem, may not completely agree concerning its metre. It is +not necessary nor best that they should. There are delicate variations +which show spontaneously the difference in the realization of the two +readers. + +Such personal variations, however, which result from peculiar experiences +and types of character, must not be confused with the careless breaking of +the metre which we hear from all our actors and public readers. The latter +is the result of ignorance and lack of understanding and realization. The +late Henry A. Clapp, criticizing a prominent actor in "Julius Caesar," +broke forth in a kind of despair and said: "After all, where could he go +to find adequate methods for the development of a true sense of metre?" + +Metre will never be fully understood until studied in connection with +vocal expression, nor will vocal expression ever rise to its true place +until applied to the interpretation not only of poetic thought, but of +such elements of poetic form as metre. And where can a better means be +found for both steps than the study of the monologue? + +The student should observe the metre as well as the thought of every +monologue he examines, and read it aloud, attending faithfully to the +spirit of its metric expression. So poor is the ordinary rendering of +metre, that it is almost impossible to tell the metre from the ordinary +reading. + +Trochaic metre is often read, as if it were a kind of crude iambic. When +one is in the mood or spirit of one foot, unless he has imaginative and +emotional flexibility, all feet will be read as practically the same. I +have known readers, speakers, and actors who have completely lost the +dactylic and even the trochaic spirit or mode of expression. + +Let any one select a poem and render it successively with different metres +and note the effect. We must often be made to feel the power of wrong +vocal expression to pervert a poem before we can realize the force of +right voice modulation in interpreting its spirit. + +The student must realize each metric foot as an objective expression of a +subjective feeling. Doubt is often felt even by the best critics, and +great difference of opinion exists among them, but the reader who +understands vocal expression, studies into the heart of the poem and uses +his own voice to express his intuition, will settle most of these +difficulties satisfactorily to himself. Vocal interpretation is the last +criterion of metric expression. + +The universal lack of attention to metre is, no doubt, connected with a +universal neglect of the expressive modulations of the voice. In our day +the printed word and not the spoken word is regarded as the real word. +This has gone so far that some educated men seem to regard metre as solely +a matter of print. + +While metre may be one of the last points to be considered, it is not the +least important to study; nor is it, when mastered, the least useful to +the thought, feeling, imagination, and passion, or to the right action of +the voice in interpreting the spirit of the monologue. + +There is an almost universal tendency to regard as superficial, actors and +those capable of interpreting human experience by the living voice. Men +who should have known better have said that it is not mental force but +simply a certain peculiarity of temperament that gives dramatic power. + +One of the most important things to be sought is the better understanding +of the psychology of dramatic instinct. I have already tried to awaken +some attention to the peculiar nature and importance of this in +"Imagination and Dramatic Instinct," but the subject is by no means +exhausted. That discussion was meant only as a beginning. + +When actors and public readers feel it necessary to train the voice and +the ear, to develop imagination and feeling, to apprehend the true nature +of human art, and to meditate profoundly over the spirit of some great +poem; when they treat their own art with respect and give themselves +technical training, adequate metric expression will begin to be possible. + +At present, it must be said in sorrow that the ablest actors and most +prominent public readers blur and pervert the most beautiful lines in the +language. They seem blind to differences as great as those between the +sunflower and the rose. + + + + +XIII. DIALECT + + +Many monologues, especially the most popular ones are written in dialect; +and frequently the public reader or interpreter gives his chief attention +to the accurate reproduction of characteristic vowels, odd pronunciation +of words, and the externals of the manner of speaking. The writer also +often seems to make these matters of the greatest importance. What is the +real meaning of dialect? How far is it allowable? Is it ever necessary? +What principles apply to its use? + +Dialect is one of the accidental expressions of character, and must be +dramatic or it is worth nothing. It sometimes adds coloring by giving a +grotesque effect; helps to produce an illusion; or aids the reader or +hearer to create a more definite conception of the character speaking and +hence to appreciate more fully the thought, feeling, and spirit. It is a +kind of literary or vocal stage make-up that enables the reader or auditor +to recognize the character. + +James Whitcomb Riley has chosen the homely Hoosier dialect as the clothing +of the speaker in most of his monologues. As Burns spoke in the Scottish +dialect which was simple and native to his heart, so Riley seems to +consider the dialect of his native State the best medium for conveying the +peculiar feelings and experiences of types of character with which his +life has been directly associated. + +There is justification for this, for it is well known that Burns's best +poems are those in Scottish dialect. His English poems, with one or two +possible exceptions, are weaker, and in them he seems to be using a +foreign language. Poetry is very near the human soul; and when the dialect +is native to the heart, a quaint mode of expression may be necessary to +the dramatic spirit of the thought. + +As a character of a certain type may be an aid to the conception of a +thought or sentiment, so the experiences of a character may be better +suggested by dialect. In that case, it is justifiable, if not indeed a +dramatic necessity. + +In English some of the ablest writers have employed dialect. Tennyson uses +dialect in his monologue of the "Northern Farmer," and he is possibly our +most careful author since Gray. The French do not use dialect poems to +such an extent as English and American writers. They regard dialect as a +degradation of language. The Provencal writers take their peculiar _langue +d'oc_ too seriously to regard it as a dialect. American writers, +especially, think too much of dialect. A young writer often employs much +dialect in a first book, but in a second or third, the spelling indicates +the dialect less literally and with more suggestion of its dramatic +spirit. There are many instances where the earlier and the later books of +an author present marked contrasts in this respect. + +Public readers, especially, devote too much attention to the mere literal +facts of dialect. Readers who give no attention to characterization or +dramatic instinct pride themselves upon their mastery of many dialects. +Their work is purely imitative and external. In representing a dialect, +the general principles of expression, the laws of consistency and harmony, +must be carefully considered by both the writer and the reader. + +In general, the greatest masters of dialect are those who use dialects +associated with their own childhood, such as Riley, with the Hoosier +dialect, Day, with the Maine Yankee dialect, or Harris, with that of the +colored people of Georgia. True dialect must always be the result of +sympathy and identification. + +Many writers have been led by a study of peculiar types and through +natural imaginative sympathy or humor to understand and appreciate a +specific dialect. Dunbar thus writes many of his poems in the peculiar +dialect of his race. The reader need not be told that many of his poems +are monologues. For a perfect type see "Ne'er Mind, Miss Lucy." Dunbar was +led, no doubt, by genuine sympathy or dramatic instinct, to write in the +dialect of his race some of his most tender as well as his more humorous +poems. + +Dr. Drummond, of Montreal, after many experiences among the French +Canadians, has written several volumes of monologues in which he has +introduced to the world some peculiar types of the French Canadian. Their +quaint humor is portrayed with genuine and profound sympathy, and these +poems are capable of very intense dramatic interpretation, and are +deservedly popular. He preserves not only the peculiarity of the words, +but the melodic and rhythmic movement of the dramatic spirit of his +characters. + +DIEUDONNE + + If I sole ma ole blind trotter for fifty dollar cash + Or win de beeges' prize on lotterie, + If some good frien' die an' lef' me fines' house on St. Eustache, + You t'ink I feel more happy dan I be? + + No, sir! An' I can tole you, if you never know before, + W'y de kettle on de stove mak' such a fuss, + W'y de robbin stop hees singin' an' come peekin' t'roo de door + For learn about de nice t'ing's come to us-- + + An' w'en he see de baby lyin' dere upon de bed + Lak leetle Son of Mary on de ole tam long ago-- + Wit' de sunshine an' de shadder makin' ring aroun' hees head, + No wonder M'sieu Robin wissle low. + + An' we can't help feelin' glad too, so we call heem Dieudonne; + An' he never cry, dat baby, w'en he's chrissen by de pries'; + All de sam' I bet you dollar he'll waken up some day, + An' be as bad as leetle boy Bateese. + +There is great danger, however, in employing dialect. When the accidental +is made the essential, when dialect is put forward as something +interesting in itself, or adopted as a mere affectation, or where used by +writer or reader independent of the spirit of the poem, of the story, or +even of the character, and is regarded as something capable of +entertaining by the mere effect of imitation, it becomes insipid and a +hindrance. + +Genuine dialect is dramatic. A dialect too literally reproduced will be +understood with great difficulty, and the reading will cause no +enjoyment. The fact must be recognized that dialect is only accidental as +a means of expression, and hence is justified only when necessary to the +portrayal of character, or in manifesting a unique spirit, point of view, +or experience. + +Some of the best examples of the dramatic character of dialect in the +monologue are found in Kipling. His Tommy Atkins is so vividly portrayed +that he must necessarily speak in the peculiar manner of a British +soldier. Kipling has so identified himself with certain characters that +their dramatic assimilation requires dialectic interpretation, as in the +case of "Fuzzy-Wuzzy," "Danny Deever," and "Tommy." When dialect is thus +inevitable from the dramatic point of view, it is legitimate. + +In fact, while dialect is grotesque and accidental, and even stands upon a +low plane, yet, by intense poetic realization, it may be lifted into a +more exalted place. Energy has been called the father, and joy the mother, +of the grotesque. Humor is not inconsistent with the greatest pathos; in +fact, it is necessary to it. The grotesque sometimes becomes the Gothic. + +In "Shamus O'Brien," a monologue formerly popular, many of the characters +speak in dialect. Shamus, however, seems to use less dialect on account of +the dignity of his character and speech. In all such cases, the accidental +becomes less pronounced in proportion to the emphasis of the essential. +The dialect of the whole poem may be explained by the fact that an +Irishman tells the story. + +There seems, however, to be an exception to this. Carlyle, it is said, +when expressing the profoundest feeling in conversation always lapsed +into broad Scottish dialect. Colonel T. W. Higginson says that he, with +another gentleman and Carlyle, once passed through a park belonging to a +private estate. Some children were rolling on the grass, and one boy +coming forward timidly, approached Carlyle, whose face seemed to the boy +the most kindly disposed to children, and said, "Please, sir, may we roll +on the grass?" Carlyle broke into the broadest Scotch, "Ye may roll at +discretion." + +As already intimated, dialect must not be so extreme that the audience +cannot easily understand what the reader is saying. All true art is clear; +it is not a puzzle. On account of its theme, and its appeal to the higher +faculties, its comprehension may at times require long continued +contemplation and earnest endeavor; but an accidental element, such as +dialect, must never prevent immediate understanding of the words spoken or +thoughts expressed. Dialect must be perfectly transparent. Its whole charm +will be lost if it does not give a simple, quaint suggestion of character. + +The chief element of dialect is not in the words or the pronunciation of +the elementary sounds but in the melody. Every language has a kind of +"accent," as it is called, and it is this "accent" which is most +characteristic. Every word may be pronounced correctly, but the artistic +reader or actor can suggest immediately by the peculiar melodic form of +his phrases whether it is a Frenchman, a German, an Italian, an Irishman, +or a Scotsman who speaks. + +In fact, the more subtle, more natural, more suggestive the dialect, the +better. It must never be labored; never be of interest in itself. It is +secondary to character, to thinking, and even to feeling. + +Dialect should always be the result of assimilation rather than imitation. +If there is imitation at all, it must be of that higher kind resulting +from sympathetic identification and a right use of the dramatic instinct. + +One of the greatest mistakes in rendering dialect consists in taking the +printed word as the sole guide. Because a word here and there is spelled +oddly, the reader confines the dialect to these words. + +True dialect is not a matter of individual words. It must penetrate the +speech; it never can be more than vaguely suggested in print, and the +print can be only a very inadequate guide to the reader. He must go to +life itself and study the melodic spirit, the peculiar relations to +character, the quaint inflections and modulations of the voice, which have +little to do with mere pronunciation. A Scotchman may have corrected +certain peculiarities of his vowels, or a Frenchman be able to pronounce +individual words accurately, but still both will show a melodic +peculiarity, which remains a fundamental characteristic. One who renders +monologues and omits this peculiar melodic element will fail to give the +fundamental element in dialect. + +Dialect must not only be dramatic and sympathetic, but also delicately +suggestive and accurate. The accuracy, however, should not be literal. It +must be true to the type, and be felt as a part of the background. + +In the rendering of a monologue, in general nothing should be given in +dialect unless the dialect is directly expressive of the character of the +speaker, his views, ideas, or feelings, or unless it is necessary to the +complete representation of the ideas, or can add something to the humorous +or suggestive force of the thought. + +Peculiarities of dialect are always associated with dramatic action. In +fact, dialect is to speech what bearings are to movements. This again +shows that dialect is primarily dramatic, and justifies a full discussion +of the subject in connection with the dramatic monologue. A mere +mechanical imitation of dialect in the pronunciation is wrong from this +point of view also. The movements and actions of a character are as +essential as dialect, but are more general and will often determine the +most important part of the dialect, namely, the peculiar melody. When a +character is truly assimilated by instinct, if there is no mechanical +imitation, the dialect becomes almost an unconscious revelation. + +The study of dialect is very close to the subject of dramatic diction. +Many of our modern poets who use the monologue, such as Day, Foss, Riley, +and Drummond, are blamed by superficial critics for the roughness of their +language. Fastidious critics often say the work of these authors is too +rough, and "not poetry." + +In reply to such criticism it may be said that the peculiar nature of +dramatic diction is not realized. This rough language is necessary because +of the peculiar type of character. The man cannot be revealed without +making him speak his own native tongue. Browning is blamed as an artist +for using burly and even brutal English, but as Mr. Chesterton has shown, +"this is perfectly appropriate to the theme." An ill-mannered, +untrustworthy egotist, defending his own sordid doings with his own cheap +and weather-beaten philosophy, is very likely to express himself best in a +language flexible and pungent, but indelicate and without dignity. But the +peculiarity of these loose and almost slangy soliloquies is that every now +and then in them occur bursts of pure poetry which are like the sudden +song of birds. Flashes of poetry at unexpected moments are natural to all +men. High ideals, aspirations, and even exalted visions belong to every +one. Poetry is as universal as the human heart, though only a few can give +it word. + +The rough language, however, is not antagonistic to these poetic visions, +but necessary for the truthful presentation of the character; that is to +say, dramatic poetry must present both the external, objective form and +the internal thought and ideal. The very nature of dramatic poetry demands +such a union. + +This principle must govern all dramatic diction, dialect included, but the +law of suggestion and delicate intimation governs everywhere. + + + + +XIV. PROPERTIES + + +A play is a complete dramatic representation. The scenery, dress, and many +details are realistically presented to the eye. All the characters +concerned come forth upon the stage literally represented and objectively +identified in name, dress, look, and action. Any speaker may take himself +bodily out of the scene. There are properties, scenery, and other +characters to sustain the movement and continuity of the story. Hence, +upon the stage, situations and accidents can be represented more +literally than in the monologue, where much is hinted, or only intimated. +In the latter there is but one speaker and the situation is not +represented by scenery. It is a mental performance, and everything must be +simple. The monologue cannot be represented to the eyes as literally as a +play; hence, appeal must not be made to the eyes, but to the mind. + +The interpreter of the monologue, however, too often takes the stage as +the standard. There seems to be no well-conceived principle regarding the +use of scenery. The ambition is to make everything "dramatic," and the +result is that monologues are often made literal, showy, and theatrical, +and presented with inconsistencies which are almost ridiculous. Many +readers arrange a platform as a stage with furniture, and dress for their +part as if in a play. They show great attention to all sorts of mechanical +accidents. They must have a fan or some extraordinary hat which can be +taken off and arranged on the stage, and they sometimes go to greatest +extremes in sitting, standing, walking, and kneeling, thus crudely +violating the principles of unity, without which there is no art. + +The first principle which must govern the use of scenery on the stage, and +especially of properties by the interpreter of a monologue, is +significance. Nothing must be used that is not positively and necessarily +expressive of the thought and spirit of the passage rendered. When Duse +once looked at the stage before the curtain rose, she found a statue in +the supposed room. This was not unnatural, and seemed to the stage-manager +all right, as it made the place look more home-like; but she said the +statue must go out at once, as it was not a subject that would interest +the character depicted. He would never have such a statue in his room. So +out went the statue. And Duse was right. + +In general, in our day, on the stage as well as on the platform, there is +a tendency to use too many properties, too many accidentals, or merely +decorative details. Things should not be put on a platform or stage +because they are beautiful, but because they have significance. Even an +artistic dress is governed by the same principle. Whatever is not +expressive of the personality, whatever does not become a part of the +whole person, is a blemish and should be at once eliminated. In most +instances, vulgarity consists in the use of too many things. As one word +well chosen is more expressive than a dozen carelessly selected, so the +highest type of monologue demands the greatest simplicity in its +rendering. + +It must be borne in mind that the aim of all vocal expression is to win +attention. Many objects which at first seem to attract attention will be +found really to distract the auditor's mind. Let the reader try the +experiment of omitting them, and he will discover the advantage of few +properties. + +The painter must have the power of generalizing, of putting objects into +the background and enveloping all in what is sometimes called "tone." All +objects should be dominated by the same spirit, and must, therefore, be +made akin to each other and brought into unity. On the stage the lights +are often so arranged as to throw objects into shadow; yet this can hardly +equal the painter's art of subordination. The interpreter of a monologue, +however, has no such assistance. He must subordinate, accordingly, by +elimination, by the greatest simplicity in accessories, and by +accentuating central ideas or points. + +It is well known that during the greatest periods of dramatic art, such as +the age of Shakespeare, the stage was kept extremely simple, and this is +the case also in the best French and German drama of the present time. + +The fundamental law governing not only all dramatic art, and the monologue +and platform, but pictures and other forms of art, is unity. Simplicity +does not elaborate details or properties or gorgeous scenery. It is the +result of the subordination of means to one end. Every part of the stage +must be an integral portion and express the spirit of the scene. Modern +electric lights and appliances are such that a scene can be brought into +unity by effects of light in a way that was not possible until recent +years. Power to bring gorgeous scenery into unity has been shown +especially by Sir Henry Irving. + +In general, in proportion as a play becomes spectacular, and the stage is +made a means of exhibiting splendid scenery for its own sake, there is +absence of the dramatic spirit. + +The same is true regarding properties. A man may use his cane until it +becomes imbued with his own personality, and he can extend the sense of +feeling to its farthest tip, as the blind man uses a stick to feel his way +through the streets of a city. + +Hence, whenever any article of dress is a necessary part of the character +and has an inherent relation to the story or the thought, when it becomes +an essential part of the expression, then it may be properly employed. + +Coquelin, for example, in one of his monologues, comes out with a hat in +his hand, but the name of the monologue is "The Hat." It is to the hat +that his good fortune is due. He treats it with great affection and +tenderness, and it becomes in his hand an agency for gesticulation as well +as an object of attention. It can be managed with great flexibility and +freedom and in no way interferes with, but rather aids, the subtle, +humorous transitions in thought and feeling that occur all through the +monologue. + +The temptation to most interpreters, however, is to drag in something +which should play the most accidental role possible and make it a centre +of interest. This destroys expression. + +To illustrate: In a popular monologue a lady is supposed to discover under +the edge of a curtain a pair of boots which she takes for evidence that a +man is standing behind the curtain in concealment. Now, if literal boots +are arranged on the stage behind a curtain, they have a totally different +effect from Coquelin's hat. They are there all the time. The audience sees +them. They cannot move or be used in any way except indirectly. Besides, +the woman should discover the boots, and the audience is supposed to +discover them with her. A literal pair of boots, therefore, will interfere +with the imagination and an imaginary one is far more easily managed. + +It is difficult, however, to lay down a universal principle, as much +depends upon the artist, the situation, and the circumstances, but in +general the chief mistake is in having too many things and in being too +literal. The monologue, it must never be forgotten, depends more upon +suggestion than the play, and the law of suggestion must always be +obeyed. + +The monologue, or its interpretation, is simply a mode of expression, and +the employment of all accessories and properties must, first of all, be +such as will not destroy expression, but rather increase the intensity and +enforce the central spirit of the thought. + +A second principle might be named the law of centrality. The artist must +carefully distinguish between the accidental and the essential, and be +sure to remember that art is the emphasis of the essential; that emphasis +is the manifestation of what is of fundamental importance and the +subordination of what is of secondary value. Careless and inartistic minds +always find the accidental first; the accidental is to them always more +interesting. But when an accidental is made an essential, the result is a +one-sided effect; and while a temporary impression may be produced upon an +audience, it is never permanently valuable. The reader who emphasizes +accidents will himself grow weary of his monologue in a short time and not +know the reason. Only a thing of beauty is a joy forever. Only that which +is natural and in accordance with the laws of nature will stand forever as +an object of interest. + +A third law is consistency. As the oak-leaf is consistent with the whole +tree, so in art, the degree of literalness in one direction must be +justified by a corresponding degree in another. If Mrs. Caudle is to have +a night-cap, then an old-fashioned curtain bed, a stuffed image for +Caudle, and a phonograph for his snore are equally requisite. The +temptation to be literal would hardly lead a monologue interpreter to +place Caliban in the position Browning suggests in the poem, since it is +impracticable to have a pool on the stage and let Caliban lie in the cool +slush. In the very nature of the case, accessories are suggestive, and the +degree of suggestion in one direction must determine the degree in others. + +These three suggestive principles of unity, centrality, and consistency +show that what may be done on the stage should not be a standard for the +interpretation of a monologue. + +In the very nature of the case, the interpreter of the monologue cannot +have all the means of producing an optical illusion which are available on +the stage. His illusion must be mental and imaginative. Circumstances, +however, change, though the laws will be found to apply. + +Because the speaker is supposed to be sitting in a grocery store on a +barrel, it is not necessary for the reader to sit upon a table and swing +his feet. We are not interested in the barrel, but in the one who sits +upon it, and he would be as interesting if sitting upon something else, or +even standing. The fundamental centre of interest in all expression is the +mind, and whatever cannot reinforce that is not only useless, but a +hindrance. + +The old age of Rabbi Ben Ezra is purely accidental. To present him as weak +and enfeebled would destroy for us the vigorous mind, and strong +convictions of the old man. + +One of the precious memories of my youth, the most adequate rendering of a +monologue I ever heard, was Charlotte Cushman's reading of Tennyson's "The +Grandmother." Sitting quietly in her chair, as she did in nearly all of +her readings, she suggested the mind of the grandmother whose girlhood +memories, "seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago," were +accentuated by the trembling head and hands and voice. All the mental +attitudes so well portrayed by Tennyson--the lapses into forgetfulness; +the tenderness of the experience; the patience born of old age;--were +faithfully depicted. It was something which those who heard could never +forget. The greatness of Charlotte Cushman's art was shown in the fact +that she could give an extremely simple monologue with marvellous +consistency and force. It is strange that among American dramatic artists +no one has tried to follow in her steps. I can laugh yet when I remember +her transcendent interpretation of "The Annuity," a monologue in Scottish +character and dialect. I owe a great debt to Miss Cushman, for she +awakened my interest in the monologue, and gave me, over thirty years ago, +an ideal conception of the possibilities of dramatic platform art. She +never used properties of any kind. At times she stood up and walked the +platform and acted a scene from Macbeth or some other play, but always +with the simplest possible interpretation, without any mechanical +accessories. She never stood in giving her monologues, or readings, which +she gave the last year of her life. + +Care, of course, is needed in regard to the employment of properties also +on the stage. The difficulty of placing a horse upon the stage is well +known. He cannot be made a part of the picture, cannot be subordinated, or +"made up." If we observe from the gallery when a horse is on the stage, we +find that the attention of everybody is centred upon him, and the point of +the play is lost. Who ever receives an impression of the splendid music +while Brunhilde stands holding by the bridle a great cart-horse? + +The centre of interest in Goldsmith's "She Stoops to Conquer" is not in +the horse that Tony Lumpkin has been driving, but in his dialogue with his +mother, and her fright at her husband, whom she believes to be a +highwayman. To introduce two horses, making the audience uneasy as to what +they will do, destroys the dramatic interest of the scene. + +The bringing of real horses on the stage in a play always causes fear of +an accident and distracts attention from the real point of the scene. To +see a noted singer motioning to a super to bring her horse on the stage +makes "the judicious grieve." There is no doubt a tendency at the present +time to over-elaboration and to extravagance in realistic presentation. +But if too much literalism is objectionable in the play, how much more is +it in the monologue? + +All these principles may be combined in one, the law of harmony. This is +possibly the simplest law regarding properties, dialect, and all +accidentals in the interpretation of a monologue. The degree of realism in +one direction or in one part must be justified by corresponding degrees in +others. All art is relative, and depends upon the unity of impression. + +A man's clothes may be a part of his character, and a singular individual +often has an odd hat, or cane, that has become an essential means in the +expression of his character. Where a man uses a stick habitually in an +individual way, the dramatic artist may use this to a certain extent, +especially in monologues of a lower type. So of any article of dress; when +an essential part of a character is needed for expression, it is proper to +use it. The same principle applies here that was shown in the case of +dialect. Though accidental, an article of dress may become a means of +expression. In the higher and more exalted monologues, however, there +should be more suggestion and less literal presentation of properties or +adjuncts. The sublimer the literature, the more appeal is made to the +imagination; the deeper the feeling, the more complete is the dependence +upon the imagination of the audience. The more lyrical also, a monologue, +the less must there be of any accidental representation. This is sure to +destroy the lyric spirit. Even when there is not a lyric element the +dramatic element is only suggested, and in the sublimest monologues often +verges towards the epic. The monologue is rarely purely dramatic, that is, +dramatic in a sense peculiar to the theatre. + +The application of these principles to the interpretation of a monologue +is clear. Nothing in the way of properties should ever be employed in the +presentation of a monologue which is not absolutely necessary. There +should be nothing on the platform which does not directly aid in +interpreting the passage. All which does not co-operate in producing the +illusion will be a hindrance. Whenever attention is called to a literal +object, or even to a mere objective fact, attention is distracted from the +central theme. + +All properties appeal to the eye, and it requires a careful management of +light and a study of the stage picture to bring them into unity with the +scene. But the reader of the monologue can have no such advantages. If +unity in the literal representation of the stage is necessary, and cannot +be won without great subordination, how much more is this needful in the +presentation of a monologue, where the appeal is to the mind, and people +are supposed to use not their eye, but their imagination, and even to +supply a listener. The laws of consistency and suggestion, accordingly, +require the elimination or very careful subordination of properties and +scenery in the presentation of the monologue. Whenever one thing is +carried beyond the limit of suggestiveness or the degree of realistic +representation possible in all directions, the effect is one-sided. The +necessity of subordinating properties and make-up in the monologue is +shown by the fact that they are more permissible in those of a very low +type or in the burlesque or the farce. + +Dramatic elements and actions need to be emphasized by the interpreter of +a monologue. The actor can "take the stage" or give it up to another, but +this is impossible in a monologue. The interpreter on a platform has no +one to hold the stage while he falls. He can only suggest all the actions +and relations of character to character. He cannot make the same number of +movements, or turn so far around or walk so great a distance, or make such +a literal portrayal of objects as is possible on a stage. The monologue +must centre expression in the face, eyes, and action, and in the pictures +awakened in the minds of the hearers, not in mere accidents or properties. + +I have seen a prominent reader bend over at the hip and lean on a cane, so +that his face could not be seen by the audience, and people were expected +to accept this monstrosity as an old man. One among twenty thousand old +men might be bent over in this way, but then he could never talk as this +reader talked. Certainly such action was foreign to the intention of his +author and the spirit of his selection, as well as to the spirit of art. +Face and body must be seen in order to fully understand language, and no +accidental must be so exaggerated as to interfere with a definite, +artistic accentuation of that which is necessary to the meaning and +expressive presentation of the whole. In general, let the reader beware of +accidentals, and in every case, as much as possible, emphasize the +fundamentals. + + + + +XV. FAULTS IN RENDERING A MONOLOGUE + + +Many faults in the rendering of a monologue have been necessarily +suggested in the preceding discussion. There are some, however, which have +been but barely referred to, that possibly need some further attention. + +The monologue must not be stagy. It should possess the quiet simplicity, +the long pauses, the abrupt movement, the animated changes in pitch, and +the simple intensity which belong to conversation. The Italian in England +would remember and feel again the excitement of danger, and gratitude for +delivery; but he would not employ descriptive gestures and declamatory +presentation as if delivering an oration. + +An important error to be avoided in rendering a monologue is monotony or +inflexibility. A monologue is more suggestive than any other form of +literature, for it implies sudden exclamations and abrupt transitions. The +ideas and feelings are often hardly hinted at by the writer. There is not +only greater difficulty in realizing the continuity of ideas and meaning, +but a greater necessity for abrupt changes of voice than in any other +mode of expression. + +The reader of the monologue must suggest the impressions produced upon +him, the hidden causes, the unreported words of another character, and at +the same time a distinct and definite imaginative situation. Hence, the +rendering of a monologue requires the greatest possible accentuation of +the processes of thinking and feeling and the most delicate transitions of +ideas. An impression produced by a mere look must be definitely revealed +by the interpreter. + +We thus see the necessity for the employment of great flexibility of voice +and of body, and especially the exercise of versatility of the mind. The +interpreter must have a sympathetic temperament, and must be able to +accentuate and sustain the simplest look, the most delicate inflection and +change of pitch, and to modulate the color and movement of his voice with +perfect freedom. To read a monologue on one pitch completely perverts its +spirit. Monotony is a bad fault in rendering all forms of literature, but +it is possibly worse in the monologue on account of the peculiarly broken +and suggestive character of that form of writing. + +All the elements of conversation must be not only realized, but +emphasized. The reader must be able to make some of these so salient as to +reveal the very first initiation of an idea; otherwise, the real point may +be lost. The thought must be made clear at all hazards. + +The monologue must not be tame. Because it is printed in such regular +lines the suggestive character may be lost, and the words simply presented +as in a story or essay. There is a great temptation to give the feeling +with the personal directness of the lyric story or essay. The monologue +requires extreme definiteness and decision in the conception of character +and feeling, and every point must be made salient. + +Another fault in the rendering of the monologue is a declamatory tendency. +As the reader discovers but one speaker he confuses the words with a +speech. He feels the presence of the audience to whom he is addressing the +words, or unconsciously imagines an audience, in preparing his monologue, +and forgets entirely the dramatic auditor intended by the author. Thus, +the interpreter, confusing the points of situation, transforms the +monologue into a stump speech. + +It degrades the quiet intensity of "A Grammarian's Funeral" to make the +grammarian's pupil, who is aiding in bearing his body up the mountain +side, declaim against the world. How quietly intense and simple should be +the rendering of "By the Fireside." + +Although the subtleties of conversation need some accentuation, and +although there is an enlargement of the processes of thinking, and fuller +realization of the truth than in conversation, the monologue never becomes +a speech. An audience may be felt, but never directly dominated, nor even +addressed. In the oration, the speaker directly dominates the audience; in +dramatic representation, the artist does not even look at his audience. +His eye belongs to his interlocutor. The direction of the audience is that +of attraction, and away from the audience that of negation. He must feel a +tendency to gravitate in passion towards the audience, and in the negation +of passion to turn from them; but still he succeeds, not by direct +instruction, but by fidelity of portraiture. + +The monologue is as indirect as a play. It is the revelation of a soul, +and to be used not to persuade, but to influence subtly. The truth is +portrayed with living force, and the auditor left to draw his own +conclusions and lessons. + +Another fault is indefiniteness. Every part of a monologue must be brought +into harmony with the rest. Part must be consistent with part, as are the +hand and foot belonging to the same organism. If "Abt Vogler" be started +as a soliloquy, it must not be turned into a speech to an audience, nor +even into a direct speech to one individual. If conceived as a speech to +one individual, that character must be preserved throughout. Even though +talking to some one, he would be very meditative, and would often turn and +speak as if to himself. + +Closely allied to indefiniteness is exaggeration of certain parts. All +accentuation must be in direct proportion. If inflection be made longer +and more salient, there must also be longer pauses, greater changes of +pitch, and greater variations of movement and color. In the enlargement of +a portrait, it is necessary that all parts be enlarged in proportion. If +only the nose or the upper lip be enlarged, the truth of the portrait is +lost. + +But on account of the suggestive character of the monologue, essentials +only must be expanded and accentuated. Hardly any form of art demands that +accidentals be more completely subordinated. To exaggerate accidents is to +produce extravagance; to appeal to a lower sense is to violate the +artistic law of unity. Naturalness can be preserved in any artistic +accentuation by increased emphasis of essentials. This prevents the +monologue from being tame on the one hand, and extravagant on the other. + +Failures in the ordinary rendering of a monologue are frequently +occasioned by lack of imagination. The scene, situation, and relation of +the characters do not seem to be clearly or vividly realized. Hence, there +is a lack of passion, of emotional realization of a living scene, and +consequently of natural modulations of voice and body. The audience +depends entirely upon the interpreter, since there is no scenery to +suggest the situation. All centres in the mind of the reader. If he does +not see, and does not show the impression of his vision, his auditor +cannot be expected to realize anything. + +At first thought, it seems impossible for a reader to cause an audience to +discover a complicated situation from a look. The reader may think it +necessary to make a long explanation first and be tempted to depend upon +objects around him. It is presently found, however, that a mere hint, a +turn of the head, a passing expression of the face, will kindle the +imagination of the auditor. If the reader really sees things himself, and +is natural, flexible, and forcible, he need not fear that his audience +will not imagine the scene. An illusion is easily produced. Imagination +kindles imagination; vision evokes vision. Every picture, every situation, +the location of every character, the entrance of every idea, must be +naturally revealed, and there is no need for extravagance of labor. +Whatever turns the attention of the audience to the labor of the reader +will prevent imaginative creation of the scene, while all minds will be +concentrated on the thought when there is a natural, easy manifestation +of a simple impression. + +The reader in rendering a monologue has especial need for dramatic +imagination, and must have insight into the motives of character. The +character he portrays must think and live, and the character to whom he is +supposed to speak must also be realized. He must sympathetically identify +himself with every point of view. A lack of dramatic instinct upon the +stage may at times be concealed by a show of scenery and properties, but +without dramatic instinct the rendering of a monologue is impossible. It +is the dramatic imagination that enables a reader to feel the implied +relations, to awaken to a consciousness of a situation, or of the meaning +and intimation of the impression produced by another character. + +Lack of clearness must be corrected by unusual emphasis. In fact, the +monologue demands what may be called dramatic emphasis. Not only must +words that stand for central ideas be made salient, but so also must be +the impressions of ideas or of situations that need special attention. +These give to the audience the situation and life. It is the dramatic +ellipses that need especially to be revealed in order to make a monologue +clear as well as forcible. A monologue demands the direct action of the +dramatic instinct. + +All dramatic art must live and move. There is always something of a +struggle implied, and this must be suggested and represented. The whole +interest of dramatic art centres in the effect of one human being upon +another. Without dramatic realization of the effect of character upon +character, genuine interpretation of a monologue is not possible. + +The monologue must never be theatrical or spectacular. If the interpreter +exaggerates at the first some situation, however great or important, +beyond the bounds of living, moving, natural life, the result becomes mere +posing. An attitude that might have been a simple and clear revelation of +feeling is altogether exaggerated, and appeals to the eye instead of to +the imagination. It is the result, perhaps, of an expert mechanic, but not +of dramatic instinct. If there is a locating of everything, literalism is +substituted for imaginative suggestiveness. An extravagant earnestness, or +loudness, or unnatural stilted methods of emphasis, will entirely prevent +the reader's imaginative and dramatic action in identifying himself with +the character, or entering into sympathetic relations with the scene. A +monologue must always be perfectly true to life, and as simple and natural +as every-day movements upon the street. + +The interpreter of a monologue must study nature; must train his voice and +body to the greatest degree of flexible responsiveness, and become +acquainted with the human heart. He must cultivate a sympathetic +appreciation of all forms of literature; must understand the subtle +influences of one human being over another, and comprehend that only by +delicate suggestion of the simplest truth can the imagination and +sympathies be awakened. He must have confidence in his fellow-men, and be +able, by a simple hint, to awaken men's ideals. In short, faults in +rendering monologues must be prevented by genuineness, by developing +taste, and awakening the imagination, dramatic instinct, and artistic +nature. + + + + +XVI. IMPORTANCE OF THE MONOLOGUE + + +When we have once discovered the nature and peculiarities of the +monologue, the character of its interpretation, and its uses in dramatic +expression, its general importance in art, literature, and education +becomes apparent. + +In the first place, its value is shown by the fact that it reveals phases +of human nature not otherwise expressed in literature, or in any other +form of art. + +To illustrate this, let us take Browning's "Saul." It is founded upon a +very slight story in the Book of Kings to the effect that when Saul was +afflicted with an evil spirit, a skilful musician was sought to charm away +the demon, and the youthful David was chosen. + +Browning takes this theme, transfigures it by his imagination, and +produces what is considered by some the greatest poem of the nineteenth +century. Without necessarily subscribing to this judgment, let us study +this poem which has called forth from some critics so much enthusiasm. + +Browning makes David the speaker in the monologue, and its occasion after +the event, when he is "alone" with his sheep, endeavoring to realize what +happened while playing before Saul, and what it meant. + +The poem begins with his arrival at the Israelitish camp, and Abner's +kindly reception and indication to him of his duty. Browning isolates Saul +in his tent, which no one dares approach. This stripling with his harp +must, therefore, go into that tent alone. After kneeling and praying, he +"runs over the sand burned to powder," and at the entrance to the tent +again prays. Then he is "not afraid," but enters, calling out, "Here is +David." Presently he sees "something more black than the blackness," arms +on the cross-supports (note the cross). Now what can David, a youth, +before the king, sing or say or do? + +He first plays "the tune all our sheep know," that is, he starts, as +endeavor should ever start, upon the memory of some early victory. +Possibly his first victory was the training of the sheep to obey his +music. The winning of one victory gives courage for another. It is +practically the only courage a human being can get. Hence, David tries the +same song. He is not ashamed to trust his childhood's experiences. Then +follows the tune by which he had charmed the "quails," the "crickets," and +the "quick jerboa." Later experiences succeed, the tune of the "reapers," +the "wine-song," the praise of the "dead man." Then follows + + "... the glad chant + Of the marriage ..." + +and + + "... the chorus intoned + As the Levites go up to the altar." + +Here he stops and receives his first response. "In the darkness Saul +groaned." Then David pours forth the song of the perfection of the +physical manhood of which Saul was the type. + + "'Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! No spirit feels waste, + Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced. + Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,'" + +and calls him by name, "King Saul." Then he waits what may follow, as one +at the climax of human endeavor pauses to see what has been accomplished. +After a long shudder, the king's self was left + + "... standing before me, released and aware." + +what more could he do? + + "(For, awhile there was trouble within me.)" + +Then he turns to the dreams he had had in the field. He has gone the +rounds of his experience and done his best to interpret them. Now he +passes into a higher realm. He describes the great future, and all the +different causes working to perpetuate Saul's fame. + + "'So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part + In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!'" + +As he closes, the harp falling forward, he becomes aware + + "That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees + Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which please + To encircle a lamb when it slumbers." + +Then Saul lifted up his hand from his side and laid it + + "in mild settled will, on my brow: thro' my hair + The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind + power-- + All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower." + +and David peered into the eyes of the king-- + + "'And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign?'" + +His intense love and longing lifts David into a state of exaltation. + + "Then the truth came upon me. No harp more--no song more! outbroke--" + +The instrument drops to his side, for inspiration at its highest is +expressed by the simplest means. With a heart thrilled by love of this +fellow-being, out of that human love David comes to realize something of +the divine love, and he breaks into the finest strain of nineteenth +century poetry. In noble anapestic lines he pours forth the thought as it +comes to him: + + "'Behold, I could love if I durst! + But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake + God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake. + What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, + Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal? + In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? + Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, + That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts shift? + Here, the creature surpass the Creator,--the end, what Began?... + Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou--so wilt thou!'" + +This poem of Browning's is conceived in the loftiest spirit of religious +verse. David foretelling the Christ as the manifestation of divine love, +and the authentication of the fact of immortality, reaches the true spirit +of all prophecy, a theme almost transcending poetry. Then follow a few +words of David's, descriptive of the effect of the new law which he has +discovered upon the world around him on his way home. Illumination has +come to him, the world is transfigured by love; and this sublime poem +closes with the murmur of the brooks. + +What does it all mean? One person makes it the text of a long discussion +on the use of music to cure disease. Another thinks it a suggestion in +poetry of the spirit of Hebrew prophecy. There is no end to its +applications. It is a parable. Is it not the poetic interpretation of all +noble endeavor? May not David represent any human being facing some great +undertaking? Is not the gloomy tent the world, and Saul outstretched in +the form of a cross the race, and David with his harp any trembling soul +who attempts to charm away the demon from his fellow-men? Is it too much +to say that every successful artist follows David's example as portrayed +by Browning? The artist will also share in David's experience in the +transformation of the world. + +Without the monologue could such a marvellous interpretation be possible? +how could we receive such suggestions, such glimpses into man's spiritual +nature? What other form of art could serve as an objective means of +expressing those experiences? The evolution of the monologue has made +"Saul" possible. + +There has been much discussion whether the book of Job is a dramatic or an +epic poem. It contains both elements, but if we study the singular +character of the many speeches, we can see that the real spirit of the +poem is explained by the principles of the dramatic monologue. It is a +series of monologues by different speakers, each character being +separately defined, and his words and ideas definitely colored by his +character, as in "The Ring and the Book." + +The ninetieth Psalm is a monologue. Whoever the author may have been, he +conceived of Moses as the speaker. The experience is not that of mankind +in general. A peculiar situation and type of character are demanded. No +other man in history can utter so fittingly the words of the Psalm as can +Moses. + + "Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations. + Before the mountains were brought forth, + Or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, + Even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God. + Thou turnest man to destruction, + And sayest, Return, ye children of men. + For a thousand years in thy sight + Are but as yesterday when it is past, + And as a watch in the night. + Thou carriest them away as with a flood; + They are as a sleep: + In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up; + In the evening it is cut down, and withereth. + For we are consumed in thine anger, + And in thy wrath are we troubled. + Thou hast set our iniquities before thee, + Our secret sins in the light of thy countenance. + For all our days are passed away in thy wrath: + We bring our years to an end as a sigh. + The days of our years are threescore and ten, + Or even by reason of strength fourscore years; + Yet is their pride but labor and sorrow; + For it is soon gone, and we fly away. + Who knoweth the power of thine anger, + And thy wrath according to the fear that is due unto thee? + So teach us to number our days, + That we may get us a heart of wisdom. + Return, O Jehovah; how long? + And let it repent thee concerning thy servants. + Oh satisfy us in the morning with thy lovingkindness, + That we may rejoice and be glad all our days. + Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us, + And the years wherein we have seen evil. + Let thy work appear unto thy servants, + And thy glory upon their children. + And let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us; + And establish thou the work of our hands upon us; + Yea, the work of our hands establish thou it." + +The very first words hint at his experiences. He never had a home; how +natural, therefore, for him to say, "Lord, Thou hast been our +dwelling-place in all generations." Cradled on the Nile, brought up by +Pharaoh's daughter, Jethro's shepherd for forty years, and for another +forty a wanderer in the wilderness and the leader of his people, surely he +was rich in tried knowledge! + +Notice how these conditions save the Psalm from untruthfulness. "All our +days are passed away in thy wrath: we spend our years as a sigh." Such +statements are true of Moses and the people condemned to die in the +desert, Joshua and Caleb only being permitted to pass over the Jordan. +Moses in his grief at the divine judgment could say this truthfully to +God, but to give these words a universal application would falsify a +Christian's faith and hope. They are dramatic rather than lyric. + +The Psalm should be read as a monologue, the character should be +sustained; the feeling and experience, not of every one, but of Moses in +particular, should be felt and truly interpreted. + +What light the study of the monologue throws upon the peculiar oratory of +the Hebrew prophets! These are speeches, sermons with fragmentary +interruptions. Note, for example, in the twenty-eighth chapter of Isaiah, +a speech to the drunkards of Jerusalem. The speaker is referring as a +warning to the drunkards of Samaria, the northern city being intimated by +the figure of the "crown--on the head of the fat valley." But in verses +nine and ten the drunkards retort, and their words have to be read as +quotations, as the expression of their feelings. The speeches of the +prophets, of course, are not regular forms of the monologue; but a study +of the monologue enables us to recognize their dramatic character, and +greatly aids in discovering the meaning of these sublime poems or +addresses. + +The monologue is capable of rendering special service to many classes of +men. It has an important, but overlooked, educational value. It can +render, for example, great assistance in the training of a speaker. The +chief dangers of the speaker are unnaturalness, declamation, extravagance, +and crude methods of emphasis, such especially as over-emphasis. He +inclines to employ physical force rather than mental energy, to give a +show of earnestness rather than to suggest intensity of thought and +feeling. + +The monologue furnishes the speaker with a simple method of studying +naturalness. If set to master a monologue, he must observe conversation, +and be able to express thoughts saliently and earnestly to one person. + +Although no true speaker can ever afford to neglect the study of +Shakespeare and the great dramatists, still the monologue affords a great +variety of dramatic situations, and especially interprets dramatic points +of view. It will also help him to gain a knowledge of character and +furnish a simple method of developing his own naturalness. + +An orator presents truth directly, for its own sake, and hence is apt to +overlook the fact that oratory, after all, is "the presentation of truth +by personality," and that personal peculiarities will interfere with such +presentation. A study of the monologue will reveal him to himself, and +help him to understand something of the necessity of making truth clear to +another personality. By studying dramatic art, the speaker, in short, not +only comes to a knowledge of human nature, and the relation of human +beings to each other, but is furnished with the means of understanding +himself. + +Another important service which the monologue is capable of rendering is +the awakening of a perception of the necessary connection between the +living voice and literature. The Greeks recognized this, but in modern +times we have almost lost the function of the spoken word in education, in +our over-emphasis of the written word. + +The monologue is capable of furnishing a new course in recitation and +speaking, of bringing the most important study of the natural languages +into practical relationship with the study of literature. On the one hand, +it elevates the study of the spoken word, and gives a practical course for +the colleges and high schools in the rendering of some of the masterpieces +of the language; on the other hand, it prevents the courses in literature +from becoming a mere scientific study of words. + +The true study of literature must be subjective. Psychology has tested and +tried every study in recent years. Men will soon come to realize that +there is a psychology of literature, and centre its study, not in words, +but in the living expression of thought and feeling. Written language will +then be directly connected with the awakening of the creative faculties of +the mind. + +The value of the monologue will then be appreciated because of its direct +revelation of the action of man's faculties, and it may be realized also +that the evolution of the monologue is a part of the progressive spirit of +our own time. + +The rendering of the monologue also will aid us in securing a method and +emphasize the fact that literature as art must be studied as art and by +means of art. Scientific study of literature is abnormal or necessarily +one-sided. The study of the monologue when rightly pursued will aid in +studying literature as the mirror of life and prevent the student from +developing contempt for the literary masterpieces which he is made to +analyze. + +It will aid in the study of literature as "the criticism of life" and +enable the individual student to realize literature as the mirror of human +experience. It will prevent students from studying literature as mere +words. It will awaken deeper and truer appreciation and will prevent the +contempt, born of mechanical drudgery, for literary masterpieces. + +Educated men do not know by heart the noble poetry of the language. The +voices of American students are hard and cold. There is among us little +appreciation of art. The monologue seems to come as a peculiar blessing at +this time as a means of educating the imagination and dramatic instinct. +It furnishes a course for recitation that obviates the necessity for a +stage, avoids the stiltedness of declamation, yet supplies an adequate +method of studying the lost art of recitation,--the art that made the +Greek what he was. + +The monologue will help students in all the arts to overcome tendencies to +mechanical practice. There is danger of making all exercises mechanical. +Take, for example, the student of song. If he practises scales or songs +without thought, or any sense of expressing feeling to others, it is +simply a matter of execution. Some of our leading singers express no +feeling. Song, to them, is a matter of technical execution,--very +beautiful as an exhibition, but not as a revelation of the heart. + +A similar condition is found also in other forms of art,--in instrumental +music, in painting or drawing. There is a continual tendency to forget +that art is the expression of thinking and feeling to another mind; and +while there must be very severe training to master technicalities, this is +not the end, but the means. The monologue furnishes a simple and adequate +method for the mastery of the relations of one mind to another. It is just +as necessary in the development of the artist that he should come to feel +the laws of the human mind, the laws of his own thinking and feeling, and +the character of the suggestion of that feeling, and to recognize the +modifications which the presence of another soul makes upon his own, as it +is that he should master the technique of his art. + +All art is social. It is founded on the relation of human beings to each +other; on the character of the soul; on the love of one human being for +others, and the desire to reveal to his fellows the impressions that +nature, or human character, make upon him. In all artistic practice, of +song, of instrumental music, of painting, of drama, there should be in the +mind of the artist a perception of the race. + +The monologue is especially helpful to dramatic students. They are too apt +to despise the monologue, and not appreciate the assistance its mastery +could give them. They desire mere rehearsals of plays; they want scenery, +properties, accessories, forgetful that the primary elements of dramatic +art are found in thought, feeling, and motives and passions. Dramatic art +must be based on the revelation of the nature of man; and on the effect of +mind upon mind. The monologue enables the dramatic student to study the +dramatic element in his own mind, as well as in the relations of one +character to another. When he has no interlocutor to listen to or to lead +the attention of the audience, or hold it in the appreciation of what he +is saying, thinking, and doing, he is thrown back upon his instincts, and +must imagine his interlocutor and depend upon himself. + +The monologue, however, is important for its own artistic character. It is +primarily important because it belongs to dramatic art. It gives insight +into human character, embodies the poetry of every-day life, and reveals +the mysteries of the human heart, as possibly no other literary form can +do. It focuses attention upon human motives independent of "too much +story" or literary digression. It interprets human conduct, thinking, +feeling, and passion, from a distinct point of view. It suggests the +secret of human follies, misconceptions, and perversities, and gives the +key to greatness and nobility in character. + +Insignificant as the form may seem to one who has never studied it, it is +a mirror of human life, and as such can be made a means of criticizing +public wrong or folly. It can express a universal feeling, and is one of +the finest agents of humor. By its aid Mr. Dooley reflects the weaknesses +and foibles of people and parties in such a way as to make a whole nation +smile, and even to mould public sentiment. Thus, the amusing and humorous +monologues must not be despised. Think of the services humor has rendered +in the advance of human civilization! Alas for him who cannot smile at +folly, and alas for human art which appeals only to the morbid! The +highest function of human art is to awaken pleasure at the sight of the +beautiful, and the true. If a man finds pleasure in what is below his +ordinary plane of life, he injures himself. If enjoyment leads him in the +direction of his ideal, although indirectly, by a portrayal of the comic, +the abnormal, or even of low characters, he is benefited, no matter how +this benefit is received. + +Men delight to teach and to preach, but it is astonishing how little +direct teaching and preaching accomplish. On account of the hardness of +the heart, the parable, or some other less direct method of teaching, some +artistic method, that is, is absolutely necessary. We desire to see a +living scene portrayed before us; we must know and judge for ourselves. We +must perceive both cause and effect, and then make the application to our +own lives. + +Art, especially dramatic art, is a necessity of human nature. "Without +art," says William Winter, "each of us would be alone." Only by art are we +brought near together, and chiefly in our art will be found our true +advance in civilization. The monologue is a new method, a new avenue of +approach from heart to heart. + +Dramatic art must have many forms. When no longer truthfully presented by +the play, as is often the case; when it has become corrupted into a +spectacular show, into something for the eye rather than for the mind; +when no longer concerned with the interpretation of character and truth, +or when debased to mere money making, then the irrepressible dramatic +spirit must evolve a new form. Hence, the origin and the significance of +the monologue. + +Whether the play can be restored to dramatic dignity or not, the monologue +has come to stay. As a parallel, or even as a subordinate phase of +dramatic art, it has become a part of literature. It is distinct from the +play, and from every other literary form or phase of histrionic +expression. + +Of all forms of art, the monologue has most direct relation to one +character only, a character not posing for his portrait. It portrays and +interprets an individual unconsciously revealing himself. It presents some +crucial situation of life, and brings one character face to face with +another character, the one best calculated to reveal the hidden springs of +conduct. + +It must not be implied that the monologue is superior to other forms of +art. It certainly will supersede no other form of poetry. It is unique, +and its peculiar nature may be seen in comparing it with a play. + +A monologue may be of any length, from a few lines to that of "The Ring +and the Book," which is really a collection of monologues, the longest +poem, next to "Faerie Queene," in the English language. The subject of the +monologue can be infinitely varied. By its aid almost everything can be +treated dramatically. It is far more flexible than the formal drama, +because the same movement and formality of plot are not required as in the +play. + +It can be conceived upon any plane,--burlesque, farce, comedy, or tragedy. +It can be prose in form, or it may adopt any metre or length of line. It +may employ the most commonplace slang, and the dialect of the lowest +characters, or it may adopt the highest poetic diction. + +A monologue can be presented anywhere, for it demands no stage, no +carloads of expensive scenery, no trained troupe of a hundred artists. + +It does require, however, an artist, a thoroughly trained artist,--with +perfect command of thought, feeling, imagination, and passion, as well as +complete control of voice and body. Fully as much as the play, it requires +obedience to the laws of art, and demands that the artist be not fettered +and trammelled as to his ideal. He is not compelled to repress his finest +intuitions, or to soften down his honest conceptions of a character and +the place of that character in a scene, for the sake of some "star." + +The monologue is not in danger of being spoiled by some second-class actor +in a subordinate part. The artist is free to adopt any means to meet the +taste, judgment, and criticism of the audience, and to realize for himself +the true nature of art. The monologue is less likely than the play to be +degraded into a spectacular exhibition. + +The monologue, however, has its dangers. The play has the experience of +centuries of criticism, and constant discussion, but to the critics, the +monologue is new. It may be well said that no adequate criticism of any +interpreter of a monologue has yet been given. + +Not only this, but various cheap and chaotic performances have been called +monologues, simply for lack of a word. These are often a mere gathering +together of comic stories and cheap jokes, and have nothing really in +common with the dramatic monologue. + +Such perversions, however, are to be expected. The lack of critical +discussion, the lack of definition and true appreciation of its +possibilities lead naturally to such a confused situation. + +The interpreter of the monologue must be a serious student, for he is +creating or establishing a new art. If he is careless and superficial, and +yields to that universal temptation to exhibition which has been in every +age the danger of dramatic art, he will fail, and bring the monologue into +consequent contempt. He must study the spirit underlying all great art and +take his own work seriously, thinking more of it than of himself. + +The monologue has, also, literary limitations. It can never take the place +of the play, nor must it lead us to disparage the play. The play has its +function and in some form will forever survive. The monologue interprets +certain aspects of character which can never be interpreted in any other +way; but it can never show as adequately as the play the complexity of +human life. It cannot portray movement as well as the play. + +The monologue, however, has its own sphere. It can reveal the attitude of +one man towards life, towards truth, towards a situation, towards other +human beings, more fully than is possible in any other form of art. Its +theme is not the same as that of the play. How can a play express the +subjective struggles and heroism embodied in "The Last Ride Together?" (p. +205). What form of art could so effectively unmask the arch hypocrite in +the "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister" (p. 58)? Try to put this theme +into a play, or even into a novel, and Browning's short monologue will +show its superiority at once. The monologue can absorb one moment of +attention, paint one picture, which, though without the movement of a +drama, may yet the more adequately reveal the depths of a character. What +an inspiring conception is found in "The Patriot" (p. 3); if expanded +into a play, its purpose would be defeated. The tenderness and atmosphere +of home in "By the Fireside," no stage could present. + +Did not Kipling choose wisely his form of art in portraying the character +of Tommy Atkins? Is there any more effective way of making known to the +world the character and emotions peculiar to a man when soldier +subordinates man? + +After even a superficial study of modern poetry, who can fail to realize +that the monologue is a distinct form of literature? How vast the range of +subjects and emotions expressed, and yet underneath we find a form common +to them all. This form has served to unfold the peculiar actions of Mrs. +Caudle's mind and also the sublime convictions of Rabbi Ben Ezra. It gives +us the point of view and the feeling, not only of Tommy Atkins, but the +high ideals and exalted emotions of Abt Vogler. It has been used to +immortalize "Tray," a "mere instinctive dog," as well as to express the +resolute spirit of Job and the cold, calculating counsel of his friends. +It has even imaged the sublimest thoughts and emotions of the Psalms. + +Surely a form that has proven itself so adequate, so universal a help to +human expression, is worthy of being regarded and carefully studied as one +of the permanent modes of embodying human experience. + + + + +XVII. SOME TYPICAL MONOLOGUES FROM BROWNING + + +APPEARANCES + + And so you found that poor room dull, + Dark, hardly to your taste, my Dear? + Its features seemed unbeautiful: + But this I know--'twas there, not here, + You plighted troth to me, the word + Which--ask that poor room how it heard! + + And this rich room obtains your praise + Unqualified,--so bright, so fair, + So all whereat perfection stays? + Ay, but remember--here, not there, + The other word was spoken! Ask + This rich room how you dropped the mask! + + +ANDREA DEL SARTO + +(CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER") + + But do not let us quarrel any more, + No, my Lucrezia! bear with me for once: + Sit down and all shall happen as you wish. + You turn your face, but does it bring your heart? + I'll work then for your friend's friend, never fear, + Treat his own subject after his own way, + Fix his own time, accept too his own price, + And shut the money into this small hand + When next it takes mine. Will it? tenderly? + Oh, I'll content him,--but to-morrow, Love! + I often am much wearier than you think, + This evening more than usual: and it seems + As if--forgive now--should you let me sit + Here by the window, with your hand in mine, + And look a half-hour forth on Fiesole, + Both of one mind, as married people use, + Quietly, quietly the evening through, + I might get up to-morrow to my work + Cheerful and fresh as ever. Let us try. + To-morrow, how you shall be glad for this! + Your soft hand is a woman of itself, + And mine the man's bared breast she curls inside. + Don't count the time lost, neither; you must serve + For each of the five pictures we require: + It saves a model. So! keep looking so-- + My serpentining beauty, rounds on rounds! + --How could you ever prick those perfect ears, + Even to put the pearl there! oh, so sweet-- + My face, my moon, my everybody's moon, + Which everybody looks on and calls his, + And, I suppose, is looked on by in turn, + While she looks--no one's: very dear, no less. + You smile? why, there's my picture ready made. + There's what we painters call our harmony! + A common grayness silvers everything,-- + All in a twilight, you and I alike + --You, at the point of your first pride in me + (That's gone, you know)--but I, at every point; + My youth, my hope, my art, being all toned down + To yonder sober pleasant Fiesole. + There's the bell clinking from the chapel-top; + That length of convent-wall across the way + Holds the trees safer, huddled more inside; + The last monk leaves the garden; days decrease, + And autumn grows, autumn in everything. + Eh? the whole seems to fall into a shape, + As if I saw alike my work and self + And all that I was born to be and do, + A twilight-piece. Love, we are in God's hand. + How strange now looks the life he makes us lead; + So free we seem, so fettered fast we are! + I feel he laid the fetter: let it lie! + This chamber for example--turn your head-- + All that's behind us! You don't understand + Nor care to understand about my art, + But you can hear at least when people speak: + And that cartoon, the second from the door + --It is the thing, Love! so such things should be-- + Behold Madonna!--I am bold to say. + I can do with my pencil what I know, + What I see, what at bottom of my heart + I wish for, if I ever wish so deep-- + Do easily, too--when I say, perfectly, + I do not boast, perhaps: yourself are judge, + Who listened to the Legate's talk last week; + And just as much they used to say in France. + At any rate 'tis easy, all of it! + No sketches first, no studies, that's long past: + I do what many dream of, all their lives, + --Dream? strive to do, and agonize to do, + And fail in doing. I could count twenty such + On twice your fingers, and not leave this town, + Who strive--you don't know how the others strive + To paint a little thing like that you smeared + Carelessly passing with your robes afloat,-- + Yet do much less, so much less, Someone says, + (I know his name, no matter)--so much less! + Well, less is more, Lucrezia: I am judged. + There burns a truer light of God in them, + In their vexed, beating, stuffed and stopped-up brain, + Heart, or whate'er else, than goes on to prompt + This low-pulsed forthright craftsman's hand of mine. + Their works drop groundward, but themselves, I know, + Reach many a time a heaven that's shut to me, + Enter and take their place there sure enough, + Tho' they come back and cannot tell the world. + My works are nearer heaven, but I sit here. + The sudden blood of these men! at a word-- + Praise them, it boils, or blame them, it boils too. + I, painting from myself and to myself, + Know what I do, am unmoved by men's blame + Or their praise either. Somebody remarks + Morello's outline there is wrongly traced, + His hue mistaken; what of that? or else, + Rightly traced and well ordered; what of that? + Speak as they please, what does the mountain care? + Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, + Or what's a heaven for? All is silver-gray, + Placid and perfect with my art: the worse! + I know both what I want and what might gain, + And yet how profitless to know, to sigh + "Had I been two, another and myself, + Our head would have o'erlooked the world!" No doubt. + Yonder's a work now, of that famous youth + The Urbinate who died five years ago. + ('Tis copied, George Vasari sent it me.) + Well, I can fancy how he did it all, + Pouring his soul, with kings and popes to see, + Reaching, that heaven might so replenish him, + Above and thro' his art--for it gives way; + That arm is wrongly put--and there again-- + A fault to pardon in the drawing's lines, + Its body, so to speak: its soul is right, + He means right--that, a child may understand. + Still, what an arm! and I could alter it: + But all the play, the insight and the stretch-- + Out of me, out of me! And wherefore out? + Had you enjoined them on me, given me soul, + We might have risen to Rafael, I and you! + Nay, Love, you did give all I asked, I think-- + More than I merit, yes, by many times. + But had you--oh, with the same perfect brow, + And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth, + And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird + The fowler's pipe, and follows to the snare-- + Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! + Some women do so. Had the mouth there urged + "God and the glory! never care for gain. + The present by the future, what is that? + Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! + Rafael is waiting: up to God, all three!" + I might have done it for you. So it seems: + Perhaps not. All is as God over-rules. + Besides, incentives come from the soul's self; + The rest avail not. Why do I need you? + What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? + In this world, who can do a thing, will not; + And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: + Yet the will's somewhat--somewhat, too, the power-- + And thus we half-men struggle. At the end, + God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. + 'Tis safer for me, if the award be strict, + That I am something underrated here, + Poor this long while, despised, to speak the truth. + I dared not, do you know, leave home all day, + For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. + The best is when they pass and look aside; + But they speak sometimes; I must bear it all. + Well may they speak! That Francis, that first time, + And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! + I surely then could sometimes leave the ground, + Put on the glory, Rafael's daily wear, + In that humane great monarch's golden look,-- + One finger in his beard or twisted curl + Over his mouth's good mark that made the smile, + One arm about my shoulder, round my neck, + The jingle of his gold chain in my ear, + I painting proudly with his breath on me, + All his court round him, seeing with his eyes, + Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls + Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,-- + And, best of all, this, this, this face beyond, + This in the background, waiting on my work, + To crown the issue with a last reward! + A good time, was it not, my kingly days? + And had you not grown restless ... but I know-- + 'Tis done and past; 'twas right, my instinct said; + Too live the life grew, golden and not gray: + And I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt + Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. + How could it end in any other way? + You called me, and I came home to your heart. + The triumph was--to reach and stay there; since + I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? + Let my hands frame your face in your hair's gold, + You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! + "Rafael did this, Andrea painted that; + The Roman's is the better when you pray, + But still the other's Virgin was his wife--" + Men will excuse me. I am glad to judge + Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows + My better fortune, I resolve to think. + For, do you know, Lucrezia, as God lives, + Said one day Agnolo, his very self, + To Rafael ... I have known it all these years.... + (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts + Upon a palace-wall for Rome to see, + Too lifted up in heart because of it) + "Friend, there's a certain sorry little scrub + Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how, + Who, were he set to plan and execute + As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings, + Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!" + To Rafael's!--And indeed the arm is wrong. + I hardly dare ... yet, only you to see, + Give the chalk here--quick, thus the line should go! + Ay, but the soul! he's Rafael! rub it out! + Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth, + (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? + Do you forget already words like those?) + If really there was such a chance so lost,-- + Is, whether you're--not grateful--but more pleased. + Well, let me think so. And you smile indeed! + This hour has been an hour! Another smile? + If you would sit thus by me every night + I should work better, do you comprehend? + I mean that I should earn more, give you more. + See, it is settled dusk now; there's a star; + Morello's gone, the watch-lights show the wall, + The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. + Come from the window, love,--come in, at last, + Inside the melancholy little house + We built to be so gay with. God is just. + King Francis may forgive me: oft at nights + When I look up from painting, eyes tired out, + The walls become illumined, brick from brick + Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold, + That gold of his I did cement them with! + Let us but love each other. Must you go? + That Cousin here again? he waits outside? + Must see you--you, and not with me? Those loans? + More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? + Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? + While hand and eye and something of a heart + Are left me, work's my ware, and what's it worth? + I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit + The gray remainder of the evening out, + Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly + How I could paint, were I but back in France, + One picture, just one more--the Virgin's face, + Not yours this time! I want you at my side + To hear them--that is, Michel Agnolo-- + Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. + Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend. + I take the subjects for his corridor, + Finish the portrait out of hand--there, there, + And throw him in another thing or two + If he demurs; the whole should prove enough + To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside, + What's better and what's all I care about, + Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff! + Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he, + The Cousin! what does he to please you more? + + I am grown peaceful as old age to-night. + I regret little, I would change still less. + Since there my past life lies, why alter it? + The very wrong to Francis!--it is true + I took his coin, was tempted and complied, + And built this house and sinned, and all is said. + My father and my mother died of want. + Well, had I riches of my own? you see + How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot. + They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died: + And I have laboured somewhat in my time + And not been paid profusely. Some good son + Paint my two hundred pictures--let him try! + No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes, + You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night. + This must suffice me here. What would one have? + In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance-- + Four great walls in the New Jerusalem, + Meted on each side by the angel's reed, + For Leonard, Rafael, Agnolo and me + To cover--the three first without a wife, + While I have mine! So--still they overcome + Because there's still Lucrezia,--as I choose. + + Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love. + + +MULEYKEH + + If a stranger passed the tent of Hoseyn, he cried "A churl's!" + Or haply "God help the man who has neither salt nor bread!" + --"Nay," would a friend exclaim, "he needs nor pity nor scorn + More than who spends small thought on the shore-sand, picking pearls, + --Holds but in light esteem the seed-sort, bears instead + On his breast a moon-like prize, some orb which of night makes morn. + + "What if no flocks and herds enrich the son of Sinan? + They went when his tribe was mulct, ten thousand camels the due, + Blood-value paid perforce for a murder done of old. + 'God gave them, let them go! But never since time began, + Muleykeh, peerless mare, owned master the match of you, + And you are my prize, my Pearl: I laugh at men's land and gold!' + + "So in the pride of his soul laughs Hoseyn--and right, I say. + Do the ten steeds run a race of glory? Outstripping all, + Ever Muleykeh stands first steed at the victor's staff. + Who started, the owner's hope, gets shamed and named, that day. + 'Silence,' or, last but one, is 'The Cuffed,' as we use to call + Whom the paddock's lord thrusts forth. + Right, Hoseyn, I say, to laugh!" + + "Boasts he Muleykeh the Pearl?" the stranger replies: "Be sure + On him I waste nor scorn nor pity, but lavish both + On Duhl the son of Sheyban, who withers away in heart + For envy of Hoseyn's luck. Such sickness admits no cure. + A certain poet has sung, and sealed the same with an oath, + 'For the vulgar--flocks and herds! The Pearl is a prize apart.'" + + Lo, Duhl the son of Sheyban comes riding to Hoseyn's tent, + And he casts his saddle down, and enters and "Peace!" bids he. + "You are poor, I know the cause: my plenty shall mend the wrong. + 'Tis said of your Pearl--the price of a hundred camels spent + In her purchase were scarce ill paid: such prudence is far from me + Who proffer a thousand. Speak! Long parley may last too long." + + Said Hoseyn "You feed young beasts a many, of famous breed, + Slit-eared, unblemished, fat, true offspring of Muzennem: + There stumbles no weak-eyed she in the line as it climbs the hill. + But I love Muleykeh's face: her forefront whitens indeed + Like a yellowish wave's cream-crest. Your camels--go gaze on them! + Her fetlock is foam-splashed too. Myself am the richer still." + + A year goes by: lo, back to the tent again rides Duhl. + "You are open-hearted, ay--moist-handed, a very prince. + Why should I speak of sale? Be the mare your simple gift! + My son is pined to death for her beauty: my wife prompts 'Fool, + Beg for his sake the Pearl! Be God the rewarder, since + God pays debts seven for one: who squanders on Him shows thrift.'" + + Said Hoseyn "God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives + That lamp due measure of oil: lamp lighted--hold high, wave wide + Its comfort for others to share! once quench it, what help is left? + The oil of your lamp is your son: I shine while Muleykeh lives. + Would I beg your son to cheer my dark if Muleykeh died? + It is life against life: what good avails to the life-bereft?" + + Another year, and--hist! What craft is it Duhl designs? + He alights not at the door of the tent as he did last time, + But, creeping behind, he gropes his stealthy way by the trench + Half-round till he finds the flap in the folding, for night combines + With the robber--and such is he: Duhl, covetous up to crime, + Must wring from Hoseyn's grasp the Pearl, by whatever the wrench. + + "He was hunger-bitten, I heard: I tempted with half my store, + And a gibe was all my thanks. Is he generous like Spring dew? + Account the fault to me who chaffered with such an one! + He has killed, to feast chance comers, the creature he rode: nay, more-- + For a couple of singing-girls his robe has he torn in two: + I will beg! Yet I nowise gained by the tale of my wife and son. + + "I swear by the Holy House, my head will I never wash + Till I filch his Pearl away. Fair dealing I tried, then guile, + And now I resort to force. He said we must live or die: + Let him die, then,--let me live! Be bold--but not too rash! + I have found me a peeping-place: breast, bury your breathing while + I explore for myself! Now, breathe! He deceived me not, the spy! + + "As he said--there lies in peace Hoseyn--how happy! Beside + Stands tethered the Pearl: Thrice winds her headstall about his wrist: + 'Tis therefore he sleeps so sound--the moon through the roof reveals. + And, loose on his left, stands too that other, known far and wide, + Buheyseh, her sister born: fleet is she yet ever missed + The winning tail's fire-flash a-stream past the thunderous heels. + + "No less she stands saddled and bridled, this second, in case some thief + Should enter and seize and fly with the first, as I mean to do. + What then? The Pearl is the Pearl: once mount her we both escape." + Through the skirt-fold in glides Duhl,--so a serpent disturbs no leaf + In a bush as he parts the twigs entwining a nest: clean through, + He is noiselessly at his work: as he planned, he performs the rape. + + He has set the tent-door wide, has buckled the girth, has clipped + The headstall away from the wrist he leaves thrice bound as before, + He springs on the Pearl, is launched on the Desert like bolt from bow. + Up starts our plundered man: from his breast though the heart be ripped, + Yet his mind has the mastery: behold, in a minute more, + He is out and off and away on Buheyseh, whose worth we know! + + And Hoseyn--his blood turns flame, he has learned long since to ride, + And Buheyseh does her part,--they gain--they are gaining fast + On the fugitive pair, and Duhl has Ed-Darraj to cross and quit, + And to reach the ridge El-Saban,--no safety till that be spied! + And Buheyseh is, bound by bound, but a horse-length off at last, + For the Pearl has missed the tap of the heel, the touch of the bit. + + She shortens her stride, she chafes at her rider the strange and queer: + Buheyseh is mad with hope--beat sister she shall and must + Though Duhl, of the hand and heel so clumsy, she has to thank. + She is near now, nose by tail--they are neck by croup--joy! fear! + What folly makes Hoseyn shout "Dog Duhl, Damned son of the Dust, + Touch the right ear and press with your foot my Pearl's left flank!" + + And Duhl was wise at the word, and Muleykeh as prompt perceived + Who was urging redoubled pace, and to hear him was to obey, + And a leap indeed gave she, and evanished for evermore. + And Hoseyn looked one long last look as who, all bereaved, + Looks, fain to follow the dead so far as the living may: + Then he turned Buheyseh's neck slow homeward, weeping sore. + + And lo, in the sunrise, still sat Hoseyn upon the ground + Weeping: and neighbors came, the tribesmen of Benu-Asad + In the vale of green Er-Rass, and they questioned him of his grief; + And he told from first to last how, serpent-like, Duhl had wound + His way to the nest, and how Duhl rode like an ape, so bad! + And how Buheyseh did wonders, yet Pearl remained with the thief. + + And they jeered him, one and all: "Poor Hoseyn is crazed past hope! + How else had he wrought himself his ruin, in fortune's spite? + To have simply held the tongue were a task for a boy or girl, + And here were Muleykeh again, the eyed like an antelope, + The child of his heart by day, the wife of his breast by night!"-- + "And the beaten in speed!" wept Hoseyn: "You never have loved my Pearl." + + +COUNT GISMOND[2] + +AIX IN PROVENCE + +Christ God who savest man, save most of men Count Gismond who saved me! +Count Gauthier, when he chose his post, chose time and place and company +to suit it; when he struck at length my honor, 'twas with all his +strength. And doubtlessly ere he could draw all points to one, he must +have schemed! That miserable morning saw few half so happy as I seemed, +while being dressed in queen's array to give our tourney prize away. I +thought they loved me, did me grace to please themselves; 'twas all their +deed; God makes, or fair or foul, our face; if showing mine so caused to +bleed my cousins' hearts, they should have dropped a word, and straight +the play had stopped. They, too, so beauteous! Each a queen by virtue of +her brow and breast; not needing to be crowned, I mean, as I do. E'en +when I was dressed, had either of them spoke, instead of glancing sideways +with still head! But no: they let me laugh, and sing my birthday song +quite through, adjust the last rose in my garland, fling a last look on +the mirror, trust my arms to each an arm of theirs, and so descend the +castle-stairs--and come out on the morning troop of merry friends who +kissed my cheek, and called me queen, and made me stoop under the +canopy--(a streak that pierced it, of the outside sun, powdered with gold +its gloom's soft dun)--and they could let me take my state and foolish +throne amid applause of all come there to celebrate my queen's-day--Oh I +think the cause of much was, they forgot no crowd makes up for parents in +their shroud! However that be, all eyes were bent upon me, when my cousins +cast theirs down; 'twas time I should present the victor's crown, but ... +there, 'twill last no long time ... the old mist again blinds me as then +it did. How vain! See! Gismond's at the gate, in talk with his two boys: I +can proceed. Well, at that moment, who should stalk forth boldly--to my +face, indeed--but Gauthier? and he thundered "Stay!" and all stayed. +"Bring no crowns, I say! bring torches! Wind the penance-sheet about her! +Let her shun the chaste, or lay herself before their feet! Shall she, +whose body I embraced a night long, queen it in the day? For honour's sake +no crowns, I say!" I? What I answered? As I live I never fancied such a +thing as answer possible to give. What says the body when they spring some +monstrous torture-engine's whole strength on it? No more says the soul. +Till out strode Gismond; then I knew that I was saved. I never met his +face before, but, at first view, I felt quite sure that God had set +Himself to Satan; who would spend a minute's mistrust on the end? He +strode to Gauthier, in his throat gave him the lie, then struck his mouth +with one back-handed blow that wrote in blood men's verdict there. North, +South, East, West, I looked. The lie was dead, and damned, and truth stood +up instead. This glads me most, that I enjoyed the heart of the joy, with +my content in watching Gismond unalloyed by any doubt of the event: God +took that on him--I was bid watch Gismond for my part: I did. Did I not +watch him while he let his armourer just brace his greaves, rivet his +hauberk, on the fret the while! His foot ... my memory leaves no least +stamp out, nor how anon he pulled his ringing gauntlets on. And e'en +before the trumpet's sound was finished, prone lay the false knight, prone +as his lie, upon the ground: Gismond flew at him, used no sleight o' the +sword, but open-breasted drove, cleaving till out the truth he clove. +Which done, he dragged him to my feet and said "Here die, but end thy +breath in full confession, lest thou fleet from my first, to God's second +death! Say, hast thou lied?" And, "I have lied to God and her," he said, +and died. Then Gismond, kneeling to me, asked--What safe my heart holds, +though no word could I repeat now, if I tasked my powers forever, to a +third dear even as you are. Pass the rest until I sank upon his breast. +Over my head his arm he flung against the world; and scarce I felt his +sword (that dripped by me and swung) a little shifted in its belt: for he +began to say the while how South our home lay many a mile. So, 'mid the +shouting multitude we two walked forth to never more return. My cousins +have pursued their life, untroubled as before I vexed them. Gauthier's +dwelling-place God lighten! May his soul find grace! Our elder boy has got +the clear great brow; tho' when his brother's black full eye shows scorn, +it ... Gismond here? And have you brought my tercel back? I was just +telling Adela how many birds it struck since May. + + +BY THE FIRESIDE + +How well I know what I mean to do when the long dark autumn evenings come: +and where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? with the music of all thy voices, +dumb in life's November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, o'er a +great wise book, as beseemeth age; while the shutters flap as the +cross-wind blows, and I turn the page, and I turn the page, not verse now, +only prose! Till the young ones whisper, finger on lip, "There he is at +it, deep in Greek: now then, or never, out we slip to cut from the hazels +by the creek a mainmast for our ship!" I shall be at it indeed, my +friends! Greek puts already on either side such a branch-work forth as +soon extends to a vista opening far and wide, and I pass out where it +ends. The outside-frame, like your hazel-trees--but the inside-archway +widens fast, and a rarer sort succeeds to these, and we slope to Italy at +last and youth, by green degrees. I follow wherever I am led, knowing so +well the leader's hand: oh woman-country, wooed not wed, loved all the +more by earth's male-lands, laid to their hearts instead! Look at the +ruined chapel again half-way up in the Alpine gorge! Is that a tower, I +point you plain, or is it a mill, or an iron-forge breaks solitude in +vain? A turn, and we stand in the heart of things; the woods are round us, +heaped and dim; from slab to slab how it slips and springs, the thread of +water single and slim, thro' the ravage some torrent brings! Does it feed +the little lake below? That speck of white just on its marge is Pella; +see, in the evening-glow, how sharp the silver spear-heads charge when +Alp meets heaven in snow! On our other side is the straight-up rock; and a +path is kept 'twixt the gorge and it by boulder-stones where lichens mock +the marks on a moth, and small ferns fit their teeth to the polished +block. Oh the sense of the yellow mountain-flowers, and thorny balls, each +three in one, the chestnuts throw on our path in showers! for the drop of +the woodland fruit's begun, these early November hours, that crimson the +creeper's leaf across like a splash of blood, intense, abrupt, o'er a +shield else gold from rim to boss, and lay it for show on the fairy-cupped +elf-needled mat of moss, by the rose-flesh mushrooms, undivulged last +evening--nay, in to-day's first dew yon sudden coral nipple bulged, where +a freaked fawn-colored flaky crew of toadstools peep indulged. And yonder, +at foot of the fronting ridge that takes the turn to a range beyond, is +the chapel reached by the one-arched bridge, where the water is stopped in +a stagnant pond danced over by the midge. The chapel and bridge are of +stone alike, blackish-gray and mostly wet; cut hemp-stalks steep in the +narrow dyke. See here again, how the lichens fret and the roots of the ivy +strike! Poor little place, where its one priest comes on a festa-day, if +he comes at all, to the dozen folk from their scattered homes, gathered +within that precinct small by the dozen ways one roams--to drop from the +charcoal-burners' huts, or climb from the hemp-dressers' low shed, leave +the grange where the woodman stores his nuts, or the wattled cote where +the fowlers spread their gear on the rock's bare juts. It has some +pretension too, this front, with its bit of fresco half-moon-wise set over +the porch, Art's early wont: 'tis John in the Desert, I surmise, but has +borne the weather's brunt--not from the fault of the builder, though, for +a pent-house properly projects where three carved beams make a certain +show, dating--good thought of our architect's--'five, six, nine, he lets +you know. And all day long a bird sings there, and a stray sheep drinks at +the pond at times; the place is silent and aware; it has had its scenes, +its joys and crimes, but that is its own affair. My perfect wife, my +Leonor, oh heart, my own, oh eyes, mine too, Whom else could I dare look +backward for, with whom besides should I dare pursue the path gray heads +abhor? For it leads to a crag's sheer edge with them; youth, flowery all +the way, there stops--not they; age threatens and they contemn, till they +reach the gulf wherein youth drops, one inch from life's safe hem! With +me, youth led ... I will speak now, no longer watch you as you sit reading +by firelight, that great brow and the spirit-small hand propping it, +mutely, my heart knows how--when, if I think but deep enough, you are +wont to answer, prompt as rhyme; and you, too, find without rebuff +response your soul seeks many a time, piercing its fine flesh-stuff. My +own, confirm me! If I tread this path back, is it not in pride to think +how little I dreamed it led to an age so blest that, by its side, youth +seems the waste instead? My own, see where the years conduct! At first, +'twas something our two souls should mix as mists do; each is sucked in +each now: on, the new stream rolls, whatever rocks obstruct. Think, when +our one soul understands the great Word which makes all things new, when +earth breaks up and heaven expands, how will the change strike me and you +in the house not made with hands? Oh I must feel your brain prompt mine, +your heart anticipate my heart, you must be just before, in fine, see and +make me see, for your part, new depths of the divine! But who could have +expected this when we two drew together first just for the obvious human +bliss to satisfy life's daily thirst with a thing men seldom miss? Come +back with me to the first of all, let us lean and love it over again, let +us now forget and now recall, break the rosary in a pearly rain, and +gather what we let fall! What did I say?--that a small bird sings all day +long, save when a brown pair of hawks from the wood float with wide wings +strained to a bell: 'gainst noon-day glare you count the streaks and +rings. But at afternoon or almost eve 'tis better; then the silence grows +to that degree, you half believe it must get rid of what it knows, its +bosom does so heave. Hither we walked then, side by side, arm in arm and +cheek to cheek, and still I questioned or replied, while my heart, +convulsed to really speak, lay choking in its pride. Silent the crumbling +bridge we cross, and pity and praise the chapel sweet, and care about the +fresco's loss, and wish for our souls a like retreat, and wonder at the +moss. Stoop and kneel on the settle under, look through the window's +grated square: nothing to see! For fear of plunder, the cross is down and +the altar bare, as if thieves don't fear thunder. We stoop and look in +through the grate, see the little porch and rustic door, read duly the +dead builder's date; then cross the bridge that we crossed before, take +the path again--but wait! Oh moment one and infinite! the water slips o'er +stock and stone; the West is tender, hardly bright: how gray at once is +the evening grown--one star, its chrysolite! We two stood there with never +a third, but each by each, as each knew well: the sights we saw and the +sounds we heard, the lights and the shades made up a spell till the +trouble grew and stirred. Oh, the little more, and how much it is! and the +little less, and what worlds away! How a sound shall quicken content to +bliss, or a breath suspend the blood's best play, and life be a proof of +this! Had she willed it, still had stood the screen so slight, so sure, +'twixt my love and her: I could fix her face with a guard between, and +find her soul as when friends confer, friends--lovers that might have +been. For my heart had a touch of the woodland time, wanting to sleep now +over its best. Shake the whole tree in the summer-prime, but bring to the +last leaf no such test! "Hold the last fact!" runs the rhyme. For a chance +to make your little much, to gain a lover and lose a friend, venture the +tree and a myriad such, when nothing you mar but the year can mend: but a +last leaf--fear to touch! Yet should it unfasten itself and fall eddying +down till it find your face at some slight wind--best chance of all! be +your heart henceforth its dwelling-place you trembled to forestall! Worth +how well, those dark gray eyes, that hair so dark and dear, how worth that +a man should strive and agonize, and taste a veriest hell on earth for the +hope of such a prize! You might have turned and tried a man, set him a +space to weary and wear, and prove which suited more your plan, his best +of hope or his worst despair, yet end as he began. But you spared me this, +like the heart you are, and filled my empty heart at a word. If two lives +join, there is oft a scar, they are one and one, with a shadowy third; one +near one is too far. A moment after, and hands unseen were hanging the +night around us fast; but we knew that a bar was broken between life and +life: we were mixed at last in spite of the mortal screen. The forests had +done it; there they stood; we caught for a moment the powers at play: they +had mingled us so, for once and good, their work was done--we might go or +stay, they relapsed to their ancient mood. How the world is made for each +of us! how all we perceive and know in it tends to some moment's product +thus, when a soul declares itself--to wit, by its fruit, the thing it +does! Be hate that fruit or love that fruit, it forwards the general deed +of man: and each of the Many helps to recruit the life of the race by a +general plan; each living his own, to boot. I am named and known by that +moment's feat; there took my station and degree; so grew my own small life +complete, as nature obtained her best of me--one born to love you, sweet! +And to watch you sink by the fireside now back again, as you mutely sit +musing by firelight, that great brow and the spirit-small hand propping +it, yonder, my heart knows how! So, earth has gained by one man the more, +and the gain of earth must be heaven's gain too; and the whole is well +worth thinking o'er when autumn comes: which I mean to do one day, as I +said before. + + +PHEIDIPPIDES + +[Greek: chairete, nikomen] + + First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! + Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all! + Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise + --Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear! + Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, + Now, henceforth and forever,--O latest to whom I upraise + Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock! + Present to help, potent to save, Pan--patron I call! + + Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! + See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks! + Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, + "Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! + Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I obeyed, + Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through, + Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did I burn + Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. + + Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come. + Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; + Razed to the ground is Eretria--but Athens, shall Athens sink, + Drop into dust and die--the flower of Hellas utterly die, + Die with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the stander-by? + Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er destruction's + brink? + How,--when? No care for my limbs!--there's lightning in all and some-- + Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!" + + O my Athens--Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond? + Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, + Malice,--each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate! + Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood + Quivering,--the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from dry + wood: + "Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? + Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond + Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must'!" + + No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last! + "Has Persia come,--does Athens ask aid,--may Sparta befriend? + Nowise precipitate judgment--too weighty the issue at stake! + Count we no time lost time which lags thro' respect to the Gods! + Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the odds + In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take + Full-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it fast: + Athens must wait, patient as we--who judgment suspend." + + Athens,--except for that sparkle,--thy name, I had mouldered to ash! + That sent a blaze thro' my blood; off, off and away was I back, + --Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the vile! + Yet "O Gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain, + Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, + "Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you erewhile? + Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rash + Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack! + + "Oak and olive and bay,--I bid you cease to enwreathe + Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot, + You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave! + Rather I hail thee, Parnes,--trust to thy wild waste tract! + Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slacked + My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave + No deity deigns to drape with verdure?--at least I can breathe, + Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!" + + Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge; + Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar + Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. + Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: + "Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse? + Athens to aid? Tho' the dive were thro' Erebos, thus I obey-- + Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridge + Better!"--when--ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are? + + There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he--majestical Pan! + Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof; + All the great God was good in the eyes grave-kindly--the curl + Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe, + As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. + "Halt, Pheidippides!"--halt I did, my brain of a whirl: + "Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious began: + "How is it,--Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? + + "Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast! + Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old? + Ay, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me! + Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith + In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God saith: + When Persia--so much as strews not the soil--is cast in the sea, + Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, + Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the bold!' + + "Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the pledge!'" + (Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear + --Fennel,--I grasped it a-tremble with dew--whatever it bode), + "While, as for thee ..." But enough! He was gone. If I ran hitherto-- + Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. + Parnes to Athens--earth no more, the air was my road; + Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge! + Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare! + + * * * * * + + Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of Greece, + Whose limbs did duty indeed,--what gift is promised thyself? + Tell it us straightway,--Athens the mother demands of her son!" + Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length + His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of his + strength + Into the utterance--"Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast done + Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee release + From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!' + + "I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind! + Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may grow,-- + Pound--Pan helping us--Persia to dust, and, under the deep, + Whelm her away forever; and then,--no Athens to save,-- + Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,-- + Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep + Close to my knees,--recount how the God was awful yet kind, + Promised their sire reward to the full--rewarding him--so!" + + * * * * * + + Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: + So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis! + Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! + 'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his shield, + Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field + And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, + Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine thro' clay, + Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died--the bliss! + + So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute + Is still "Rejoice!"--his word which brought rejoicing indeed. + So is Pheidippides happy forever,--the noble strong man + Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god loved so + well, + He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to tell + Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, + So to end gloriously--once to shout, thereafter be mute: + "Athens is saved!"--Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. + + +PROSPICE + + Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, + The mist in my face, + When the snows begin, and the blasts denote + I am nearing the place, + The power of the night, the press of the storm, + The post of the foe, + Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, + Yet the strong man must go; + For the journey is done and the summit attained, + And the barriers fall, + Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, + The reward of it all. + I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, + The best and the last! + + I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, + And bade me creep past. + No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers, + The heroes of old, + Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears + Of pain, darkness, and cold. + For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, + The black minute's at end, + And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, + Shall dwindle, shall blend, + Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, + Then a light, then thy breast, + Oh, thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, + And with God be the rest! + + +THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH + +(ROME, 15--.) + + Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity! + Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back? + Nephews--sons mine ... ah God, I know not! Well-- + She, men would have to be your mother once, + Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was! + What's done is done, and she is dead beside, + Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since, + And as she died so must we die ourselves, + And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream. + Life, how and what is it? As here I lie + In this state-chamber, dying by degrees, + Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask + "Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all. + Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace; + And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought + With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know: + --Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care; + Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South + He graced his carrion with, God curse the same! + Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence + One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side, + And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats, + And up into the aery dome where live + The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk: + And I shall fill my slab of basalt there, + And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest, + With those nine columns round me, two and two, + The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands: + Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe + As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse. + --Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone, + Put me where I may look at him! True peach, + Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize! + Draw close: that conflagration of my church + --What then? So much was saved if aught were missed! + My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig + The white-grape vineyard where the oil-press stood, + Drop water gently till the surface sink, + And if ye find ... Ah God, I know not, I!... + Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft, + And corded up in a tight olive-frail, + Some lump, ah God, of _lapis lazuli_, + Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape, + Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast ... + Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all, + That brave Frascati villa with its bath, + So, let the blue lump poise between my knees, + Like God the Father's globe on both his hands + Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay, + For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst! + Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years: + Man goeth to the grave, and where is he? + Did I say, basalt for my slab, sons? Black-- + 'Twas ever antique-black I meant! How else + Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath? + The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me, + Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance + Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so, + The Saviour at his sermon on the mount, + Saint Praxed in a glory, and one Pan + Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off, + And Moses with the tables ... but I know + Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee, + Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope + To revel down my villas while I gasp + Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine + Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at! + Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then! + 'Tis jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve. + My bath must needs be left behind, alas! + One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut, + There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-- + And have I not Saint Praxed's ear to pray + Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts, + And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs? + --That's if ye carve my epitaph aright, + Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word, + No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line-- + Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need! + And then how I shall lie thro' centuries, + And hear the blessed mutter of the mass, + And see God made and eaten all day long, + And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste + Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke! + For as I lie here, hours of the dead night, + Dying in state and by such slow degrees, + I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook, + And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point, + And let the bedclothes, for a mortcloth, drop + Into great laps and folds of sculptor's-work: + And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts + Grow, with a certain humming in my ears, + About the life before I lived this life, + And this life too, popes, cardinals and priests, + Saint Praxed at his sermon on the mount, + Your tall pale mother with her talking eyes, + And new-found agate urns as fresh as day, + And marble's language, Latin pure, discreet, + --Aha, ELUCESCEBAT quoth our friend? + No Tully, said I, Ulpian at the best! + Evil and brief hath been my pilgrimage. + All _lapis_, all, sons! Else I give the Pope + My villas! Will ye ever eat my heart? + Ever your eyes were as a lizard's quick, + They glitter like your mother's for my soul, + Or ye would heighten my impoverished frieze, + Piece out its starved design, and fill my vase + With grapes, and add a vizor and a Term, + And to the tripod ye would tie a lynx + That in his struggle throws the thyrsus down, + To comfort me on my entablature + Whereon I am to lie till I must ask + "Do I live, am I dead?" There, leave me, there! + For ye have stabbed me with ingratitude + To death--ye wish it--God, ye wish it! Stone-- + Gritstone, a-crumble! Clammy squares which sweat + As if the corpse they keep were oozing through-- + And no more _lapis_ to delight the world! + Well, go! I bless ye. Fewer tapers there, + But in a row: and, going, turn your backs + --Ay, like departing altar-ministrants, + And leave me in my church, the church for peace, + That I may watch at leisure if he leers-- + Old Gandolf at me, from his onion-stone, + As still he envied me, so fair she was! + + +SIBRANDUS SCHAFNABURGENSIS + + Plague take all your pedants, say I! + He who wrote what I hold in my hand, + Centuries back was so good as to die, + Leaving this rubbish to cumber the land; + This, that was a book in its time, + Printed on paper and bound in leather, + Last month in the white of a matin-prime + Just when the birds sang all together. + + Into the garden I brought it to read, + And under the arbute and laurustine + Read it, so help me grace in my need, + From title-page to closing line. + Chapter on chapter did I count, + As a curious traveller counts Stonehenge; + Added up the mortal amount; + And then proceeded to my revenge. + + Yonder's a plum-tree, with a crevice + An owl would build in, were he but sage; + For a lap of moss like a fine pontlevis + In a castle of the middle age, + Joins to a lip of gum, pure amber; + Where he'd be private, there might he spend + Hours alone in his lady's chamber: + Into this crevice I dropped our friend. + + Splash went he, as under he ducked, + --I knew at the bottom rain-drippings stagnate; + Next a handful of blossoms I plucked + To bury him with, my bookshelf's magnate; + Then I went indoors, brought out a loaf, + Half a cheese, and a bottle of Chablis; + Lay on the grass and forgot the oaf + Over a jolly chapter of Rabelais. + + Now, this morning, betwixt the moss + And gum that locked our friend in limbo, + A spider had spun his web across, + And sate in the midst with arms a-kimbo: + So, I took pity, for learning's sake, + And, _de profundis, accentibus laetis, + Cantate_! quoth I, as I got a rake, + And up I fished his delectable treatise. + + Here you have it, dry in the sun, + With all the binding all of a blister, + And great blue spots where the ink has run, + And reddish streaks that wink and glister + O'er the page so beautifully yellow-- + Oh, well have the droppings played their tricks! + Did he guess how toadstools grow, this fellow? + Here's one stuck in his chapter six! + + How did he like it when the live creatures + Tickled and toused and browsed him all over, + And worm, slug, eft, with serious features, + Came in, each one, for his right of trover; + When the water-beetle with great blind deaf face + Made of her eggs the stately deposit, + And the newt borrowed just so much of the preface + As tiled in the top of his black wife's closet. + + All that life, and fun, and romping, + All that frisking, and twisting, and coupling, + While slowly our poor friend's leaves were swamping, + And clasps were cracking, and covers suppling! + As if you had carried sour John Knox + To the play-house at Paris, Vienna, or Munich, + Fastened him into a front-row box, + And danced off the Ballet with trousers and tunic. + + Come, old martyr! What, torment enough is it? + Back to my room shall you take your sweet self! + Good-by, mother-beetle; husband-eft, SUFFICIT! + See the snug niche I have made on my shelf: + A.'s book shall prop you up, B.'s shall cover you, + Here's C. to be grave with, or D. to be gay, + And with E. on each side, and F. right over you, + Dry-rot at ease till the Judgment-day! + + +ABT VOGLER + +(AFTER HE HAS BEEN EXTEMPORIZING UPON THE MUSICAL INSTRUMENT OF HIS +INVENTION) + + Would that the structure brave, the manifold music I build, + Bidding my organ obey, calling its keys to their work, + Claiming each slave of the sound at a touch, as when Solomon willed + Armies of angels that soar, legions of demons that lurk, + Man, brute, reptile, fly,--alien of end and of aim, + Adverse, each from the other heaven-high, hell-deep removed,-- + Should rush into sight at once as he named the ineffable Name, + And pile him a palace straight, to pleasure the princes he loved! + + Would it might tarry like his, the beautiful building of mine, + This which my keys in a crowd pressed and importuned to raise! + Ah, one and all, how they helped would dispart now and now combine, + Zealous to hasten the work, heighten their master his praise! + And one would bury his brow with a blind plunge down to hell, + Burrow awhile, and build broad on the roots of things, + Then up again swim into sight, having based me my palace well, + Founded it, fearless of flame, flat on the nether springs. + + And another would mount and march, like the excellent minion he was; + Ay, another and yet another, one crowd but with many a crest, + Raising my rampired walls of gold as transparent as glass, + Eager to do and die, yield each his place to the rest, + For higher still and higher (as a runner tips with fire, + When a great illumination surprises a festal night-- + Outlining round and round Rome's dome from space to spire) + Up, the pinnacled glory reached, and the pride of my soul was in sight. + + In sight? Not half! for it seemed, it was certain, to match man's birth; + Nature in turn conceived, obeying an impulse as I; + And the emulous heaven yearned down, made effort to reach the earth, + As the earth had done her best, in my passion, to scale the sky: + Novel splendors burst forth, grew familiar and dwelt with mine, + Not a point nor peak but found and fixed its wandering star; + Meteor-moons, balls of blaze: and they did not pale nor pine, + For earth had attained to heaven, there was no more near nor far. + + Nay, more: for there wanted not who walked in the glare and glow, + Presences plain in the place; or, fresh from the Protoplast, + Furnished for ages to come, when a kindlier wind should blow, + Lured now to begin and live in a house to their liking at last; + Or else the wonderful Dead who have passed through the body and gone, + But were back once more to breathe in an old world worth their new: + What never had been, was now; what was, as it shall be anon; + And what is--shall I say, matched both? for I was made perfect too. + + All through my keys that gave their sounds to a wish of my soul, + All through my soul that praised as its wish flowed visibly forth, + All through music and me! For think, had I painted the whole, + Why, there it had stood, to see, nor the process so wonder-worth: + Had I written the same, made verse,--still, effect proceeds from cause; + Ye know why the forms are fair, ye hear how the tale is told; + It is all triumphant art, but art in obedience to laws, + Painter and poet are proud in the artist-list enrolled:-- + + But here is the finger of God, a flash of the will that can, + Existent behind all laws, that made them, and lo, they are! + And I know not if, save in this, such gift be allowed to man, + That out of three sounds he frame, not a fourth sound, but a star. + Consider it well: each tone of our scale in itself is nought; + It is everywhere in the world--loud, soft, and all is said: + Give it to me to use! I mix it with two in my thought: + And, there! Ye have heard and seen: consider and bow the head! + + Well, it is gone at last, the palace of music I reared; + Gone! and the good tears start, the praises that come too slow; + For one is assured at first, one scarce can say that he feared, + That he even gave it a thought, the gone thing was to go. + Never to be again! But many more of the kind + As good, nay, better perchance: is this your comfort to me? + To me, who must be saved because I cling with my mind + To the same, same self, same love, same God: ay, what was, shall be. + + Therefore to whom turn I but to thee, the ineffable Name? + Builder and maker, thou, of houses not made with hands! + What, have fear of change from thee who art ever the same? + Doubt that thy power can fill the heart that thy power expands? + There shall never be one lost good! What was, shall live as before; + The evil is null, is nought, is silence implying sound; + What was good shall be good, with, for evil, so much good more: + On earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round. + + All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist,-- + Not its semblance, but itself; no beauty, nor good, nor power + Whose voice has gone forth, but each survives for the melodist + When eternity affirms the conception of an hour. + The high that proved too high, the heroic for earth too hard, + The passion that left the ground to lose itself in the sky, + Are music sent up to God by the lover and the bard; + Enough that he heard it once: we shall hear it by-and-by. + + And what is our failure here but a triumph's evidence + For the fulness of the days? Have we withered or agonized? + Why else was the pause prolonged but that singing might issue thence? + Why rushed the discords in but that harmony should be prized? + Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear; + Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe: + But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; + The rest may reason and welcome: 'tis we musicians know. + + Well, it is earth with me; silence resumes her reign: + I will be patient and proud, and soberly acquiesce. + Give me the keys. I feel for the common chord again, + Sliding by semitones, till I sink to the minor,--yes, + And I blunt it into a ninth, and I stand on alien ground, + Surveying awhile the heights I rolled from into the deep; + Which, hark! I have dared and done, for my resting-place is found, + The C Major of this life: so, now I will try to sleep. + + +SAUL + + Said Abner, "At last thou art come! Ere I tell, ere thou speak, + Kiss my cheek, wish me well!" Then I wished it, and did kiss his cheek. + And he, "Since the King, O my friend, for thy countenance sent, + Neither drunken nor eaten have we; nor until from his tent + Thou return with the joyful assurance the King liveth yet, + Shall our lip with the honey be bright, with the water be wet. + For out of the black mid-tent's silence, a space of three days, + Not a sound hath escaped to thy servants, of prayer or of praise, + To betoken that Saul and the Spirit have ended their strife, + And that, faint in his triumph, the monarch sinks back upon life. + + "Yet now my heart leaps, O beloved! God's child, with his dew + On thy gracious gold hair, and those lilies still living and blue + Just broken to twine round thy harp-strings, as if no wild heat + Were now raging to torture the desert!" + + Then I, as was meet, + Knelt down to the God of my fathers, and rose on my feet, + And ran o'er the sand burnt to powder. The tent was unlooped; + I pulled up the spear that obstructed, and under I stooped; + Hands and knees on the slippery grass-patch, all withered and gone, + That extends to the second enclosure, I groped my way on + Till I felt where the foldskirts fly open. Then once more I prayed, + And opened the foldskirts and entered, and was not afraid, + But spoke, "Here is David, thy servant!" And no voice replied. + At the first I saw nought but the blackness; but soon I descried + A something more black than the blackness--the vast, the upright + Main prop which sustains the pavilion: and slow into sight + Grew a figure against it, gigantic and blackest of all;-- + Then a sunbeam, that burst thro' the tent-roof,--showed Saul. + He stood as erect as that tent-prop; both arms stretched out wide + On the great cross-support in the centre, that goes to each side: + He relaxed not a muscle, but hung there,--as, caught in his pangs + And waiting his change, the king-serpent all heavily hangs, + Far away from his kind, in the pine, till deliverance come + With the spring-time,--so agonized Saul, drear and stark, blind and dumb. + + Then I tuned my harp,--took off the lilies we twine round its chords + Lest they snap 'neath the stress of the noontide--those sunbeams like + swords! + And I first played the tune all our sheep know, as, one after one, + So docile they come to the pen-door till folding be done. + They are white and untorn by the bushes, for lo, they have fed + Where the long grasses stifle the water within the stream's bed; + And now one after one seeks its lodging, as star follows star + Into eve and the blue far above us,--so blue and so far! + + --Then the tune for which quails on the cornland will each leave his mate + To fly after the player; then, what makes the crickets elate, + Till for boldness they fight one another: and then, what has weight + To set the quick jerboa a-musing outside his sand house-- + There are none such as he for a wonder, half bird and half mouse!-- + God made all the creatures and gave them our love and our fear, + To give sign, we and they are his children, one family here. + + Then I played the help-tune of our reapers, their wine-song, when hand + Grasps at hand, eye lights eye in good friendship, and great hearts + expand + And grow one in the sense of this world's life.--And then, the last song + When the dead man is praised on his journey--"Bear, bear him along + With his few faults shut up like dead flowerets! Are balm-seeds not here + To console us? The land has none left such as he on the bier. + Oh, would we might keep thee, my brother!"--And then, the glad chaunt + Of the marriage,--first go the young maidens, next, she whom we vaunt + As the beauty, the pride of our dwelling.--And then, the great march + Wherein man runs to man to assist him and buttress an arch + Nought can break; who shall harm them, our friends?--Then, the chorus + intoned + As the Levites go up to the altar in glory enthroned. + But I stopped here--for here in the darkness, Saul groaned. + + And I paused, held my breath in such silence, and listened apart; + And the tent shook, for mighty Saul shuddered,--and sparkles 'gan dart + From the jewels that woke in his turban at once with a start-- + All its lordly male-sapphires, and rubies courageous at heart. + So the head--but the body still moved not, still hung there erect. + And I bent once again to my playing, pursued it unchecked, + As I sang,-- + + "Oh, our manhood's prime vigor! No spirit feels waste, + Not a muscle is stopped in its playing, nor sinew unbraced. + Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock-- + The strong rending of boughs from the fir-tree,--the cool silver shock + Of the plunge in a pool's living water,--the hunt of the bear, + And the sultriness showing the lion is crouched in his lair. + And the meal, the rich dates, yellowed over with gold dust divine, + And the locust's-flesh steeped in the pitcher; the full draught of wine, + And the sleep in the dried river-channel where bulrushes tell + That the water was wont to go warbling so softly and well. + How good is man's life, the mere living! how fit to employ + All the heart and the soul and the senses, forever in joy! + Hast thou loved the white locks of thy father, whose sword thou didst + guard + When he trusted thee forth with the armies, for glorious reward? + Didst thou see the thin hands of thy mother, held up as men sung + The low song of the nearly-departed, and hear her faint tongue + Joining in while it could to the witness, 'Let one more attest, + I have lived, seen God's hand through a lifetime, and all was for best'? + Then they sung thro' their tears in strong triumph, not much,--but the + rest. + And thy brothers, the help and the contest, the working whence grew + Such result as from seething grape-bundles, the spirit strained true! + And the friends of thy boyhood--that boyhood of wonder and hope, + Present promise, and wealth of the future beyond the eye's scope,-- + Till lo, thou art grown to a monarch; a people is thine; + And all gifts which the world offers singly, on one head combine! + On one head, all the beauty and strength, love and rage, like the throe + That, a-work in the rock, helps its labor, and lets the gold go: + High ambition and deeds which surpass it, fame crowning them,--all + Brought to blaze on the head of one creature--King Saul!" + + And lo, with that leap of my spirit, heart, hand, harp, and voice, + Each lifting Saul's name out of sorrow, each bidding rejoice + Saul's fame in the light it was made for--as when, dare I say, + The Lord's army in rapture of service, strains through its array, + And upsoareth the cherubim-chariot--"Saul!" cried I and stopped, + And waited the thing that should follow. Then Saul, who hung propped + By the tent's cross-support in the centre, was struck by his name. + Have ye seen when Spring's arrowy summons goes right to the aim, + And some mountain, the last to withstand her, that held, (he alone, + While the vale laughed in freedom and flowers) on a broad bust of stone + A year's snow bound about for a breastplate,--leaves grasp of the sheet? + Fold on fold all at once it crowds thunderously down to his feet, + And there fronts you, stark, black but alive yet, your mountain of old, + With his rents, the successive bequeathings of ages untold-- + Yea, each harm got in fighting your battles, each furrow and scar + Of his head thrust 'twixt you and the tempest--all hail, there they are! + Now again to be softened with verdure, again hold the nest + Of the dove, tempt the goat and its young to the green on his crest + For their food in the ardors of summer! One long shudder thrilled + All the tent till the very air tingled, then sank and was stilled, + At the King's self left standing before me, released and aware. + What was gone, what remained? All to traverse 'twixt hope and despair-- + Death was past, life not come--so he waited. Awhile his right hand + Held the brow, helped the eyes left too vacant forthwith to remand + To their place what new objects should enter: 'twas Saul as before. + I looked up and dared gaze at those eyes, nor was hurt any more + Than by slow pallid sunsets in autumn, ye watch from the shore + At their sad level gaze o'er the ocean--a sun's slow decline + Over hills which, resolved in stern silence, o'erlap and entwine + Base with base to knit strength more intense: so, arm folded arm + O'er the chest whose slow heavings subsided. + + What spell or what charm, + (For, awhile there was trouble within me) what next should I urge + To sustain him where song had restored him?--Song filled to the verge + His cup with the wine of this life, pressing all that it yields + Of mere fruitage, the strength and the beauty! Beyond on what fields, + Glean a vintage more potent and perfect to brighten the eye + And bring blood to the lip, and commend them the cup they put by? + He saith, "It is good;" still he drinks not--he lets me praise life, + Gives assent, yet would die for his own part. + + Then fancies grew rife + Which had come long ago on the pastures, when round me the sheep + Fed in silence--above, the one eagle wheeled slow as in sleep, + And I lay in my hollow, and mused on the world that might lie + 'Neath his ken, though I saw but the strip 'twixt the hill and the sky: + And I laughed--"Since my days are ordained to be passed with my flocks, + Let me people at least with my fancies, the plains and the rocks, + Dream the life I am never to mix with, and image the show + Of mankind as they live in those fashions I hardly shall know! + Schemes of life, its best rules and right uses, the courage that gains, + And the prudence that keeps what men strive for." And now these old + trains + Of vague thought came again; I grew surer; so once more the string + Of my harp made response to my spirit, as thus-- + + "Yea, my king," + I began--"thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring + From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute: + In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit. + Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree,--how its stem trembled first + Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler; then safely outburst + The fan-branches all round; and thou mindest when these too, in turn + Broke a-bloom and the palm-tree seemed perfect; yet more was to learn, + E'en the good that comes in with the palm-fruit. Our dates shall we + slight, + When their juice brings a cure for all sorrow? or care for the plight + Of the palm's self whose slow growth produced them? Not so! stem and + branch + Shall decay, nor be known in their place, while the palm-wine shall + stanch + Every wound of man's spirit in winter. I pour thee such wine. + Leave the flesh to the fate it was fit for! the spirit be thine! + By the spirit, when age shall o'ercome thee, thou still shalt enjoy + More indeed, than at first when inconscious, the life of a boy. + Crush that life, and behold its wine running! each deed thou hast done + Dies, revives, goes to work in the world; until e'en as the sun + Looking down on the earth, though clouds spoil him, though tempests + efface, + Can find nothing his own deed produced not, must everywhere trace + The results of his past summer-prime,--so, each ray of thy will, + Every flash of thy passion and prowess, long over, shall thrill + Thy whole people the countless, with ardor, till they too give forth + A like cheer to their sons, who in turn, fill the south and the north + With the radiance thy deed was the germ of. Carouse in the past. + But the license of age has its limit; thou diest at last. + As the lion when age dims his eyeball, the rose at her height, + So with man--so his power and his beauty forever take flight. + No! again a long draught of my soul-wine! look forth o'er the years-- + Thou hast done now with eyes for the actual; begin with the seer's! + Is Saul dead? in the depth of the vale make his tomb--bid arise + A gray mountain of marble heaped four-square, till built to the skies. + Let it mark where the Great First King slumbers--whose fame would ye + know? + Up above see the rock's naked face, where the record shall go + In great characters cut by the scribe,--Such was Saul, so he did; + With the sages directing the work, by the populace chid,-- + For not half, they'll affirm, is comprised there! Which fault to amend, + In the grove with his kind grows the cedar, whereon they shall spend + (See, in tablets 'tis level before them) their praise, and record + With the gold of the graver, Saul's story,--the statesman's great word + Side by side with the poet's sweet comment. The river's awave + With smooth paper-reeds grazing each other when prophet winds rave: + So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part + In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art." + + And behold while I sang.... But O Thou who didst grant me that day, + And before it not seldom hast granted thy help to essay, + Carry on and complete an adventure,--my Shield and my Sword + In that act where my soul was thy servant, thy word was my word,-- + Still be with me, who then at the summit of human endeavor + And scaling the highest, man's thought could, gazed hopeless as ever + On the new stretch of Heaven above me--till, Mighty to save, + Just one lift of thy hand cleared that distance--God's throne from man's + grave! + Let me tell out my tale to its ending--my voice to my heart, + Which can scarce dare believe in what marvels last night I took part, + As this morning I gather the fragments, alone with my sheep, + And still fear lest the terrible glory evanish like sleep! + For I wake in the gray dewy covert, while Hebron upheaves + The dawn struggling with night on his shoulder, and Kidron retrieves + Slow the damage of yesterday's sunshine. + + I say then,--my song + While I sang thus, assuring the monarch, and ever more strong + Made a proffer of good to console him--he slowly resumed + His old motions and habitudes kingly. The right hand replumed + His black locks to their wonted composure, adjusted the swathes + Of his turban, and see--the huge sweat that his countenance bathes, + He wipes off with the robe; and he girds now his loins as of yore, + And feels slow for the armlets of price, with the clasp set before. + He is Saul, ye remember in glory,--ere error had bent + The broad brow from the daily communion; and still, though much spent + Be the life and the bearing that front you, the same, God did choose, + To receive what a man may waste, desecrate, never quite lose. + So sank he along by the tent-prop, till, stayed by the pile + Of his armor and war-cloak and garments, he leaned there a while, + And so sat out my singing,--one arm round the tent-prop, to raise + His bent head, and the other hung slack--till I touched on the praise + I foresaw from all men in all times, to the man patient there, + And thus ended, the harp falling forward. Then first I was 'ware + That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees + Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak-roots which please + To encircle a lamb when it slumbers. I looked up to know + If the best I could do had brought solace: he spoke not, but slow + Lifted up the hand slack at his side, till he laid it with care + Soft and grave, but in mild settled will, on my brow; thro' my hair + The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind + power-- + All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower, + Thus held he me there with his great eyes that scrutinized mine-- + And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign? + I yearned--"Could I help thee, my father, inventing a bliss, + I would add to that life of the past, both the future and this. + I would give thee new life altogether, as good, ages hence, + As this moment,--had love but the warrant, love's heart to dispense!" + + Then the truth came upon me. No harp more--no song more! outbroke-- + + "I have gone the whole round of Creation: I saw and I spoke! + I, a work of God's hand for that purpose, received in my brain + And pronounced on the rest of his handwork--returned him again + His creation's approval or censure: I spoke as I saw. + I report, as a man may of God's work--all's love, yet all's law! + Now I lay down the judgeship he lent me. Each faculty tasked + To perceive him, has gained an abyss, where a dew-drop was asked. + Have I knowledge? confounded it shrivels at Wisdom laid bare. + Have I forethought? how purblind, how blank, to the Infinite care! + Do I task any faculty highest, to image success? + I but open my eyes,--and perfection, no more and no less, + In the kind I imagined, full-fronts me, and God is seen God + In the star, in the stone, in the flesh, in the soul and the clod. + And thus looking within and around me, I ever renew + (With that stoop of the soul which in bending upraises it too) + The submission of man's nothing-perfect to God's All-Complete, + As by each new obeisance in spirit, I climb to his feet! + Yet with all this abounding experience, this Deity known, + I shall dare to discover some province, some gift of my own. + There's one faculty pleasant to exercise, hard to hoodwink, + I am fain to keep still in abeyance (I laugh as I think) + Lest, insisting to claim and parade in it, wot ye, I worst + E'en the Giver in one gift.--Behold! I could love if I durst! + But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake + God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain, for love's sake! + --What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small, + Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal? + In the least things, have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all? + Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift, + That I doubt his own love can compete with it? here, the parts shift? + Here, the creature surpass the Creator, the end, what Began?-- + Would I fain in my impotent yearning do all for this man, + And dare doubt He alone shall not help him, who yet alone can? + Would it ever have entered my mind, the bare will, much less power, + To bestow on this Saul what I sang of, the marvellous dower + Of the life he was gifted and filled with? to make such a soul, + Such a body, and then such an earth for insphering the whole? + And doth it not enter my mind (as my warm tears attest) + These good things being given, to go on, and give one more, the best? + Ay, to save and redeem and restore him, maintain at the height + This perfection,--succeed with life's day-spring, death's minute of + night? + Interpose at the difficult minute, snatch Saul, the mistake, + Saul, the failure, the ruin he seems now,--and bid him awake + From the dream, the probation, the prelude, to find himself set + Clear and safe in new light and new life,--a new harmony yet + To be run and continued, and ended--who knows?--or endure! + The man taught enough by life's dream, of the rest to make sure. + By the pain-throb, triumphantly winning intensified bliss, + And the next world's reward and repose, by the struggle in this. + + "I believe it! 'tis Thou, God, that givest, 'tis I who receive: + In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe. + All's one gift: thou canst grant it moreover, as prompt to my prayer + As I breathe out this breath, as I open these arms to the air. + From thy will, stream the worlds, life and nature, thy dread Sabaoth: + _I_ will?--the mere atoms despise me! Why am I not loath + To look that, even that in the face too? Why is it I dare + Think but lightly of such impuissance? what stops my despair? + This;--'tis not what man Does which exalts him, but what man Would do? + See the king--I would help him but cannot, the wishes fall through. + Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich, + To fill up his life, starve my own out, I would--knowing which, + I know that my service is perfect.--Oh, speak through me now! + Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst Thou--so wilt Thou! + So shall crown thee the topmost, ineffablest, uttermost Crown-- + And thy love fill infinitude wholly, nor leave up nor down + One spot for the creature to stand in! It is by no breath, + Turn of eye, wave of hand, that Salvation joins issue with death! + As thy Love is discovered almighty, almighty be proved + Thy power, that exists with and for it, of being Beloved! + He who did most, shall bear most; the strongest shall stand the most + weak. + 'Tis the weakness in strength that I cry for! my flesh, that I seek + In the Godhead! I seek and I find it. O Saul, it shall be + A Face like my face that receives thee: a Man like to me, + Thou shalt love and be loved by, forever! a Hand like this hand + Shall throw open the gates of new life to thee! See the Christ stand!" + + I know not too well how I found my way home in the night. + There were witnesses, cohorts about me, to left and to right, + Angels, powers, the unuttered, unseen, the alive--the aware-- + I repressed, I got through them as hardly, as strugglingly there, + As a runner beset by the populace famished for news-- + Life or death. The whole earth was awakened, hell loosed with her crews; + And the stars of night beat with emotion, and tingled and shot + Out in fire the strong pain of pent knowledge: but I fainted not. + For the Hand still impelled me at once and supported--suppressed + All the tumult, and quenched it with quiet, and holy behest, + Till the rapture was shut in itself, and the earth sank to rest. + Anon at the dawn, all that trouble had withered from earth-- + Not so much, but I saw it die out in the day's tender birth; + In the gathered intensity brought to the gray of the hills; + In the shuddering forests' new awe; in the sudden wind-thrills; + In the startled wild beasts that bore off, each with eye sidling still + Tho' averted, in wonder and dread; and the birds stiff and chill + That rose heavily, as I approached them, made stupid with awe. + E'en the serpent that slid away silent,--he felt the new Law. + The same stared in the white humid faces upturned by the flowers; + The same worked in the heart of the cedar, and moved the vine-bowers. + And the little brooks witnessing murmured, persistent and low, + With their obstinate, all but hushed voices--"E'en so, it is so!" + + + + +INDEX + +Titles of complete monologues are printed in _Italics_; authors of these +in SMALL CAPITALS; subjects of lessons are printed in CAPITALS; ordinary +topics in Roman. + + + Abrupt beginning, cause of Browning's obscurity, 81 + + _Abt Vogler_, 290; + theme in, 88-89 + + ACTION, 172-195 + importance at opening, 172-173 + precedence of, 173 + significance of, in a monologue, 174 + in Italian in England, 174 + in Mrs. Caudle, 174 + in Up at a Villa, 174-175 + in A Tale, 175-176 + caused by change in thinking and feeling, 175-176 + by struggle for idea, 176 + in quotations, 177-178 + transitions and, 178 + pivotal, shows attention and politeness, 181-186 + locations of objects, 182-183 + monologue must not be declaimed, 183 + descriptive and manifestative, 187-189 + in Old Boggs' Slarnt, Day, 188 + in Vagabonds, Trowbridge, 190-193 + dangers of, 194 + attitude, importance of, 195 + + _Andrea del Sarto_, 265 + + _Appearances_, 265 + + ARGUMENT OF MONOLOGUE, 86-100 + Illustrated by A Death in the Desert, 89 + Illustrated by Bishop orders his Tomb, 91-94 + (Poem, 285) + Illustrated by _Memorabilia_, 160-162 + + Art, function of, 7 + dramatic, important, 11 + forms of, not invented, necessary, 11-12 + Browning on, 40 + indirect, 63 + composed of few elements, 87-88 + theme of, 110 + social, 258 + + At the Mermaid, 73-74 + extract from, 74 + + Attention, key to dramatic, 181 + shown by pivotal action, 182-186 + + Attitude, importance of, 195 + + + Barrack-Room Ballads are monologues, 128 + + _Before Sedan_, Dobson, 84 + + Biglow Papers are monologues, 19 + + Bishop Blougram's Apology, listener in, 41-42 + + _Bishop orders his Tomb_, 285 + listener in, 53 + dramatic argument of, 91-94 + + BODY, ACTIONS OF MIND AND, 172-195 + + =BRET HARTE'S=, _In a Tunnel_, 173 + + _Bridge of Sighs_, =HOOD=, 209 + metre of, 211 + + =BROWNING= + _Patriot, The_, 3 + _Woman's Last Word, A_, 6 + _Confessions_, 7 + _Youth and Art_, 21 + _Incident of the French Camp_, 33 + _Rabbi Ben Ezra_, 36 + _Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister_, 58 + _Up at a Villa--Down in the City_, 65 + A Grammarian's Funeral, 72 + At the Mermaid, 74 + _My Last Duchess_, 96 + _Lost Mistress_, 106 + _Tray_, 143 + _One Way of Love_, 150 + _Italian in England_, 152 + _Wanting is--What?_ 157 + _Memorabilia_, 160 + _A Tale_, 164 + _In a Year_, 201 + _Lost Leader_, 212 + _Evelyn Hope_, 216 + _Appearances_, 265 + _Andrea del Sarto_, 265 + _Muleykeh_, 272 + _Count Gismond_, 275 + _By the Fireside_, 277 + _Pheidippides_, 281 + _Prospice_, 284 + _Bishop orders his Tomb_, 285 + _Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis_, 288 + _Abt Vogler_, 290 + _Saul_, 293 + Why not appreciated, 1-2 + Invented monologue, 1-2 + his art form, 7 + dramatic, 9-10 + compared with Leigh Hunt, 25-26 + influence of, 48 + compared with Tennyson, 52 + compared with Shakespeare, 55-61 + soliloquies are monologues, 58-61 + obscurity of, 71-81 + master of monologue, 131-132 + grotesque, element in, 229 + variety of his themes, 263-264 + + =BURNS=, monologues in, 117-120 + _O wert thou in the cauld blast_, 118 + + _By the Fireside_, 277 + + + Caliban upon Setebos, character of, 24 + speaker in, 24 + + Caudle, Mrs., _On the Umbrella_, 139 + + Character of speaker must be realized, 138 + + =CHESTERTON=, on personal element in story-telling, 86 + on Clive and Muleykeh, 125 + justifies Browning's grotesque language, 229 + + =CHURCHILL, J. W.=, rendering of Sam Lawson, 16 + + Cleon, monologue or letter, 18 + + Clive, illustrates person spoken of, 54 + why a monologue, 126 + + _Confessions_, 7 + + Connection, importance of first words to the, 79-80 + + Consistency, law of, 235-237 + + Conversation, elements of, 159 + + _Count Gismond_, 275 + speaker in, 16 + + =CUSHMAN, CHARLOTTE=, her rendering of monologue, 236-237 + + + Definition of monologue, 7 + + Delivery + nature of, 134 + important in monologue, 133-136 + three languages in, complementary, 135-136 + + DIALECT, 222-230 + must be dramatic, 222-223 + in Riley, Burns, Tennyson, 223 + not literal, 224-225 + dramatic, 225-226 + results from assimilation, 227 + must express character, 228-229 + part of grotesque, 229-230 + + _Didn't know Flynn_, =BRET HARTE=, 173 + + _Dieudonne_, Dr. Drummond, 225 + + =DOBSON, AUSTIN,= + _Before Sedan_, 84 + change of situation in, 84-86 + + Dooley monologues, 42 + Hennessey in, 42-43 + + Dowden, Edward, on static dramatic, 110-111 + on Muleykeh, 111 + + Dramatic art, important, 11 + + Dramatic instinct, overlooked, 31 + necessary in human life, 30 + listener in, 31 + definition of, 103-104 + illustrated by, 103-113 + static dramatic, 110-111 + nature of, 111-112 + interprets odd moments, 156 + + =DRAYTON, MICHAEL= + _Come, let us kiss and part_, 116 + + =DRUMMOND, DR.= + French Canadian dialect, 129 + _Dieudonne_, 225 + + _Duchess, My Last_, 96 + + + Epic spirit, nature of, 102 + in Tennyson's Ulysses, 102-103, 123 + in Sir Galahad, 124 + + _Evelyn Hope_, 216 + + Expression, vocal, necessity of, 133-146 + nature of, in the monologue, 147-172 + + + FAULTS IN RENDERING A MONOLOGUE, 241-247 + staginess, 241 + monotony, cause of, 241-242 + tameness, 242 + declamation, 242-243 + indefiniteness, 243 + exaggeration, 244 + cause of, false, 244-246 + + =FIELD, EUGENE=, Monologues in, 44 + + _Fireside, By the_, 277 + + Flexibility + illustrated by A Tale, 164 + + Flight of the Duchess, as illustration of monologue, 108-109 + + FORM OF LITERATURE, THE MONOLOGUE AS A, 100-115 + not invented, 11-12, 100-101 + Monologue, one, 100-113 + + Foss, Sam Walter, monologues by, 48 + + Fra Lippo Lippi, connection in, 81-83 + + =FREYTAG'S= definition of drama, 103-104 + + + Grammarian's Funeral, A, situation in, 72-73 + + Grigsby's Station, a monologue, 47 + + Grotesque, nature of, 226 + dramatic, importance of, 30-31 + illustrations of, 33-39 + + + HEARER, THE, 30-64 + implied in dramatic art, 30-31 + in monologue, necessary, 32 + illustrated by Rabbi Ben Ezra, 36 + in Bishop Blougram, 41-42 + by Dooley and Hennessey, 43 + in Riley's Nothin' to Say, 46-47 + in Tennyson's Lady Clara, 50 + + Herve Riel, metre in, 203 + + Higginson, Col. T. W., story of Carlyle, 226 + + HISTORY OF THE MONOLOGUE, 113-132 + in early literature, 113-116 + in Burns, 117-118 + + =HOOD, THOMAS=, _Bridge of Sighs_, 209 + + Hunt, Leigh, Browning's method differs from, 25-26 + + + Imitation, danger of, in High Tide, 171 + + IMPORTANCE OF MONOLOGUE, 248-264 + illustrated by Saul, 248-252; + by Job, 253 + by Ninetieth Psalm, 253-254; + by Prophets, 255 + has educational value, 255 + speakers, 255-256 + proves necessity of voice to literature, 256 + gives new course in speaking, 256; + illustration, 257 + prevents students of art from being + mechanical, 258 + shows necessity of art, 261 + of any length or theme, 262 + requires an artist, 263 + requires no expensive scenery, 262 + has limitations, 262 + its range, 264 + + _In a Tunnel_, =BRET HARTE=, 173 + + _In a Year_, 201 + + _Incident of the French Camp_, 33 + + Inflection, function of, 151 + importance of, 149-150, 157 + + Interpreter of monologue must command natural languages, 136 + + Interpretation of monologue difficult, 139 + necessary, 133 + unites three languages, 135 + must be dramatic, 138-142 + + _Italian in England, The_, 152 + + + Jerrold, Douglas, situation in his monologues, 75 + on Sordello, 1 + Mrs. Caudle and the Umbrella, 139 + its spirit, 141-143 + + John Anderson, my Jo, =BURNS=, 62 + + + =KIPLING=, dramatic spirit in, 127-129 + Mandalay lyric or monologue, 128-129 + dialect of results from dramatic spirit, 228 + + + _Lady Clara Vere de Vere_, =TENNYSON=, 50 + + Language, threefold, 135-138 + + La Saisiaz, situation of, 78 + + _Last Ride Together_, 205 + + Letters and monologues compared, 17-18 + + LITERARY FORM, A NEW, 1-12 + not invented, 100 + monologue, as a, 100-113 + monologue, a true, 124, 259-264 + + LITERATURE, THE MONOLOGUE AS A FORM OF, 100-113 + implies unprinted elements, 133-134 + suggests life, 135-136 + + _Lost Leader, The_, 212 + + _Lost Mistress, The_, 106 + + Lyric, nature of, 14 + compared with monologue, 14-15 + + + Macbeth, story of, compared to monologue, 105-107 + + _Memorabilia_, 160 + illustrates vocal expression of monologue, 161-162 + + Mental actions modulate voice, 147-172 + + _Mermaid, At the_, passage from, 73-74 + + METRE AND THE MONOLOGUE, 195-222 + mistakes regarding, 195 + appreciation of, 196 + part of vocal expression, 196-197 + meaning of, 196, 204-205 + relation to length of line, 198-199 + in Woman's Last Word and In a Year, 201 + study of, 213 + + _Mistress, The Lost_, 106 + + Mitchell, D. G., on letters, 17 + + Modulations of voice, 147-172 + + Monologue contrasted with the play, 105-109 + "Invention" of Browning, 2 + One end of conversation, 7 + study of, centres in, 10 + speaker in, 12-30, 41-43 + dramatic, 32 + person spoken of, in, 54-55 + compared with soliloquy, 55-61 + situation in, 64-78 + connection, 78-86 + argument of, 86-94 + as literary form, 100-113 + compared with play, 105-109 + before Browning, 113 + common in English poetry, 113-132 + common in modern literature, 127-132 + needs delivery, 133-146 + vocal expression of, 147-172 + rhythm of thinking in, 148 + action in, 172-195 + metre in, 195-222 + dialect in, 222-229 + use of properties, 231-240 + faults in rendering, 241-246 + IMPORTANCE OF, 248-264 + + Movement illustrated by High Tide, 168-171 + + Mrs. Jim, a series of monologues, 130 + + _Muleykeh_, 272 + Chesterton on, 125 + as a monologue, 125-126 + + _My Last Duchess_, 96 + illustrates elements of monologue, 96-99 + + + Natural languages, function of, 134-137 + + _Nothin' to Say_, Riley, 46 + + + Obscurity, chief cause of Browning's, 81 + + _Old Boggs' Slarnt_, Day, 188 + + _One Way of Love_, 150 + + Oratory and acting compared, 13, 179-181 + Jefferson on, 179-180 + + + Palgrave on Sally in our Alley, 120-122 + + _Patriot, The_, 3 + + Pause, Importance of, 149 + + Personal element in art, Chesterton on, 86 + found in all conversation and expression, 81-88 + + _Pheidippides_, 281 + + Play, a monologue, 10-12 + + Poetry, Aristotle on, 128 + dramatic, not invented, 100 + epic, 122-123 + + PROPERTIES, 230-247 + use of, in play and monologue, 230-231 + significance of, 230-231 + need of generalizing, 232 + Irving, Sir Henry, scenery in unity, 233 + consistency in, 235 + use of scenery, 236-240 + must not be literal, 237 + when dramatic, 238-240 + + _Prospice_, 284 + metre of, 209 + + _Psalm Ninetieth_, 253 + a monologue, 253-255 + + + _Rabbi Ben Ezra_, 36 + + Rendering of monologues, 236-237 + + RENDITION, NECESSITY OF, 133-147 + + Rhythm, first element in interpretation, 148 + + =RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB=, Hoosier monologue, 129-131 + Knee-deep in June, a monologue, 45 + situation in, 53 + _Nothin' to Say_, 46 + + Ring and the Book, The, proves value of monologue, 26-29 + extract from, on art, 40 + + + _Sally in our Alley_, =CAREY=, 120 + + Sam Lawson, stories of, Mrs. Stowe, monologues, 16 + illustrates nature of monologue, 248-252 + + _Saul_, 293 + + Shakespeare compared with Browning, 112 + his soliloquies compared to monologues, 55-57 + + _Sibrandus Schafnaburgensis_, 288 + + SITUATION, PLACE AND, 64-78 + dramatic, 64 + monologue implies, 65 + Up at a Villa--Down in the City, 65 + in Browning, always definite, 71-72 + changes in Grammarian's Funeral, 72 + in Douglas Jerrold, 75 + Andrea del Sarto (Poem, 265) + + _Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister_, 58 + soliloquy compared with monologue, 56-57 + Shakespeare's, 55 + difference between Browning and + Shakespeare, 57-61 + + SPEAKER, THE, in monologue, 12-30 + speech and monologue compared, 101-102 + + =SUCKLING, SIR JOHN=, _Why so pale and wan_, 116 + + + _Tale, A_, 163 + + =TENNYSON'S= _Lady Clara Vere de Vere_, 50 + a monologue, 52 + many monologues, 49 + not master of, 53 + + TIME AND CONNECTION, 78-86 + abrupt beginning, 79-80 + tone-color explained, 157-160 + + _Tray_, 143 + + + _Up at a Villa--Down in the City_, 65 + + + _Vagabonds, The_, =TROWBRIDGE=, 190 + + Vocal Expression + nature of, 134 + reveals processes of mind, 147-172 + unprintable, 136 + in play and monologue, 167-168 + + VOICE, ACTIONS OF MIND AND, 147-172 + + + _Wanting is--What?_ 157 + + Whitman, dramatic element in his "O Captain," 120 + + _Why so pale and wan_, Suckling, 116 + + _Woman's Last Word, A_, 6 + + Words complemented by tone and action, 135 + + =WYATT, SIR THOMAS=, The Lover's Appeal, lyric in form of monologue, 114 + + + _Youth and Art_, 21 + metre of, 216 + + +The University Press Cambridge, U. S. A. + + + + +FOOTNOTES: + +[1] Freytag, Technik des Dramas, chap. i, sec. 2, p. 16 (Leipzig, 1881). +Translation by Prof. H. B. Lathrop. + +[2] To emphasize the nature and importance of poetic form (see pp. 211, +213), "Count Gismond" and "By the Fireside" are here printed as prose. +Find the length of line, the stanzas, and the metre, the meaning and +appropriateness of all these. How should they be paragraphed? + + + + +Transcriber's Notes: + +Passages in italics are indicated by _italics_. + +The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these +letters have been replaced with transliterations. + +Several of the poems appear in the middle of a paragraph. They have been +left as placed in the original text. + +In the index, the original text used SMALL CAPITALS to indicate authors of +the complete monologues and CAPITALS to indicate the subjects of lessons. +In order to differentiate the two in this text version, =SMALL CAPITALS= +has been used to indicate authors of the complete monologues. + +The following misprints have been corrected: + "'" corrected to "i'" (page 38) + "call st" corrected to "callest" (page 38) + "attenton" corrected to "attention" (page 72) + "Muleykeh" standardized to "Muleykeh" (page 111) + "in" corrected to "is" (page 195) + "al" corrected to "all" (page 205) + +Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling and +hyphenation have been retained from the original. + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Browning and the Dramatic Monologue, by S. S. 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