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.