they become artificial rules. Every poem that is really great shows
something new in the way of combining imperfect feet, and the student must
study the movement for himself.
Many will be tempted to ask, "What has metre to do with the monologue?" It
is true that metre belongs to all poetry, but the monologue has some
specific and peculiar uses of metre, and, more than any other form of
poetry except the poetic drama, demands the living voice. Hence a few
suggestions are necessary at this point upon this much neglected and
misconceived subject.
To understand the relation of metre to the monologue, it should be held in
mind that metre is far more flexible and free in dramatic than in lyric
poetry. In lyric poetry it is usually more regular and partakes of the
nature of song; but in dramatic poetry it is more changeable and bears
more resemblance to the rhythm of speech. In the lyric, metre expresses a
mood, and mood as a permanent condition of feeling necessitates a more
regular rhythm; but in dramatic poetry, metre expresses the pulse-beat of
one character in contact with another. It must respond to all the sudden
changes of thought and feeling.
The difference between the metre of Keats or Shelley or Chaucer and that
of Shakespeare or of Browning is not wholly one of personality. It is
often due to a difference in the theme discussed and in the spirit of
their poetry.
So important is the understanding of metre to the right appreciation of
any exalted poetic monologue, that in general, unless the interpreter
thoroughly masters the subject of metre, he is unprepared to render
anything but so-called monologues on the lowest plane of farce and
vaudeville art.
Very close to the subject of metre is length of line. A long line is more
stately, a short line more abrupt, passional, and intense. A short line in
connection with longer lines, generally contains more weight, and such an
increase of intensive feeling as causes its rendering to be slow,
requiring about as much time as one of the longer lines. The short line
suggests the necessity of a pause. It is usually found in lyric poetry;
rarely in dramatic.
The peculiar variation in length of line found in the Pindaric ode belongs
almost entirely to lyric poetry. Monologues and dramatic poems are
frequently found in blank verse.
We find here a peculiar principle existing. In blank verse there is
greater variation of the feet than in almost any other form of poetry, and
yet in this the length of line is most fixed. In the Pindaric ode, on the
contrary, where the foot is more regular, there are great variations in
the length of line. Is there not discoverable here a law, that where
length of line is more fixed, metre is more variable, but where length of
line is more variable, the metric feet tend to be more regular?
Art is "order in play"; the free, spontaneous variation is play; the fixed
or regular elements give the sense of order. True art always accentuates
both order and play, not in antagonistic opposition, but in sympathetic
union. Whenever the order is more apparent in one direction, there is
greater freedom of play in another, and the reverse.
We find this principle specially manifest in pantomimic expression. Man is
only free and flexible in the use of his arms and limbs when he has a
stability of poise and when his movement ends in a stable attitude. There
is opposition between motions and positions.
This important law has been overlooked both in action and in vocal
expression. It is not quite the same as Delsarte's law: "Stability is
characteristic of the centre; flexibility, of the surface." While this is
true, the necessary co-ordination of the transcendence of stability of
attitude over motion is also a necessary law of all expression.
Before trying to lay down any general law regarding metre as a mode of
expression, let us examine a few monologues in various feet.
Notice the use of the trochee to express the loving entreaty in "A Woman's
Last Word" (p. 6). To give this a careless rendering with its metric
movement confused, as is often done, totally perverts its meaning and
spirit. The accent on the initial word of the line gives an intensity of
feeling with tender persuasiveness. This accent must be strong and
vigorous, followed by a most delicate touch upon the following
syllables:--
"Be a god, and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man, and fold me
With thine arm!"
One who has little sense of metre should try to read this poem in some
different foot. He will soon become conscious of the discord. When once he
catches the spirit of the poem with his own voice, he will experience a
satisfaction and confidence in his rhythmic instinct, and in his voice as
its agent, that will enable him to render the poem with power.
Note in this poem also the shortness of the lines, which express the
abrupt outbursts of intense feeling. The fact that every other line ends
upon an accented syllable adds intensity, sincerity, and earnestness to
the tender appeal. The delicate beauty of the rhymes also aids in
idealizing the speaker's character. The whole form is beautifully adapted
to express her endeavor to lift her husband out of his suspicious and
ignoble jealousy to a higher plane.
Browning's "In a Year" has seemingly the same foot and the same length of
line as "A Woman's Last Word," but how different its effect! "In a Year"
is made up of bursts of passion from an overburdened heart. It seems more
subjective or more of a soliloquy.
There is not the same direct appeal to another, but no print can give the
difference between the emotional movement of the two poems. In both, the
trochaic foot and the very short line indicate abrupt outpouring of
feeling.
Compare these two poems carefully. What is the significance of the form
given them by Browning, the metre, the length of line, and the stanzas?
Why are the stanzas of "In a Year" longer than those of "A Woman's Last
Word"? What is the effect of the difference in rhyme of these two poems?
Does one detect any difference in the metric movement?
IN A YEAR
Never any more,
While I live,
Need I hope to see his face
As before.
Once his love grown chill,
Mine may strive:
Bitterly we re-embrace,
Single still.
Was it something said,
Something done,
Vexed him? was it touch of hand,
Turn of head?
Strange! that very way
Love begun:
I as little understand
Love's decay.
When I sewed or drew,
I recall
How he looked as if I sung,
--Sweetly too.
If I spoke a word,
First of all
Up his cheek the color sprung,
Then he heard.
Sitting by my side,
At my feet,
So he breathed but air I breathed,
Satisfied!
I, too, at love's brim
Touched the sweet:
I would die if death bequeathed
Sweet to him.
"Speak, I love thee best!"
He exclaimed:
"Let thy love my own foretell!"
I confessed:
"Clasp my heart on thine
Now unblamed,
Since upon thy soul as well
Hangeth mine!"
Was it wrong to own,
Being truth?
Why should all the giving prove
His alone?
I had wealth and ease,
Beauty, youth:
Since my lover gave me love,
I gave these.
That was all I meant,
--To be just,
And the passion I had raised,
To content.
Since he chose to change
Gold for dust,
If I gave him what he praised
Was it strange?
Would he loved me yet,
On and on,
While I found some way undreamed
--Paid my debt!
Gave more life and more,
Till all gone,
He should smile "She never seemed
Mine before.
"What, she felt the while,
Must I think?
Love's so different with us men!"
He should smile:
"Dying for my sake--
White and pink!
Can't we touch these bubbles then
But they break?"
Dear, the pang is brief,
Do thy part,
Have thy pleasure! How perplexed
Grows belief!
Well, this cold clay clod
Was man's heart:
Crumble it, and what comes next?
Is it God?
Why is "Herve Riel" in trochaic movement? It is heroic; why not then
iambic? The poem opens in a mood of anxiety, a state of suspense, a fear
of the certain loss of the fleet. When hope revives and Herve Riel is
introduced in the words,
"For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these,"
we have a line of mixed anapestic and iambic feet, expressive of
resolution, courage, and confidence; so with the first and second lines of
the sixth stanza expressing indignation at the pilots; also in much of his
speech to the admirals.
If the poet had led us sympathetically to identify ourselves with Herve
Riel's resolution and endeavor, the metre would have been anapestic or
iambic, but he gives the feeling of admiration for Herve Riel and we are
made to contemplate how easily he performed his great deed, and hence the
prevailing trochaic movement is one of the charms of the poem.
Criticism of this poem, such as I have heard, reveals a lack of
appreciation of the dramatic spirit of metre. The trochaic delicately
expresses the emotional feeling, admiration, and tenderness for the
forgotten hero, as well as the anxiety and realization of danger in the
first parts of the poem. The change to the iambic in the central part of
the poem only proves the real character of the trochaic feet, and, in
fact, accentuates their spirit. The trochee seems in general to indicate
an outpouring of emotion or sudden burst of feeling too strong for
control. Many of the most tender and prayerful hymns have this foot. It
expresses also, at times, a sense of uneasiness or restlessness.
The reader must take these statements, however, as mere suggestions, for
the very first poem written in this metre that he reads may give
expression to a different spirit. So complex, so mysterious, is the metric
expression of feeling, that no one poem can be made a standard for
another.
The iambic foot, more than any other, expresses controlled
passion,--passion expressed with deliberation. It implies resolution,
confidence, or the heroic carrying out of an intention. While the trochee
suggests the bursting out of feeling against the will, the iambic may
suggest the spontaneous cumulation of emotion under the dominion of will
with a definite purpose or conscious realization of a situation. The
iambic can express passion controlled for an end, the trochee seems rather
to float with the passion or be thrust forward by waves or bursts of
feeling, which the will is trying to hold back.
Note the predominant metric movement of "Rabbi Ben Ezra," and how it
expresses the confidence and noble conviction of the venerable Rabbi.
Why is "The Last Ride Together" iambic? Because no other metre could so
well express the nobility of the hero, his endurance, his refusal to yield
to despair or become antagonistic, his self-control, and the preservation
of his hopefulness when all his "life seemed meant for fails."
THE LAST RIDE TOGETHER
I said--Then, dearest, since 'tis so,
Since now at length my fate I know,
Since nothing all my love avails,
Since all my life seemed meant for fails,
Since this was written and needs must be--
My whole heart rises up to bless
Your name in pride and thankfulness!
Take back the hope you gave,--I claim
Only a memory of the same,
--And this beside, if you will not blame,
Your leave for one more last ride with me.
My mistress bent that brow of hers;
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs
When pity would be softening through,
Fixed me a breathing-while or two
With life or death in the balance: right!
The blood replenished me again;
My last thought was at least not vain:
I and my mistress, side by side,
Shall be together, breathe and ride,
So, one day more am I deified.
Who knows but the world may end to-night?
Hush! if you saw some western cloud
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed
By many benedictions--sun's
And moon's and evening-star's at once--
And so, you, looking and loving best,
Conscious grew, your passion drew
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,
Down on you, near and yet more near,
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!--
Thus leant she and lingered--joy and fear!
Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
Then we began to ride. My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
Freshening and fluttering in the wind.
Past hopes already lay behind.
What need to strive with a life awry?
Had I said that, had I done this,
So might I gain, so might I miss.
Might she have loved me? just as well
She might have hated, who can tell!
Where had I been now if the worst befell?
And here we are riding, she and I.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds?
Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,
Saw other regions, cities new,
As the world rushed by on either side.
I thought,--All labor, yet no less
Bear up beneath their unsuccess.
Look at the end of work, contrast
The petty done, the undone vast,
This present of theirs with the hopeful past!
I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
What hand and brain went ever paired?
What heart alike conceived and dared?
What act proved all its thought had been?
What will but felt the fleshy screen?
We ride and I see her bosom heave.
There's many a crown for who can reach.
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!
The flag stuck on a heap of bones,
A soldier's doing! what atones?
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.
My riding is better, by their leave.
What does it all mean, poet? Well,
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
What we felt only; you expressed
You hold things beautiful the best,
And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.
'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then,
Have you yourself what's best for men?
Are you--poor, sick, old ere your time--
Nearer one whit your own sublime
Than we who have never turned a rhyme?
Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.
And you, great sculptor--so, you gave
A score of years to Art, her slave,
And that's your Venus, whence we turn
To yonder girl that fords the burn!
You acquiesce, and shall I repine?
What, man of music, you grown gray
With notes and nothing else to say,
Is this your sole praise from a friend,
"Greatly his opera's strains intend,
But in music we know how fashions end!"
I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.
Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate
Proposed bliss here should sublimate
My being--had I signed the bond--
Still one must lead some life beyond,
Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.
This foot once planted on the goal,
This glory-garland round my soul,
Could I descry such? Try and test!
I sink back shuddering from the quest.
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?
Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
And yet--she has not spoke so long!
What if heaven be that, fair and strong
At life's best, with our eyes upturned
Whither life's flower is first discerned,
We, fixed so, ever should so abide?
What if we still ride on, we two,
With life forever old yet new,
Changed not in kind but in degree,
The instant made eternity,--
And heaven just prove that I and she
Ride, ride together, forever ride?
Adequate rendering of this poem requires a very decided touch upon the
strong foot, that is, an accentuation of the iambic movement. Notice also
the two, three, or four long syllables at the first of many lines (such as
lines six, seven, and eight), showing the passion and the intense control.
Observe the almost completely spondaic line, indicating deliberation,
patient waiting, or intense, pent-up feeling held in poise:
"Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs,"
and then the short syllables and lyric effect in the next line. Note the
strong isolation of the word "right" at the end of the fifth line, stanza
two.
Notice that in stanza four, when the ride begins, the first foot is not
iambic, but choriambic; yet all through the poem where manly resolution
and confidence is asserted and expressed, the iambic movement is strong.
Tennyson's "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" (p. 50) expresses the severity and
earnestness of the speaker by the predominance of iambic feet, while the
sudden uneasiness, or burst of passion, is best expressed by trochaic
feet. Note the effect of the first line of most of the stanzas, then the
quick change to iambic movement expressing the rebuke which is the real
theme of the poem.
The spondee is found in solemn hymns or in any verse expressing reverence
and awe. It is contemplative and poised, and is frequently blended with
other feet, especially with iambic, to express deliberation.
In Browning's "Prospice," the iambus predominates, and expresses heroic
endurance and courage in meeting death; but the first foot--"Fear
death"--is a spondee, and indicates the deliberative realization of the
situation. It is the straightening up, as it were, of the whole manhood of
the soldier before he begins his battle with death.
Very forcible are the occasional spondees in "Abt Vogler." These give
dignity and weight and sustain the contemplative and reverent meditations.
It will be noted that the dactyl is very closely related in expression to
the trochee, and the anapest to the iambic. Triple rhythm or metre,
however, implies a more circular and flowing movement. The dactyl is used
in some of the most pathetic and passionate monologues of the language.
Notice the fine use of it in Hood's "Bridge of Sighs."
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
One more unfortunate, weary of breath, rashly importunate, gone to her
death! Take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fashion'd so
slenderly, young, and so fair!
Look at her garments clinging like cerements, whilst the wave
constantly drips from her clothing; take her up instantly, loving, not
loathing. Touch her not scornfully; think of her mournfully, gently
and humanly; not of the stains of her--all that remains of her now, is
pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny into her mutiny rash and undutiful: past all
dishonor, death has left on her only the beautiful. Still, for all
slips of hers, one of Eve's family--wipe those poor lips of hers
oozing so clammily. Loop up her tresses escaped from the comb, her
fair auburn tresses; whilst wonderment guesses where was her home?
Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister? Had she a
brother? Or was there a dearer one still, and a nearer one yet, than
all other? Alas! for the rarity of Christian charity under the sun! O!
it was pitiful! near a whole city full, home she had none. Sisterly,
brotherly, fatherly, motherly feelings had changed: love, by harsh
evidence, thrown from its eminence; even God's providence seeming
estranged.
Where the lamps quiver so far in the river, with many a light, from
window and casement, from garret to basement, she stood, with
amazement, houseless by night. The bleak wind of March made her
tremble and shiver; but not the dark arch, or the black, flowing
river; mad from life's history, glad to death's mystery swift to be
hurl'd--anywhere, anywhere out of the world! In she plunged boldly, no
matter how coldly the rough river ran, over the brink of it,--picture
it, think of it, dissolute Man! lave in it, drink of it, then, if you
can!
Take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fashion'd so slenderly,
young and so fair! Ere her limbs frigidly stiffen too rigidly,
decently, kindly, smooth and compose them; and her eyes close them,
staring so blindly! Dreadfully staring through muddy impurity, as when
with the daring last look of despairing fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily, spurr'd by contumely, cold inhumanity burning
insanity into her rest.--Cross her hands humbly, as if praying dumbly,
over her breast! Owning her weakness, her evil behavior, and leaving,
with meekness, her sins to her Saviour!
Some persons may not regard this poem as a monologue. But if not rendered
by a union of dramatic and lyric elements, it will be given, as it often
is, as a kind of a stump speech to an audience on the banks of the Thames
over the body of some poor, betrayed woman, who has ended her life in that
murky stream.
It is true that we are little concerned with the character of the speaker,
and the feeling is intensely lyric and universal. But the situation is so
definite, and the "One more unfortunate" is so vividly portrayed to us,
that it is, at least, partly dramatic. Even those who are caring for the
body are directly addressed:
"Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care."
It is a lyric monologue.
The sad, passionate outbursts can hardly be suggested by any other metre
than that which is used by Hood, and we feel that its choice is singularly
appropriate. The poem is intensely subjective. The conceptions regarding
the life just closed arise through the natural association of ideas. The
speaker thinks and feels definitely before us. The whirling circles
suggested by the dactyl, with the occasional passionate break of a single
accented word or syllable at the end of a line, assist the reader. Without
such dactylic movement, the vocal expression of a pathos so intense would
be hardly possible to the human voice.
Notice the two long syllables at the very beginning of the poem expressive
of the stunned effect at the discovery of the body.
Render the poem printed as prose to avoid the sing-song of short lines,
and note that in proportion to the depth of passion the metre becomes
pronounced. It is impossible to read it in its proper spirit when not
correctly rendering its metric rhythm.
The dactyl is used with a very similar effect in Austin Dobson's "Before
Sedan" (p. 84).
What a difference is expressed by the use of these same feet, with greater
changes, and in longer lines, in Browning's "The Lost Leader"!
Restlessness is here expressed, arising not from pathos, but from
indignation and disappointment. The rhythmic movement of the metre is
totally different in this case. While the feet may be mechanically the
same, the length of the lines and the rhythmic spirit differ greatly in
the two poems. The feeling is different, the tone-color of the voice not
the same, and the whole expression differs, though in a mechanical
scanning they seem nearly alike.
THE LOST LEADER
Just for a handful of silver he left us,
Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,--
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
Lost all the others, she lets us devote;
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
So much was theirs who so little allowed:
How all our copper had gone for his service!
Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,
Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
Made him our pattern to live and to die!
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves!
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence;
Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre;
Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence,
Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire;
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
One more devil's-triumph and sorrow for angels,
One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight,
Never glad confident morning again!
Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly,
Menace our heart ere we master his own;
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
One aid in realizing metre as an element of expression is to examine a
poem printed as prose and attempt to discover the peculiar value and force
of the metric forms, length of lines, length of the stanzas, and even the
rhymes. All these in a true poem are expressive. There is nothing really
artificial or accidental in a true poetic or artistic form. (See p. 175
and p. 209.)
Many poems in this book and in the accompanying monologues for further
study are printed as prose, not because metre and length of line are
unimportant, but for the very opposite reason. The form of a printed poem
is so apt to be disregarded or considered a mere matter of print that this
unusual method of printing a poem is adopted to furnish opportunity for
the reader to work out for himself the metre and other elements of the
form. In reading over a poem thus printed, almost any one will become
conscious of the metric movement, and in every case the metric structure
and length of line should be indicated and felt by the reader.
There is never, in a fine poem, especially in a dramatic poem, a mere
mechanical and regular succession of the same foot, though one foot may
predominate and give the general spirit to the whole. True metre never
interferes with thinking or with the processes of natural speech; on the
contrary, it is an aid to thinking, feeling, and vocal expression.
If the student will think and feel intensely such a poem as "Rabbi Ben
Ezra" (p. 36), and will strongly accentuate the metre, he will find that
he can read it easily, because, when true to its objective form, he is the
better able to give its spirit.
Innumerable changes in the metric feet occur in Browning's "Saul," in "Abt
Vogler," or in any great poem. The more deeply we become imbued with the
spirit of a poem, the more do we feel that these variations are necessary.
The reader must be slow to criticize a seeming discord in metre. An
apparent fault may appear as a real excellence after one has genuinely
seized the true spirit of the passage.
Notice, for example, the discord in the word "ravines" in Coleridge's
"Hymn before Sunrise." It gives a sudden arrest of feeling almost as if
one stood trembling on the verge of a precipice. With mechanical
regularity of feet such an impression could not be made. A great musical
composer weaves in discords as a means of expression, and the same is true
of a great master of metre. In nearly all cases where there is a seeming
discord of metre, some peculiar vocal expression is necessary. "Ravines"
compels a good reader to make an emphatic pause after it.
The importance of pause in relation to metre has often been overlooked. In
Tennyson's "Break, break, break," we have a most artistic presentation of
only the strong words of the metric line. A period of silence is necessary
in order to give the whole line its movement. It requires as much time as
if it had its full complement of syllables. This suggests the depth of the
emotion. Such pauses, however, bring us to the subject of rhythm rather
than metre. They have a wonderful effect in awakening a perception of the
spirit of the poem.
Notice in "My Last Duchess" (p. 96), the lack of rhyme, the stilted blank
verse, the tendency towards iambic feet,--possibly to show the domineering
and tyrannical spirit of the character. The almost prosaic irregularity of
the feet is certainly very expressive of his thinking and feeling. It is
easy, in this passage, to realize the appropriate expressiveness of
Browning's metre.
The metre of "A Death in the Desert" seems to a dull ear the same as that
in "My Last Duchess." But let one render carefully the dying John in
contrast with the Duke. What a difference! How smooth the flow, what
dignified intensity, when the beloved disciple gives his visions of the
future! The spirit of the two when interpreted by the voice differ in the
metric movement. What a rollicking good-nature is suggested appropriately
by the metre of "Sally in our Alley" (p. 121). Imagine this young fellow
telling his story, as he walks along. It would be impossible for him to
talk in a steady, straight-forward iambic, or even in the hesitating,
emotional trochee. His passion comes in gusts and outbursts, so that now
and then he leaps into a kind of dance. The poem is wholly consistent with
the character, and the metre is not the least important means of revealing
the spirit of the emotions and sentiments. Plain, prosaic criticism,
however, can hardly touch it. The characteristic spirit of the lad must be
so deeply appreciated and felt as to lift the whole, notwithstanding its
homely character, into the realm of exalted poetry, in fact, into a rare
union of lyric and dramatic elements.
Notice, too, in "Up at a Villa--Down in the City" (p. 65), that the very
mood, the very way an "Italian Person of Quality" would stand, walk,
saunter along, loll in a chair, roll his head, or swing his feet, are
suggested by the metric movement. Changes of movement are required to show
the person's change of feeling and action. Quicker pulsation at his
exaltation over the city will demand a swifter movement, while the slow,
retarded rhythm will show contempt for the villa. Through the whole, the
unity of the feet, the seeming carelessness, and the constant variation
which suggests the commonplace character of the person, are part of the
humorous impression made upon us. The metre, in this case, as in all
monologues expressive of humor, must give the real spirit of the
character; when once we realize the situation and the feeling, the right
vocal expression of the metric form is a natural result.
Observe the grotesque humor, not only of the rhymes such as "eye's tail
up" and "chromatic scale up," but also the peculiar feet in Browning's
"Youth and Art" (p. 21). The most common foot in the poem, an
amphibrachys, three syllables with the middle one long, is often used with
comical or grotesque effect in poems full of humor. The last line,
however, full of tenderness and sadness, is trochaic.
Observe the tenderness of "Evelyn Hope."
EVELYN HOPE
Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!
Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed;
She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass;
Little has yet been changed, I think:
The shutters are shut, no light may pass
Save two long rays thro' the hinge's chink.
Sixteen years old when she died!
Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name;
It was not her time to love; beside,
Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,
And now was quiet, now astir,
Till God's hand beckoned unawares,--
And the sweet white brow is all of her.
Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope?
What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,
Made you of spirit, fire and dew--
And, just because I was thrice as old
And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was naught to each, must I be told?
We were fellow mortals, naught beside?
No, indeed! for God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
I claim you still, for my own love's sake!
Delayed it may be for more lives yet,
Thro' worlds I shall traverse, not a few:
Much is to learn, much to forget
Ere the time be come for taking you.
But the time will come, at last it will,
When, Evelyn Hope, what meant (I shall say)
In the lower earth, in the years long still,
That body and soul so pure and gay?
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine,
And your mouth of your own geranium's red--
And what you would do with me, in fine,
In the new life come in the old one's stead.
I have lived (I shall say) so much since then,
Given up myself so many times,
Gained me the gains of various men,
Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;
Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope,
Either I missed or itself missed me:
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!
What is the issue? let us see!
I loved you, Evelyn, all the while!
My heart seemed full as it could hold;
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,
And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.
So hush,--I will give you this leaf to keep:
See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand!
There, that is our secret: go to sleep!
You will wake, and remember, and understand.
Note especially the transition from the trochees, expressive of tender
love and feeling, in stanza three, to the iambics, expressing conviction
and confidence, in the following stanzas:
"For God above
Is great to grant, as mighty to make,
And creates the love to reward the love:
I claim you still, for my own love's sake."
In Browning's "One Way of Love" (p. 150) the iambics in the first lines
express determination and endeavor, but there is a decided change in the
metric movement caused by the agitation, disappointment, and deep feeling
of the last two lines of each stanza.
It is never possible to study metre in cold blood. It is the language of
the heart. Only an occasional versifier in a critical or intellectual
spirit grinds out a machine-made metre, every foot of which can be scanned
according to rule.
A poem which is written seemingly in one metric measure will be found,
when read aloud with proper feeling, to have several. Contrast the last
stanza with the third from the last of "In a Year" (p. 201), and one feels
that the third from the last has the stronger iambic movement. This
possibly expresses hope, or impetuous longing, while the last, returning
to the trochee, expresses intense despair. At any rate, these two stanzas
cannot be read alike. Of course, a different conception on the part of
the reader would affect the metre. The interpreter must take such hints as
he finds, complete them by his imagination, and so assimilate the poem as
to express its metre adequately by the voice. The living voice is the only
revealer, as the ear is the only true judge, of metre.
In "Confessions" (p. 7), the waking of the sick man, his confusion, his
uncertainty whether he has heard aright, and his repetition of the words
of his visitor, are given with trochaic movement, while his own conviction
and answer are given in iambics; yet his story, possibly on account of the
tenderness of recollections, frequently returns to the trochaic movement.
In the same way, to his question
"... Is the curtain blue
Or green to a healthy eye?"
he gives a slightly trochaic effect as a recognition of his own sick
condition. A positive settling of the question by his own illustration is
indicated by the emphasis of the iambic movement in the next line.
These are illustrations only. Two persons who have thoroughly assimilated
the spirit of a poem, may not completely agree concerning its metre. It is
not necessary nor best that they should. There are delicate variations
which show spontaneously the difference in the realization of the two
readers.
Such personal variations, however, which result from peculiar experiences
and types of character, must not be confused with the careless breaking of
the metre which we hear from all our actors and public readers. The latter
is the result of ignorance and lack of understanding and realization. The
late Henry A. Clapp, criticizing a prominent actor in "Julius Caesar,"
broke forth in a kind of despair and said: "After all, where could he go
to find adequate methods for the development of a true sense of metre?"
Metre will never be fully understood until studied in connection with
vocal expression, nor will vocal expression ever rise to its true place
until applied to the interpretation not only of poetic thought, but of
such elements of poetic form as metre. And where can a better means be
found for both steps than the study of the monologue?
The student should observe the metre as well as the thought of every
monologue he examines, and read it aloud, attending faithfully to the
spirit of its metric expression. So poor is the ordinary rendering of
metre, that it is almost impossible to tell the metre from the ordinary
reading.
Trochaic metre is often read, as if it were a kind of crude iambic. When
one is in the mood or spirit of one foot, unless he has imaginative and
emotional flexibility, all feet will be read as practically the same. I
have known readers, speakers, and actors who have completely lost the
dactylic and even the trochaic spirit or mode of expression.
Let any one select a poem and render it successively with different metres
and note the effect. We must often be made to feel the power of wrong
vocal expression to pervert a poem before we can realize the force of
right voice modulation in interpreting its spirit.
The student must realize each metric foot as an objective expression of a
subjective feeling. Doubt is often felt even by the best critics, and
great difference of opinion exists among them, but the reader who
understands vocal expression, studies into the heart of the poem and uses
his own voice to express his intuition, will settle most of these
difficulties satisfactorily to himself. Vocal interpretation is the last
criterion of metric expression.
The universal lack of attention to metre is, no doubt, connected with a
universal neglect of the expressive modulations of the voice. In our day
the printed word and not the spoken word is regarded as the real word.
This has gone so far that some educated men seem to regard metre as solely
a matter of print.
While metre may be one of the last points to be considered, it is not the
least important to study; nor is it, when mastered, the least useful to
the thought, feeling, imagination, and passion, or to the right action of
the voice in interpreting the spirit of the monologue.
There is an almost universal tendency to regard as superficial, actors and
those capable of interpreting human experience by the living voice. Men
who should have known better have said that it is not mental force but
simply a certain peculiarity of temperament that gives dramatic power.
One of the most important things to be sought is the better understanding
of the psychology of dramatic instinct. I have already tried to awaken
some attention to the peculiar nature and importance of this in
"Imagination and Dramatic Instinct," but the subject is by no means
exhausted. That discussion was meant only as a beginning.
When actors and public readers feel it necessary to train the voice and
the ear, to develop imagination and feeling, to apprehend the true nature
of human art, and to meditate profoundly over the spirit of some great
poem; when they treat their own art with respect and give themselves
technical training, adequate metric expression will begin to be possible.
At present, it must be said in sorrow that the ablest actors and most
prominent public readers blur and pervert the most beautiful lines in the
language. They seem blind to differences as great as those between the
sunflower and the rose.
XIII. DIALECT
Many monologues, especially the most popular ones are written in dialect;
and frequently the public reader or interpreter gives his chief attention
to the accurate reproduction of characteristic vowels, odd pronunciation
of words, and the externals of the manner of speaking. The writer also
often seems to make these matters of the greatest importance. What is the
real meaning of dialect? How far is it allowable? Is it ever necessary?
What principles apply to its use?
Dialect is one of the accidental expressions of character, and must be
dramatic or it is worth nothing. It sometimes adds coloring by giving a
grotesque effect; helps to produce an illusion; or aids the reader or
hearer to create a more definite conception of the character speaking and
hence to appreciate more fully the thought, feeling, and spirit. It is a
kind of literary or vocal stage make-up that enables the reader or auditor
to recognize the character.
James Whitcomb Riley has chosen the homely Hoosier dialect as the clothing
of the speaker in most of his monologues. As Burns spoke in the Scottish
dialect which was simple and native to his heart, so Riley seems to
consider the dialect of his native State the best medium for conveying the
peculiar feelings and experiences of types of character with which his
life has been directly associated.
There is justification for this, for it is well known that Burns's best
poems are those in Scottish dialect. His English poems, with one or two
possible exceptions, are weaker, and in them he seems to be using a
foreign language. Poetry is very near the human soul; and when the dialect
is native to the heart, a quaint mode of expression may be necessary to
the dramatic spirit of the thought.
As a character of a certain type may be an aid to the conception of a
thought or sentiment, so the experiences of a character may be better
suggested by dialect. In that case, it is justifiable, if not indeed a
dramatic necessity.
In English some of the ablest writers have employed dialect. Tennyson uses
dialect in his monologue of the "Northern Farmer," and he is possibly our
most careful author since Gray. The French do not use dialect poems to
such an extent as English and American writers. They regard dialect as a
degradation of language. The Provencal writers take their peculiar _langue
d'oc_ too seriously to regard it as a dialect. American writers,
especially, think too much of dialect. A young writer often employs much
dialect in a first book, but in a second or third, the spelling indicates
the dialect less literally and with more suggestion of its dramatic
spirit. There are many instances where the earlier and the later books of
an author present marked contrasts in this respect.
Public readers, especially, devote too much attention to the mere literal
facts of dialect. Readers who give no attention to characterization or
dramatic instinct pride themselves upon their mastery of many dialects.
Their work is purely imitative and external. In representing a dialect,
the general principles of expression, the laws of consistency and harmony,
must be carefully considered by both the writer and the reader.
In general, the greatest masters of dialect are those who use dialects
associated with their own childhood, such as Riley, with the Hoosier
dialect, Day, with the Maine Yankee dialect, or Harris, with that of the
colored people of Georgia. True dialect must always be the result of
sympathy and identification.
Many writers have been led by a study of peculiar types and through
natural imaginative sympathy or humor to understand and appreciate a
specific dialect. Dunbar thus writes many of his poems in the peculiar
dialect of his race. The reader need not be told that many of his poems
are monologues. For a perfect type see "Ne'er Mind, Miss Lucy." Dunbar was
led, no doubt, by genuine sympathy or dramatic instinct, to write in the
dialect of his race some of his most tender as well as his more humorous
poems.
Dr. Drummond, of Montreal, after many experiences among the French
Canadians, has written several volumes of monologues in which he has
introduced to the world some peculiar types of the French Canadian. Their
quaint humor is portrayed with genuine and profound sympathy, and these
poems are capable of very intense dramatic interpretation, and are
deservedly popular. He preserves not only the peculiarity of the words,
but the melodic and rhythmic movement of the dramatic spirit of his
characters.
DIEUDONNE
If I sole ma ole blind trotter for fifty dollar cash
Or win de beeges' prize on lotterie,
If some good frien' die an' lef' me fines' house on St. Eustache,
You t'ink I feel more happy dan I be?
No, sir! An' I can tole you, if you never know before,
W'y de kettle on de stove mak' such a fuss,
W'y de robbin stop hees singin' an' come peekin' t'roo de door
For learn about de nice t'ing's come to us--
An' w'en he see de baby lyin' dere upon de bed
Lak leetle Son of Mary on de ole tam long ago--
Wit' de sunshine an' de shadder makin' ring aroun' hees head,
No wonder M'sieu Robin wissle low.
An' we can't help feelin' glad too, so we call heem Dieudonne;
An' he never cry, dat baby, w'en he's chrissen by de pries';
All de sam' I bet you dollar he'll waken up some day,
An' be as bad as leetle boy Bateese.
There is great danger, however, in employing dialect. When the accidental
is made the essential, when dialect is put forward as something
interesting in itself, or adopted as a mere affectation, or where used by
writer or reader independent of the spirit of the poem, of the story, or
even of the character, and is regarded as something capable of
entertaining by the mere effect of imitation, it becomes insipid and a
hindrance.
Genuine dialect is dramatic. A dialect too literally reproduced will be
understood with great difficulty, and the reading will cause no
enjoyment. The fact must be recognized that dialect is only accidental as
a means of expression, and hence is justified only when necessary to the
portrayal of character, or in manifesting a unique spirit, point of view,
or experience.
Some of the best examples of the dramatic character of dialect in the
monologue are found in Kipling. His Tommy Atkins is so vividly portrayed
that he must necessarily speak in the peculiar manner of a British
soldier. Kipling has so identified himself with certain characters that
their dramatic assimilation requires dialectic interpretation, as in the
case of "Fuzzy-Wuzzy," "Danny Deever," and "Tommy." When dialect is thus
inevitable from the dramatic point of view, it is legitimate.
In fact, while dialect is grotesque and accidental, and even stands upon a
low plane, yet, by intense poetic realization, it may be lifted into a
more exalted place. Energy has been called the father, and joy the mother,
of the grotesque. Humor is not inconsistent with the greatest pathos; in
fact, it is necessary to it. The grotesque sometimes becomes the Gothic.
In "Shamus O'Brien," a monologue formerly popular, many of the characters
speak in dialect. Shamus, however, seems to use less dialect on account of
the dignity of his character and speech. In all such cases, the accidental
becomes less pronounced in proportion to the emphasis of the essential.
The dialect of the whole poem may be explained by the fact that an
Irishman tells the story.
There seems, however, to be an exception to this. Carlyle, it is said,
when expressing the profoundest feeling in conversation always lapsed
into broad Scottish dialect. Colonel T. W. Higginson says that he, with
another gentleman and Carlyle, once passed through a park belonging to a
private estate. Some children were rolling on the grass, and one boy
coming forward timidly, approached Carlyle, whose face seemed to the boy
the most kindly disposed to children, and said, "Please, sir, may we roll
on the grass?" Carlyle broke into the broadest Scotch, "Ye may roll at
discretion."
As already intimated, dialect must not be so extreme that the audience
cannot easily understand what the reader is saying. All true art is clear;
it is not a puzzle. On account of its theme, and its appeal to the higher
faculties, its comprehension may at times require long continued
contemplation and earnest endeavor; but an accidental element, such as
dialect, must never prevent immediate understanding of the words spoken or
thoughts expressed. Dialect must be perfectly transparent. Its whole charm
will be lost if it does not give a simple, quaint suggestion of character.
The chief element of dialect is not in the words or the pronunciation of
the elementary sounds but in the melody. Every language has a kind of
"accent," as it is called, and it is this "accent" which is most
characteristic. Every word may be pronounced correctly, but the artistic
reader or actor can suggest immediately by the peculiar melodic form of
his phrases whether it is a Frenchman, a German, an Italian, an Irishman,
or a Scotsman who speaks.
In fact, the more subtle, more natural, more suggestive the dialect, the
better. It must never be labored; never be of interest in itself. It is
secondary to character, to thinking, and even to feeling.
Dialect should always be the result of assimilation rather than imitation.
If there is imitation at all, it must be of that higher kind resulting
from sympathetic identification and a right use of the dramatic instinct.
One of the greatest mistakes in rendering dialect consists in taking the
printed word as the sole guide. Because a word here and there is spelled
oddly, the reader confines the dialect to these words.
True dialect is not a matter of individual words. It must penetrate the
speech; it never can be more than vaguely suggested in print, and the
print can be only a very inadequate guide to the reader. He must go to
life itself and study the melodic spirit, the peculiar relations to
character, the quaint inflections and modulations of the voice, which have
little to do with mere pronunciation. A Scotchman may have corrected
certain peculiarities of his vowels, or a Frenchman be able to pronounce
individual words accurately, but still both will show a melodic
peculiarity, which remains a fundamental characteristic. One who renders
monologues and omits this peculiar melodic element will fail to give the
fundamental element in dialect.
Dialect must not only be dramatic and sympathetic, but also delicately
suggestive and accurate. The accuracy, however, should not be literal. It
must be true to the type, and be felt as a part of the background.
In the rendering of a monologue, in general nothing should be given in
dialect unless the dialect is directly expressive of the character of the
speaker, his views, ideas, or feelings, or unless it is necessary to the
complete representation of the ideas, or can add something to the humorous
or suggestive force of the thought.
Peculiarities of dialect are always associated with dramatic action. In
fact, dialect is to speech what bearings are to movements. This again
shows that dialect is primarily dramatic, and justifies a full discussion
of the subject in connection with the dramatic monologue. A mere
mechanical imitation of dialect in the pronunciation is wrong from this
point of view also. The movements and actions of a character are as
essential as dialect, but are more general and will often determine the
most important part of the dialect, namely, the peculiar melody. When a
character is truly assimilated by instinct, if there is no mechanical
imitation, the dialect becomes almost an unconscious revelation.
The study of dialect is very close to the subject of dramatic diction.
Many of our modern poets who use the monologue, such as Day, Foss, Riley,
and Drummond, are blamed by superficial critics for the roughness of their
language. Fastidious critics often say the work of these authors is too
rough, and "not poetry."
In reply to such criticism it may be said that the peculiar nature of
dramatic diction is not realized. This rough language is necessary because
of the peculiar type of character. The man cannot be revealed without
making him speak his own native tongue. Browning is blamed as an artist
for using burly and even brutal English, but as Mr. Chesterton has shown,
"this is perfectly appropriate to the theme." An ill-mannered,
untrustworthy egotist, defending his own sordid doings with his own cheap
and weather-beaten philosophy, is very likely to express himself best in a
language flexible and pungent, but indelicate and without dignity. But the
peculiarity of these loose and almost slangy soliloquies is that every now
and then in them occur bursts of pure poetry which are like the sudden
song of birds. Flashes of poetry at unexpected moments are natural to all
men. High ideals, aspirations, and even exalted visions belong to every
one. Poetry is as universal as the human heart, though only a few can give
it word.
The rough language, however, is not antagonistic to these poetic visions,
but necessary for the truthful presentation of the character; that is to
say, dramatic poetry must present both the external, objective form and
the internal thought and ideal. The very nature of dramatic poetry demands
such a union.
This principle must govern all dramatic diction, dialect included, but the
law of suggestion and delicate intimation governs everywhere.
XIV. PROPERTIES
A play is a complete dramatic representation. The scenery, dress, and many
details are realistically presented to the eye. All the characters
concerned come forth upon the stage literally represented and objectively
identified in name, dress, look, and action. Any speaker may take himself
bodily out of the scene. There are properties, scenery, and other
characters to sustain the movement and continuity of the story. Hence,
upon the stage, situations and accidents can be represented more
literally than in the monologue, where much is hinted, or only intimated.
In the latter there is but one speaker and the situation is not
represented by scenery. It is a mental performance, and everything must be
simple. The monologue cannot be represented to the eyes as literally as a
play; hence, appeal must not be made to the eyes, but to the mind.
The interpreter of the monologue, however, too often takes the stage as
the standard. There seems to be no well-conceived principle regarding the
use of scenery. The ambition is to make everything "dramatic," and the
result is that monologues are often made literal, showy, and theatrical,
and presented with inconsistencies which are almost ridiculous. Many
readers arrange a platform as a stage with furniture, and dress for their
part as if in a play. They show great attention to all sorts of mechanical
accidents. They must have a fan or some extraordinary hat which can be
taken off and arranged on the stage, and they sometimes go to greatest
extremes in sitting, standing, walking, and kneeling, thus crudely
violating the principles of unity, without which there is no art.
The first principle which must govern the use of scenery on the stage, and
especially of properties by the interpreter of a monologue, is
significance. Nothing must be used that is not positively and necessarily
expressive of the thought and spirit of the passage rendered. When Duse
once looked at the stage before the curtain rose, she found a statue in
the supposed room. This was not unnatural, and seemed to the stage-manager
all right, as it made the place look more home-like; but she said the
statue must go out at once, as it was not a subject that would interest
the character depicted. He would never have such a statue in his room. So
out went the statue. And Duse was right.
In general, in our day, on the stage as well as on the platform, there is
a tendency to use too many properties, too many accidentals, or merely
decorative details. Things should not be put on a platform or stage
because they are beautiful, but because they have significance. Even an
artistic dress is governed by the same principle. Whatever is not
expressive of the personality, whatever does not become a part of the
whole person, is a blemish and should be at once eliminated. In most
instances, vulgarity consists in the use of too many things. As one word
well chosen is more expressive than a dozen carelessly selected, so the
highest type of monologue demands the greatest simplicity in its
rendering.
It must be borne in mind that the aim of all vocal expression is to win
attention. Many objects which at first seem to attract attention will be
found really to distract the auditor's mind. Let the reader try the
experiment of omitting them, and he will discover the advantage of few
properties.
The painter must have the power of generalizing, of putting objects into
the background and enveloping all in what is sometimes called "tone." All
objects should be dominated by the same spirit, and must, therefore, be
made akin to each other and brought into unity. On the stage the lights
are often so arranged as to throw objects into shadow; yet this can hardly
equal the painter's art of subordination. The interpreter of a monologue,
however, has no such assistance. He must subordinate, accordingly, by
elimination, by the greatest simplicity in accessories, and by
accentuating central ideas or points.
It is well known that during the greatest periods of dramatic art, such as
the age of Shakespeare, the stage was kept extremely simple, and this is
the case also in the best French and German drama of the present time.
The fundamental law governing not only all dramatic art, and the monologue
and platform, but pictures and other forms of art, is unity. Simplicity
does not elaborate details or properties or gorgeous scenery. It is the
result of the subordination of means to one end. Every part of the stage
must be an integral portion and express the spirit of the scene. Modern
electric lights and appliances are such that a scene can be brought into
unity by effects of light in a way that was not possible until recent
years. Power to bring gorgeous scenery into unity has been shown
especially by Sir Henry Irving.
In general, in proportion as a play becomes spectacular, and the stage is
made a means of exhibiting splendid scenery for its own sake, there is
absence of the dramatic spirit.
The same is true regarding properties. A man may use his cane until it
becomes imbued with his own personality, and he can extend the sense of
feeling to its farthest tip, as the blind man uses a stick to feel his way
through the streets of a city.
Hence, whenever any article of dress is a necessary part of the character
and has an inherent relation to the story or the thought, when it becomes
an essential part of the expression, then it may be properly employed.
Coquelin, for example, in one of his monologues, comes out with a hat in
his hand, but the name of the monologue is "The Hat." It is to the hat
that his good fortune is due. He treats it with great affection and
tenderness, and it becomes in his hand an agency for gesticulation as well
as an object of attention. It can be managed with great flexibility and
freedom and in no way interferes with, but rather aids, the subtle,
humorous transitions in thought and feeling that occur all through the
monologue.
The temptation to most interpreters, however, is to drag in something
which should play the most accidental role possible and make it a centre
of interest. This destroys expression.
To illustrate: In a popular monologue a lady is supposed to discover under
the edge of a curtain a pair of boots which she takes for evidence that a
man is standing behind the curtain in concealment. Now, if literal boots
are arranged on the stage behind a curtain, they have a totally different
effect from Coquelin's hat. They are there all the time. The audience sees
them. They cannot move or be used in any way except indirectly. Besides,
the woman should discover the boots, and the audience is supposed to
discover them with her. A literal pair of boots, therefore, will interfere
with the imagination and an imaginary one is far more easily managed.
It is difficult, however, to lay down a universal principle, as much
depends upon the artist, the situation, and the circumstances, but in
general the chief mistake is in having too many things and in being too
literal. The monologue, it must never be forgotten, depends more upon
suggestion than the play, and the law of suggestion must always be
obeyed.
The monologue, or its interpretation, is simply a mode of expression, and
the employment of all accessories and properties must, first of all, be
such as will not destroy expression, but rather increase the intensity and
enforce the central spirit of the thought.
A second principle might be named the law of centrality. The artist must
carefully distinguish between the accidental and the essential, and be
sure to remember that art is the emphasis of the essential; that emphasis
is the manifestation of what is of fundamental importance and the
subordination of what is of secondary value. Careless and inartistic minds
always find the accidental first; the accidental is to them always more
interesting. But when an accidental is made an essential, the result is a
one-sided effect; and while a temporary impression may be produced upon an
audience, it is never permanently valuable. The reader who emphasizes
accidents will himself grow weary of his monologue in a short time and not
know the reason. Only a thing of beauty is a joy forever. Only that which
is natural and in accordance with the laws of nature will stand forever as
an object of interest.
A third law is consistency. As the oak-leaf is consistent with the whole
tree, so in art, the degree of literalness in one direction must be
justified by a corresponding degree in another. If Mrs. Caudle is to have
a night-cap, then an old-fashioned curtain bed, a stuffed image for
Caudle, and a phonograph for his snore are equally requisite. The
temptation to be literal would hardly lead a monologue interpreter to
place Caliban in the position Browning suggests in the poem, since it is
impracticable to have a pool on the stage and let Caliban lie in the cool
slush. In the very nature of the case, accessories are suggestive, and the
degree of suggestion in one direction must determine the degree in others.
These three suggestive principles of unity, centrality, and consistency
show that what may be done on the stage should not be a standard for the
interpretation of a monologue.
In the very nature of the case, the interpreter of the monologue cannot
have all the means of producing an optical illusion which are available on
the stage. His illusion must be mental and imaginative. Circumstances,
however, change, though the laws will be found to apply.
Because the speaker is supposed to be sitting in a grocery store on a
barrel, it is not necessary for the reader to sit upon a table and swing
his feet. We are not interested in the barrel, but in the one who sits
upon it, and he would be as interesting if sitting upon something else, or
even standing. The fundamental centre of interest in all expression is the
mind, and whatever cannot reinforce that is not only useless, but a
hindrance.
The old age of Rabbi Ben Ezra is purely accidental. To present him as weak
and enfeebled would destroy for us the vigorous mind, and strong
convictions of the old man.
One of the precious memories of my youth, the most adequate rendering of a
monologue I ever heard, was Charlotte Cushman's reading of Tennyson's "The
Grandmother." Sitting quietly in her chair, as she did in nearly all of
her readings, she suggested the mind of the grandmother whose girlhood
memories, "seventy years ago, my darling, seventy years ago," were
accentuated by the trembling head and hands and voice. All the mental
attitudes so well portrayed by Tennyson--the lapses into forgetfulness;
the tenderness of the experience; the patience born of old age;--were
faithfully depicted. It was something which those who heard could never
forget. The greatness of Charlotte Cushman's art was shown in the fact
that she could give an extremely simple monologue with marvellous
consistency and force. It is strange that among American dramatic artists
no one has tried to follow in her steps. I can laugh yet when I remember
her transcendent interpretation of "The Annuity," a monologue in Scottish
character and dialect. I owe a great debt to Miss Cushman, for she
awakened my interest in the monologue, and gave me, over thirty years ago,
an ideal conception of the possibilities of dramatic platform art. She
never used properties of any kind. At times she stood up and walked the
platform and acted a scene from Macbeth or some other play, but always
with the simplest possible interpretation, without any mechanical
accessories. She never stood in giving her monologues, or readings, which
she gave the last year of her life.
Care, of course, is needed in regard to the employment of properties also
on the stage. The difficulty of placing a horse upon the stage is well
known. He cannot be made a part of the picture, cannot be subordinated, or
"made up." If we observe from the gallery when a horse is on the stage, we
find that the attention of everybody is centred upon him, and the point of
the play is lost. Who ever receives an impression of the splendid music
while Brunhilde stands holding by the bridle a great cart-horse?
The centre of interest in Goldsmith's "She Stoops to Conquer" is not in
the horse that Tony Lumpkin has been driving, but in his dialogue with his
mother, and her fright at her husband, whom she believes to be a
highwayman. To introduce two horses, making the audience uneasy as to what
they will do, destroys the dramatic interest of the scene.
The bringing of real horses on the stage in a play always causes fear of
an accident and distracts attention from the real point of the scene. To
see a noted singer motioning to a super to bring her horse on the stage
makes "the judicious grieve." There is no doubt a tendency at the present
time to over-elaboration and to extravagance in realistic presentation.
But if too much literalism is objectionable in the play, how much more is
it in the monologue?
All these principles may be combined in one, the law of harmony. This is
possibly the simplest law regarding properties, dialect, and all
accidentals in the interpretation of a monologue. The degree of realism in
one direction or in one part must be justified by corresponding degrees in
others. All art is relative, and depends upon the unity of impression.
A man's clothes may be a part of his character, and a singular individual
often has an odd hat, or cane, that has become an essential means in the
expression of his character. Where a man uses a stick habitually in an
individual way, the dramatic artist may use this to a certain extent,
especially in monologues of a lower type. So of any article of dress; when
an essential part of a character is needed for expression, it is proper to
use it. The same principle applies here that was shown in the case of
dialect. Though accidental, an article of dress may become a means of
expression. In the higher and more exalted monologues, however, there
should be more suggestion and less literal presentation of properties or
adjuncts. The sublimer the literature, the more appeal is made to the
imagination; the deeper the feeling, the more complete is the dependence
upon the imagination of the audience. The more lyrical also, a monologue,
the less must there be of any accidental representation. This is sure to
destroy the lyric spirit. Even when there is not a lyric element the
dramatic element is only suggested, and in the sublimest monologues often
verges towards the epic. The monologue is rarely purely dramatic, that is,
dramatic in a sense peculiar to the theatre.
The application of these principles to the interpretation of a monologue
is clear. Nothing in the way of properties should ever be employed in the
presentation of a monologue which is not absolutely necessary. There
should be nothing on the platform which does not directly aid in
interpreting the passage. All which does not co-operate in producing the
illusion will be a hindrance. Whenever attention is called to a literal
object, or even to a mere objective fact, attention is distracted from the
central theme.
All properties appeal to the eye, and it requires a careful management of
light and a study of the stage picture to bring them into unity with the
scene. But the reader of the monologue can have no such advantages. If
unity in the literal representation of the stage is necessary, and cannot
be won without great subordination, how much more is this needful in the
presentation of a monologue, where the appeal is to the mind, and people
are supposed to use not their eye, but their imagination, and even to
supply a listener. The laws of consistency and suggestion, accordingly,
require the elimination or very careful subordination of properties and
scenery in the presentation of the monologue. Whenever one thing is
carried beyond the limit of suggestiveness or the degree of realistic
representation possible in all directions, the effect is one-sided. The
necessity of subordinating properties and make-up in the monologue is
shown by the fact that they are more permissible in those of a very low
type or in the burlesque or the farce.
Dramatic elements and actions need to be emphasized by the interpreter of
a monologue. The actor can "take the stage" or give it up to another, but
this is impossible in a monologue. The interpreter on a platform has no
one to hold the stage while he falls. He can only suggest all the actions
and relations of character to character. He cannot make the same number of
movements, or turn so far around or walk so great a distance, or make such
a literal portrayal of objects as is possible on a stage. The monologue
must centre expression in the face, eyes, and action, and in the pictures
awakened in the minds of the hearers, not in mere accidents or properties.
I have seen a prominent reader bend over at the hip and lean on a cane, so
that his face could not be seen by the audience, and people were expected
to accept this monstrosity as an old man. One among twenty thousand old
men might be bent over in this way, but then he could never talk as this
reader talked. Certainly such action was foreign to the intention of his
author and the spirit of his selection, as well as to the spirit of art.
Face and body must be seen in order to fully understand language, and no
accidental must be so exaggerated as to interfere with a definite,
artistic accentuation of that which is necessary to the meaning and
expressive presentation of the whole. In general, let the reader beware of
accidentals, and in every case, as much as possible, emphasize the
fundamentals.
XV. FAULTS IN RENDERING A MONOLOGUE
Many faults in the rendering of a monologue have been necessarily
suggested in the preceding discussion. There are some, however, which have
been but barely referred to, that possibly need some further attention.
The monologue must not be stagy. It should possess the quiet simplicity,
the long pauses, the abrupt movement, the animated changes in pitch, and
the simple intensity which belong to conversation. The Italian in England
would remember and feel again the excitement of danger, and gratitude for
delivery; but he would not employ descriptive gestures and declamatory
presentation as if delivering an oration.
An important error to be avoided in rendering a monologue is monotony or
inflexibility. A monologue is more suggestive than any other form of
literature, for it implies sudden exclamations and abrupt transitions. The
ideas and feelings are often hardly hinted at by the writer. There is not
only greater difficulty in realizing the continuity of ideas and meaning,
but a greater necessity for abrupt changes of voice than in any other
mode of expression.
The reader of the monologue must suggest the impressions produced upon
him, the hidden causes, the unreported words of another character, and at
the same time a distinct and definite imaginative situation. Hence, the
rendering of a monologue requires the greatest possible accentuation of
the processes of thinking and feeling and the most delicate transitions of
ideas. An impression produced by a mere look must be definitely revealed
by the interpreter.
We thus see the necessity for the employment of great flexibility of voice
and of body, and especially the exercise of versatility of the mind. The
interpreter must have a sympathetic temperament, and must be able to
accentuate and sustain the simplest look, the most delicate inflection and
change of pitch, and to modulate the color and movement of his voice with
perfect freedom. To read a monologue on one pitch completely perverts its
spirit. Monotony is a bad fault in rendering all forms of literature, but
it is possibly worse in the monologue on account of the peculiarly broken
and suggestive character of that form of writing.
All the elements of conversation must be not only realized, but
emphasized. The reader must be able to make some of these so salient as to
reveal the very first initiation of an idea; otherwise, the real point may
be lost. The thought must be made clear at all hazards.
The monologue must not be tame. Because it is printed in such regular
lines the suggestive character may be lost, and the words simply presented
as in a story or essay. There is a great temptation to give the feeling
with the personal directness of the lyric story or essay. The monologue
requires extreme definiteness and decision in the conception of character
and feeling, and every point must be made salient.
Another fault in the rendering of the monologue is a declamatory tendency.
As the reader discovers but one speaker he confuses the words with a
speech. He feels the presence of the audience to whom he is addressing the
words, or unconsciously imagines an audience, in preparing his monologue,
and forgets entirely the dramatic auditor intended by the author. Thus,
the interpreter, confusing the points of situation, transforms the
monologue into a stump speech.
It degrades the quiet intensity of "A Grammarian's Funeral" to make the
grammarian's pupil, who is aiding in bearing his body up the mountain
side, declaim against the world. How quietly intense and simple should be
the rendering of "By the Fireside."
Although the subtleties of conversation need some accentuation, and
although there is an enlargement of the processes of thinking, and fuller
realization of the truth than in conversation, the monologue never becomes
a speech. An audience may be felt, but never directly dominated, nor even
addressed. In the oration, the speaker directly dominates the audience; in
dramatic representation, the artist does not even look at his audience.
His eye belongs to his interlocutor. The direction of the audience is that
of attraction, and away from the audience that of negation. He must feel a
tendency to gravitate in passion towards the audience, and in the negation
of passion to turn from them; but still he succeeds, not by direct
instruction, but by fidelity of portraiture.
The monologue is as indirect as a play. It is the revelation of a soul,
and to be used not to persuade, but to influence subtly. The truth is
portrayed with living force, and the auditor left to draw his own
conclusions and lessons.
Another fault is indefiniteness. Every part of a monologue must be brought
into harmony with the rest. Part must be consistent with part, as are the
hand and foot belonging to the same organism. If "Abt Vogler" be started
as a soliloquy, it must not be turned into a speech to an audience, nor
even into a direct speech to one individual. If conceived as a speech to
one individual, that character must be preserved throughout. Even though
talking to some one, he would be very meditative, and would often turn and
speak as if to himself.
Closely allied to indefiniteness is exaggeration of certain parts. All
accentuation must be in direct proportion. If inflection be made longer
and more salient, there must also be longer pauses, greater changes of
pitch, and greater variations of movement and color. In the enlargement of
a portrait, it is necessary that all parts be enlarged in proportion. If
only the nose or the upper lip be enlarged, the truth of the portrait is
lost.
But on account of the suggestive character of the monologue, essentials
only must be expanded and accentuated. Hardly any form of art demands that
accidentals be more completely subordinated. To exaggerate accidents is to
produce extravagance; to appeal to a lower sense is to violate the
artistic law of unity. Naturalness can be preserved in any artistic
accentuation by increased emphasis of essentials. This prevents the
monologue from being tame on the one hand, and extravagant on the other.
Failures in the ordinary rendering of a monologue are frequently
occasioned by lack of imagination. The scene, situation, and relation of
the characters do not seem to be clearly or vividly realized. Hence, there
is a lack of passion, of emotional realization of a living scene, and
consequently of natural modulations of voice and body. The audience
depends entirely upon the interpreter, since there is no scenery to
suggest the situation. All centres in the mind of the reader. If he does
not see, and does not show the impression of his vision, his auditor
cannot be expected to realize anything.
At first thought, it seems impossible for a reader to cause an audience to
discover a complicated situation from a look. The reader may think it
necessary to make a long explanation first and be tempted to depend upon
objects around him. It is presently found, however, that a mere hint, a
turn of the head, a passing expression of the face, will kindle the
imagination of the auditor. If the reader really sees things himself, and
is natural, flexible, and forcible, he need not fear that his audience
will not imagine the scene. An illusion is easily produced. Imagination
kindles imagination; vision evokes vision. Every picture, every situation,
the location of every character, the entrance of every idea, must be
naturally revealed, and there is no need for extravagance of labor.
Whatever turns the attention of the audience to the labor of the reader
will prevent imaginative creation of the scene, while all minds will be
concentrated on the thought when there is a natural, easy manifestation
of a simple impression.
The reader in rendering a monologue has especial need for dramatic
imagination, and must have insight into the motives of character. The
character he portrays must think and live, and the character to whom he is
supposed to speak must also be realized. He must sympathetically identify
himself with every point of view. A lack of dramatic instinct upon the
stage may at times be concealed by a show of scenery and properties, but
without dramatic instinct the rendering of a monologue is impossible. It
is the dramatic imagination that enables a reader to feel the implied
relations, to awaken to a consciousness of a situation, or of the meaning
and intimation of the impression produced by another character.
Lack of clearness must be corrected by unusual emphasis. In fact, the
monologue demands what may be called dramatic emphasis. Not only must
words that stand for central ideas be made salient, but so also must be
the impressions of ideas or of situations that need special attention.
These give to the audience the situation and life. It is the dramatic
ellipses that need especially to be revealed in order to make a monologue
clear as well as forcible. A monologue demands the direct action of the
dramatic instinct.
All dramatic art must live and move. There is always something of a
struggle implied, and this must be suggested and represented. The whole
interest of dramatic art centres in the effect of one human being upon
another. Without dramatic realization of the effect of character upon
character, genuine interpretation of a monologue is not possible.
The monologue must never be theatrical or spectacular. If the interpreter
exaggerates at the first some situation, however great or important,
beyond the bounds of living, moving, natural life, the result becomes mere
posing. An attitude that might have been a simple and clear revelation of
feeling is altogether exaggerated, and appeals to the eye instead of to
the imagination. It is the result, perhaps, of an expert mechanic, but not
of dramatic instinct. If there is a locating of everything, literalism is
substituted for imaginative suggestiveness. An extravagant earnestness, or
loudness, or unnatural stilted methods of emphasis, will entirely prevent
the reader's imaginative and dramatic action in identifying himself with
the character, or entering into sympathetic relations with the scene. A
monologue must always be perfectly true to life, and as simple and natural
as every-day movements upon the street.
The interpreter of a monologue must study nature; must train his voice and
body to the greatest degree of flexible responsiveness, and become
acquainted with the human heart. He must cultivate a sympathetic
appreciation of all forms of literature; must understand the subtle
influences of one human being over another, and comprehend that only by
delicate suggestion of the simplest truth can the imagination and
sympathies be awakened. He must have confidence in his fellow-men, and be
able, by a simple hint, to awaken men's ideals. In short, faults in
rendering monologues must be prevented by genuineness, by developing
taste, and awakening the imagination, dramatic instinct, and artistic
nature.
XVI. IMPORTANCE OF THE MONOLOGUE
When we have once discovered the nature and peculiarities of the
monologue, the character of its interpretation, and its uses in dramatic
expression, its general importance in art, literature, and education
becomes apparent.
In the first place, its value is shown by the fact that it reveals phases
of human nature not otherwise expressed in literature, or in any other
form of art.
To illustrate this, let us take Browning's "Saul." It is founded upon a
very slight story in the Book of Kings to the effect that when Saul was
afflicted with an evil spirit, a skilful musician was sought to charm away
the demon, and the youthful David was chosen.
Browning takes this theme, transfigures it by his imagination, and
produces what is considered by some the greatest poem of the nineteenth
century. Without necessarily subscribing to this judgment, let us study
this poem which has called forth from some critics so much enthusiasm.
Browning makes David the speaker in the monologue, and its occasion after
the event, when he is "alone" with his sheep, endeavoring to realize what
happened while playing before Saul, and what it meant.
The poem begins with his arrival at the Israelitish camp, and Abner's
kindly reception and indication to him of his duty. Browning isolates Saul
in his tent, which no one dares approach. This stripling with his harp
must, therefore, go into that tent alone. After kneeling and praying, he
"runs over the sand burned to powder," and at the entrance to the tent
again prays. Then he is "not afraid," but enters, calling out, "Here is
David." Presently he sees "something more black than the blackness," arms
on the cross-supports (note the cross). Now what can David, a youth,
before the king, sing or say or do?
He first plays "the tune all our sheep know," that is, he starts, as
endeavor should ever start, upon the memory of some early victory.
Possibly his first victory was the training of the sheep to obey his
music. The winning of one victory gives courage for another. It is
practically the only courage a human being can get. Hence, David tries the
same song. He is not ashamed to trust his childhood's experiences. Then
follows the tune by which he had charmed the "quails," the "crickets," and
the "quick jerboa." Later experiences succeed, the tune of the "reapers,"
the "wine-song," the praise of the "dead man." Then follows
"... the glad chant
Of the marriage ..."
and
"... the chorus intoned
As the Levites go up to the altar."
Here he stops and receives his first response. "In the darkness Saul
groaned." Then David pours forth the song of the perfection of the
physical manhood of which Saul was the type.
"'Oh, our manhood's prime vigour! No spirit feels waste,
Not a muscle is stopped in its playing nor sinew unbraced.
Oh, the wild joys of living! the leaping from rock up to rock,'"
and calls him by name, "King Saul." Then he waits what may follow, as one
at the climax of human endeavor pauses to see what has been accomplished.
After a long shudder, the king's self was left
"... standing before me, released and aware."
what more could he do?
"(For, awhile there was trouble within me.)"
Then he turns to the dreams he had had in the field. He has gone the
rounds of his experience and done his best to interpret them. Now he
passes into a higher realm. He describes the great future, and all the
different causes working to perpetuate Saul's fame.
"'So the pen gives unborn generations their due and their part
In thy being! Then, first of the mighty, thank God that thou art!'"
As he closes, the harp falling forward, he becomes aware
"That he sat, as I say, with my head just above his vast knees
Which were thrust out on each side around me, like oak roots which please
To encircle a lamb when it slumbers."
Then Saul lifted up his hand from his side and laid it
"in mild settled will, on my brow: thro' my hair
The large fingers were pushed, and he bent back my head, with kind
power--
All my face back, intent to peruse it, as men do a flower."
and David peered into the eyes of the king--
"'And oh, all my heart how it loved him! but where was the sign?'"
His intense love and longing lifts David into a state of exaltation.
"Then the truth came upon me. No harp more--no song more! outbroke--"
The instrument drops to his side, for inspiration at its highest is
expressed by the simplest means. With a heart thrilled by love of this
fellow-being, out of that human love David comes to realize something of
the divine love, and he breaks into the finest strain of nineteenth
century poetry. In noble anapestic lines he pours forth the thought as it
comes to him:
"'Behold, I could love if I durst!
But I sink the pretension as fearing a man may o'ertake
God's own speed in the one way of love: I abstain for love's sake.
What, my soul? see thus far and no farther? when doors great and small,
Nine-and-ninety flew ope at our touch, should the hundredth appal?
In the least things have faith, yet distrust in the greatest of all?
Do I find love so full in my nature, God's ultimate gift,
That I doubt his own love can compete with it? Here, the parts shift?
Here, the creature surpass the Creator,--the end, what Began?...
Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou--so wilt thou!'"
This poem of Browning's is conceived in the loftiest spirit of religious
verse. David foretelling the Christ as the manifestation of divine love,
and the authentication of the fact of immortality, reaches the true spirit
of all prophecy, a theme almost transcending poetry. Then follow a few
words of David's, descriptive of the effect of the new law which he has
discovered upon the world around him on his way home. Illumination has
come to him, the world is transfigured by love; and this sublime poem
closes with the murmur of the brooks.
What does it all mean? One person makes it the text of a long discussion
on the use of music to cure disease. Another thinks it a suggestion in
poetry of the spirit of Hebrew prophecy. There is no end to its
applications. It is a parable. Is it not the poetic interpretation of all
noble endeavor? May not David represent any human being facing some great
undertaking? Is not the gloomy tent the world, and Saul outstretched in
the form of a cross the race, and David with his harp any trembling soul
who attempts to charm away the demon from his fellow-men? Is it too much
to say that every successful artist follows David's example as portrayed
by Browning? The artist will also share in David's experience in the
transformation of the world.
Without the monologue could such a marvellous interpretation be possible?
how could we receive such suggestions, such glimpses into man's spiritual
nature? What other form of art could serve as an objective means of
expressing those experiences? The evolution of the monologue has made
"Saul" possible.
There has been much discussion whether the book of Job is a dramatic or an
epic poem. It contains both elements, but if we study the singular
character of the many speeches, we can see that the real spirit of the
poem is explained by the principles of the dramatic monologue. It is a
series of monologues by different speakers, each character being
separately defined, and his words and ideas definitely colored by his
character, as in "The Ring and the Book."
The ninetieth Psalm is a monologue. Whoever the author may have been, he
conceived of Moses as the speaker. The experience is not that of mankind
in general. A peculiar situation and type of character are demanded. No
other man in history can utter so fittingly the words of the Psalm as can
Moses.
"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations.
Before the mountains were brought forth,
Or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world,
Even from everlasting to everlasting, thou art God.
Thou turnest man to destruction,
And sayest, Return, ye children of men.
For a thousand years in thy sight
Are but as yesterday when it is past,
And as a watch in the night.
Thou carriest them away as with a flood;
They are as a sleep:
In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up;
In the evening it is cut down, and withereth.
For we are consumed in thine anger,
And in thy wrath are we troubled.
Thou hast set our iniquities before thee,
Our secret sins in the light of thy countenance.
For all our days are passed away in thy wrath:
We bring our years to an end as a sigh.
The days of our years are threescore and ten,
Or even by reason of strength fourscore years;
Yet is their pride but labor and sorrow;
For it is soon gone, and we fly away.
Who knoweth the power of thine anger,
And thy wrath according to the fear that is due unto thee?
So teach us to number our days,
That we may get us a heart of wisdom.
Return, O Jehovah; how long?
And let it repent thee concerning thy servants.
Oh satisfy us in the morning with thy lovingkindness,
That we may rejoice and be glad all our days.
Make us glad according to the days wherein thou hast afflicted us,
And the years wherein we have seen evil.
Let thy work appear unto thy servants,
And thy glory upon their children.
And let the favor of the Lord our God be upon us;
And establish thou the work of our hands upon us;
Yea, the work of our hands establish thou it."
The very first words hint at his experiences. He never had a home; how
natural, therefore, for him to say, "Lord, Thou hast been our
dwelling-place in all generations." Cradled on the Nile, brought up by
Pharaoh's daughter, Jethro's shepherd for forty years, and for another
forty a wanderer in the wilderness and the leader of his people, surely he
was rich in tried knowledge!
Notice how these conditions save the Psalm from untruthfulness. "All our
days are passed away in thy wrath: we spend our years as a sigh." Such
statements are true of Moses and the people condemned to die in the
desert, Joshua and Caleb only being permitted to pass over the Jordan.
Moses in his grief at the divine judgment could say this truthfully to
God, but to give these words a universal application would falsify a
Christian's faith and hope. They are dramatic rather than lyric.
The Psalm should be read as a monologue, the character should be
sustained; the feeling and experience, not of every one, but of Moses in
particular, should be felt and truly interpreted.
What light the study of the monologue throws upon the peculiar oratory of
the Hebrew prophets! These are speeches, sermons with fragmentary
interruptions. Note, for example, in the twenty-eighth chapter of Isaiah,
a speech to the drunkards of Jerusalem. The speaker is referring as a
warning to the drunkards of Samaria, the northern city being intimated by
the figure of the "crown--on the head of the fat valley." But in verses
nine and ten the drunkards retort, and their words have to be read as
quotations, as the expression of their feelings. The speeches of the
prophets, of course, are not regular forms of the monologue; but a study
of the monologue enables us to recognize their dramatic character, and
greatly aids in discovering the meaning of these sublime poems or
addresses.
The monologue is capable of rendering special service to many classes of
men. It has an important, but overlooked, educational value. It can
render, for example, great assistance in the training of a speaker. The
chief dangers of the speaker are unnaturalness, declamation, extravagance,
and crude methods of emphasis, such especially as over-emphasis. He
inclines to employ physical force rather than mental energy, to give a
show of earnestness rather than to suggest intensity of thought and
feeling.
The monologue furnishes the speaker with a simple method of studying
naturalness. If set to master a monologue, he must observe conversation,
and be able to express thoughts saliently and earnestly to one person.
Although no true speaker can ever afford to neglect the study of
Shakespeare and the great dramatists, still the monologue affords a great
variety of dramatic situations, and especially interprets dramatic points
of view. It will also help him to gain a knowledge of character and
furnish a simple method of developing his own naturalness.
An orator presents truth directly, for its own sake, and hence is apt to
overlook the fact that oratory, after all, is "the presentation of truth
by personality," and that personal peculiarities will interfere with such
presentation. A study of the monologue will reveal him to himself, and
help him to understand something of the necessity of making truth clear to
another personality. By studying dramatic art, the speaker, in short, not
only comes to a knowledge of human nature, and the relation of human
beings to each other, but is furnished with the means of understanding
himself.
Another important service which the monologue is capable of rendering is
the awakening of a perception of the necessary connection between the
living voice and literature. The Greeks recognized this, but in modern
times we have almost lost the function of the spoken word in education, in
our over-emphasis of the written word.
The monologue is capable of furnishing a new course in recitation and
speaking, of bringing the most important study of the natural languages
into practical relationship with the study of literature. On the one hand,
it elevates the study of the spoken word, and gives a practical course for
the colleges and high schools in the rendering of some of the masterpieces
of the language; on the other hand, it prevents the courses in literature
from becoming a mere scientific study of words.
The true study of literature must be subjective. Psychology has tested and
tried every study in recent years. Men will soon come to realize that
there is a psychology of literature, and centre its study, not in words,
but in the living expression of thought and feeling. Written language will
then be directly connected with the awakening of the creative faculties of
the mind.
The value of the monologue will then be appreciated because of its direct
revelation of the action of man's faculties, and it may be realized also
that the evolution of the monologue is a part of the progressive spirit of
our own time.
The rendering of the monologue also will aid us in securing a method and
emphasize the fact that literature as art must be studied as art and by
means of art. Scientific study of literature is abnormal or necessarily
one-sided. The study of the monologue when rightly pursued will aid in
studying literature as the mirror of life and prevent the student from
developing contempt for the literary masterpieces which he is made to
analyze.
It will aid in the study of literature as "the criticism of life" and
enable the individual student to realize literature as the mirror of human
experience. It will prevent students from studying literature as mere
words. It will awaken deeper and truer appreciation and will prevent the
contempt, born of mechanical drudgery, for literary masterpieces.
Educated men do not know by heart the noble poetry of the language. The
voices of American students are hard and cold. There is among us little
appreciation of art. The monologue seems to come as a peculiar blessing at
this time as a means of educating the imagination and dramatic instinct.
It furnishes a course for recitation that obviates the necessity for a
stage, avoids the stiltedness of declamation, yet supplies an adequate
method of studying the lost art of recitation,--the art that made the
Greek what he was.
The monologue will help students in all the arts to overcome tendencies to
mechanical practice. There is danger of making all exercises mechanical.
Take, for example, the student of song. If he practises scales or songs
without thought, or any sense of expressing feeling to others, it is
simply a matter of execution. Some of our leading singers express no
feeling. Song, to them, is a matter of technical execution,--very
beautiful as an exhibition, but not as a revelation of the heart.
A similar condition is found also in other forms of art,--in instrumental
music, in painting or drawing. There is a continual tendency to forget
that art is the expression of thinking and feeling to another mind; and
while there must be very severe training to master technicalities, this is
not the end, but the means. The monologue furnishes a simple and adequate
method for the mastery of the relations of one mind to another. It is just
as necessary in the development of the artist that he should come to feel
the laws of the human mind, the laws of his own thinking and feeling, and
the character of the suggestion of that feeling, and to recognize the
modifications which the presence of another soul makes upon his own, as it
is that he should master the technique of his art.
All art is social. It is founded on the relation of human beings to each
other; on the character of the soul; on the love of one human being for
others, and the desire to reveal to his fellows the impressions that
nature, or human character, make upon him. In all artistic practice, of
song, of instrumental music, of painting, of drama, there should be in the
mind of the artist a perception of the race.
The monologue is especially helpful to dramatic students. They are too apt
to despise the monologue, and not appreciate the assistance its mastery
could give them. They desire mere rehearsals of plays; they want scenery,
properties, accessories, forgetful that the primary elements of dramatic
art are found in thought, feeling, and motives and passions. Dramatic art
must be based on the revelation of the nature of man; and on the effect of
mind upon mind. The monologue enables the dramatic student to study the
dramatic element in his own mind, as well as in the relations of one
character to another. When he has no interlocutor to listen to or to lead
the attention of the audience, or hold it in the appreciation of what he
is saying, thinking, and doing, he is thrown back upon his instincts, and
must imagine his interlocutor and depend upon himself.
The monologue, however, is important for its own artistic character. It is
primarily important because it belongs to dramatic art. It gives insight
into human character, embodies the poetry of every-day life, and reveals
the mysteries of the human heart, as possibly no other literary form can
do. It focuses attention upon human motives independent of "too much
story" or literary digression. It interprets human conduct, thinking,
feeling, and passion, from a distinct point of view. It suggests the
secret of human follies, misconceptions, and perversities, and gives the
key to greatness and nobility in character.
Insignificant as the form may seem to one who has never studied it, it is
a mirror of human life, and as such can be made a means of criticizing
public wrong or folly. It can express a universal feeling, and is one of
the finest agents of humor. By its aid Mr. Dooley reflects the weaknesses
and foibles of people and parties in such a way as to make a whole nation
smile, and even to mould public sentiment. Thus, the amusing and humorous
monologues must not be despised. Think of the services humor has rendered
in the advance of human civilization! Alas for him who cannot smile at
folly, and alas for human art which appeals only to the morbid! The
highest function of human art is to awaken pleasure at the sight of the
beautiful, and the true. If a man finds pleasure in what is below his
ordinary plane of life, he injures himself. If enjoyment leads him in the
direction of his ideal, although indirectly, by a portrayal of the comic,
the abnormal, or even of low characters, he is benefited, no matter how
this benefit is received.
Men delight to teach and to preach, but it is astonishing how little
direct teaching and preaching accomplish. On account of the hardness of
the heart, the parable, or some other less direct method of teaching, some
artistic method, that is, is absolutely necessary. We desire to see a
living scene portrayed before us; we must know and judge for ourselves. We
must perceive both cause and effect, and then make the application to our
own lives.
Art, especially dramatic art, is a necessity of human nature. "Without
art," says William Winter, "each of us would be alone." Only by art are we
brought near together, and chiefly in our art will be found our true
advance in civilization. The monologue is a new method, a new avenue of
approach from heart to heart.
Dramatic art must have many forms. When no longer truthfully presented by
the play, as is often the case; when it has become corrupted into a
spectacular show, into something for the eye rather than for the mind;
when no longer concerned with the interpretation of character and truth,
or when debased to mere money making, then the irrepressible dramatic
spirit must evolve a new form. Hence, the origin and the significance of
the monologue.
Whether the play can be restored to dramatic dignity or not, the monologue
has come to stay. As a parallel, or even as a subordinate phase of
dramatic art, it has become a part of literature. It is distinct from the
play, and from every other literary form or phase of histrionic
expression.
Of all forms of art, the monologue has most direct relation to one
character only, a character not posing for his portrait. It portrays and
interprets an individual unconsciously revealing himself. It presents some
crucial situation of life, and brings one character face to face with
another character, the one best calculated to reveal the hidden springs of
conduct.
It must not be implied that the monologue is superior to other forms of
art. It certainly will supersede no other form of poetry. It is unique,
and its peculiar nature may be seen in comparing it with a play.
A monologue may be of any length, from a few lines to that of "The Ring
and the Book," which is really a collection of monologues, the longest
poem, next to "Faerie Queene," in the English language. The subject of the
monologue can be infinitely varied. By its aid almost everything can be
treated dramatically. It is far more flexible than the formal drama,
because the same movement and formality of plot are not required as in the
play.
It can be conceived upon any plane,--burlesque, farce, comedy, or tragedy.
It can be prose in form, or it may adopt any metre or length of line. It
may employ the most commonplace slang, and the dialect of the lowest
characters, or it may adopt the highest poetic diction.
A monologue can be presented anywhere, for it demands no stage, no
carloads of expensive scenery, no trained troupe of a hundred artists.
It does require, however, an artist, a thoroughly trained artist,--with
perfect command of thought, feeling, imagination, and passion, as well as
complete control of voice and body. Fully as much as the play, it requires
obedience to the laws of art, and demands that the artist be not fettered
and trammelled as to his ideal. He is not compelled to repress his finest
intuitions, or to soften down his honest conceptions of a character and
the place of that character in a scene, for the sake of some "star."
The monologue is not in danger of being spoiled by some second-class actor
in a subordinate part. The artist is free to adopt any means to meet the
taste, judgment, and criticism of the audience, and to realize for himself
the true nature of art. The monologue is less likely than the play to be
degraded into a spectacular exhibition.
The monologue, however, has its dangers. The play has the experience of
centuries of criticism, and constant discussion, but to the critics, the
monologue is new. It may be well said that no adequate criticism of any
interpreter of a monologue has yet been given.
Not only this, but various cheap and chaotic performances have been called
monologues, simply for lack of a word. These are often a mere gathering
together of comic stories and cheap jokes, and have nothing really in
common with the dramatic monologue.
Such perversions, however, are to be expected. The lack of critical
discussion, the lack of definition and true appreciation of its
possibilities lead naturally to such a confused situation.
The interpreter of the monologue must be a serious student, for he is
creating or establishing a new art. If he is careless and superficial, and
yields to that universal temptation to exhibition which has been in every
age the danger of dramatic art, he will fail, and bring the monologue into
consequent contempt. He must study the spirit underlying all great art and
take his own work seriously, thinking more of it than of himself.
The monologue has, also, literary limitations. It can never take the place
of the play, nor must it lead us to disparage the play. The play has its
function and in some form will forever survive. The monologue interprets
certain aspects of character which can never be interpreted in any other
way; but it can never show as adequately as the play the complexity of
human life. It cannot portray movement as well as the play.
The monologue, however, has its own sphere. It can reveal the attitude of
one man towards life, towards truth, towards a situation, towards other
human beings, more fully than is possible in any other form of art. Its
theme is not the same as that of the play. How can a play express the
subjective struggles and heroism embodied in "The Last Ride Together?" (p.
205). What form of art could so effectively unmask the arch hypocrite in
the "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister" (p. 58)? Try to put this theme
into a play, or even into a novel, and Browning's short monologue will
show its superiority at once. The monologue can absorb one moment of
attention, paint one picture, which, though without the movement of a
drama, may yet the more adequately reveal the depths of a character. What
an inspiring conception is found in "The Patriot" (p. 3); if expanded
into a play, its purpose would be defeated. The tenderness and atmosphere
of home in "By the Fireside," no stage could present.
Did not Kipling choose wisely his form of art in portraying the character
of Tommy Atkins? Is there any more effective way of making known to the
world the character and emotions peculiar to a man when soldier
subordinates man?
After even a superficial study of modern poetry, who can fail to realize
that the monologue is a distinct form of literature? How vast the range of
subjects and emotions expressed, and yet underneath we find a form common
to them all. This form has served to unfold the peculiar actions of Mrs.
Caudle's mind and also the sublime convictions of Rabbi Ben Ezra. It gives
us the point of view and the feeling, not only of Tommy Atkins, but the
high ideals and exalted emotions of Abt Vogler. It has been used to
immortalize "Tray," a "mere instinctive dog," as well as to express the
resolute spirit of Job and the cold, calculating counsel of his friends.
It has even imaged the sublimest thoughts and emotions of the Psalms.
Surely a form that has proven itself so adequate, so universal a help to
human expression, is worthy of being regarded and carefully studied as one
of the permanent modes of embodying human experience.
XVII. SOME TYPICAL MONOLOGUES FROM BROWNING
APPEARANCES
And so you found that poor room dull,
Dark, hardly to your taste, my Dear?
Its features seemed unbeautiful:
But this I know--'twas there, not here,
You plighted troth to me, the word
Which--ask that poor room how it heard!
And this rich room obtains your praise
Unqualified,--so bright, so fair,
So all whereat perfection stays?
Ay, but remember--here, not there,
The other word was spoken! Ask
This rich room how you dropped the mask!
ANDREA DEL SARTO
(CALLED "THE FAULTLESS PAINTER")