Browning and the Dramatic Monologue

All these poems show the necessity for classification as lyric monologues; that is, poems lyric in every sense of the word, which yet have a certain dramatic or objective form peculiar to the monologue to give definiteness and point.

The reader, however, must be very careful not to turn lyrics into monologues. The pure lyric should be rendered subjectively, neither as dramatic, on the one hand, nor as oratoric on the other. To render a lyric as a dramatic monologue is as bad as to give it as a speech. The discussion of the peculiar differences between the lyric and the monologue, and the discrimination of lyric monologues as a special class, should suggest the great variety of lyrics and monologues, how nearly they approach and how widely they differ from each other. Whether a poem is a lyric or a monologue must be decided without regard to types or classifications, except in so far as comparison may throw light upon the general nature and spirit of the poetry. Different forms are often used to interpret each other, and the spirit of nearly all may be combined in one poem.

A peculiar type of the monologue, found occasionally in recent literature, may be called the epic monologue. Tennyson’s “Ulysses” seems at first, in form at least, a monologue. Ulysses speaks throughout in character, and addresses his companions. But we presently find that Ulysses stands for the spirit of the race. He is not an individual, but a type, as he was in Homer, though he is a different type in Tennyson; and the poem typifies the human spirit advancing from its achievements in the art and philosophy of Greece into a newer world. Western civilization is prefigured in this poem, and Ulysses meeting again the great Achilles symbolizes the spirit of mankind once more entering upon new endeavors, these being represented by Achilles. “Ulysses” is thus allegoric or epic. The monologue elements are but a part of the objective form that gives it unity and character.

The same is true of “Sir Galahad.” While Sir Galahad is the speaker, and the poem is in form a monologue, yet to regard him as a mere literal character would make him appear egotistic and boastful, and this would totally pervert the poem. The knight stands for an ideal human soul. Every person identifies himself with Sir Galahad, but not in the dramatic sense. While in the form of a monologue, it is, nevertheless, allegoric or epic, and the search for the Holy Grail is given in its most suggestive and spiritual significance.

If the monologue is a true literary form, it has not been invented. If it is only a mechanism, such as the rondeau, it is unworthy of prolonged discussion; but that it is a true literary form is proven by the fact that it necessarily co-ordinates with the lyric, epic, and dramatic forms of literature. These show that it is not mechanical or isolated, but as natural as any poetic or literary form. That the monologue is fundamental, no one can doubt who has listened to a little child talking to an imaginary listener, or telephoning in imagination to Santa Claus. That the monologue can reveal profound depths of human nature, no one familiar with Browning can deny. That the form and the spirit of the monologue are almost universal, no one who has looked into English literature can fail to see. This power of the monologue to unite and enrich other phases or forms of literature proves that it is an essential dramatic form, and that its use by recent authors cannot be regarded as a mere desire to be odd.

The fact that a story is told by a single speaker does not necessarily make a poem a monologue. Longfellow’s “Paul Revere’s Ride” is told by the old innkeeper, but the only indication of this is in the opening clause, “Listen, my children.” There is hardly another word in the story that takes color from his individual character. The poem is simply a narrative, and the same is true of all “The Tales of a Wayside Inn.”

Mr. Chesterton calls “Muléykeh” and “Clive,” by Browning, “possibly the two best stories in poetry told in the best manner of story-telling.” Now, are these poems stories or monologues? They are both of them monologues. The chief interest is not in the events, but in the characters portrayed. Every event, every word, and every phrase has the coloring of human motives and experience.

The events of “Muléykeh” from the narrative point of view are few. Muléykeh, or Pearl, is the name of a beautiful horse belonging to Hóseyn, a poor Arab. The rich Duhl offers the price of a thousand camels for Muléykeh, but his offer is rejected. He steals Pearl by night. Hóseyn is awakened and pursues on another horse. He sees that “dog, Duhl,” does not know how to ride Muléykeh, and shouts to the fellow what to do to get better speed. The thief takes the hint, and touching the “right ear” and pressing with the foot Pearl’s “left flank,” escapes. His neighbors “jeered him” for not holding his tongue, when he might easily have had her.

“‘And beaten in speed!’ wept Hóseyn:
‘You never have loved my Pearl.’”

This poem is in the form of a story, but it is colored not only by the character of the Arab and his well-known love of a horse, but by a narrator who can reveal the character and the peculiar love of the weeping Hóseyn.

Any one reading the poem aloud must feel that though Browning may have intended it as a story, he was so affected by the dramatic point of view, that it is in spirit, though not in form, essentially a monologue.

If there is any doubt about “Muléykeh,” there can be none that “Clive” is a monologue.

“Clive” may seem to some to be involved. Why did not Browning make his hero tell his own story? Because it was better to take another person, one not so strong, and thus to reveal the impressions which Clive’s deed makes upon the average man. Such a man’s quotation of Clive’s words can be made more exciting and dramatic in its expression.

It is difficult at times to decide whether a story is a monologue or a mere narrative. But, in general, when a story receives a distinct coloring from a peculiar type of character, even though in the form of a narrative, it may be given with advantage as a monologue. Its general spirit is best interpreted by this conception.

“Hervé Riel,” for example, seems at first a mere story, but it has a certain spirited and dramatic movement, and though there is no hint of who the speaker is, it yet possesses the unity of conversation and of the utterance of some specific admirer of “Hervé Riel.” This may be Browning himself. He wrote the poem and gave it to a magazine,—a rare thing with Browning,—and sent the proceeds to the sufferers in the French Commune; hence, its French subject and its French spirit. The narrator appears to be a Frenchman; at least he is permeated with admiration for the noble qualities in the French character at a time when part of the world was criticizing France, if not sneering at it on account of the victory of the Germans and the chaos of the Commune.

One who compares its rendition as an impersonal story with a rendering when conceived by a definite character, by one who realizes the greatness of the forgotten hero of France, will perceive at once the spirit and importance of the monologue.

One must look below mere phrases or verbal forms to understand the nature or spirit of the monologue. The monologue is primarily dramatic, and the word “dramatic” need hardly be added to it any more than to a play, because the idea is implied.

Whatever may be said regarding the monologue, certainly the number has constantly increased of those who appreciate the importance of this form in art, which, if Browning did not discover, he extended and elevated.

We can hardly open a book of modern poetry which is not full of monologues. Kipling’s “Barrack-Room Ballads” are all monologues. There is a rollicking, grotesque humor in “Fuzzy-Wuzzy” that makes it at first resemble a ballad, as it is called by the author, but it interests because of its truthful portrayal of the character of a generous soldier. Kipling is dramatic in every fibre. He even portrays the characters of animals, and certain of his animal stories are practically monologues. What a conception of the camel is awakened by “Oonts!” “Rikki-tikki-tavi” awakens a feeling of sympathy for the little mongoose. In his portrayal of animals, Kipling even reproduces the rhythm of their movements. The very words they are supposed to utter are given in the character of the army mule, the army bullock, and the elephants.

All Kipling’s sketches and so-called ditties, or “Barrack-Room Ballads,” are practically dramatic monologues. To render vocally or even to understand Kipling requires some appreciation of the peculiarities of the monologue. The Duke of Connaught asked Kipling what he would like to do. The author replied, “I should like to live with the army on the frontier and write up Tommy Atkins.” Monologue after monologue has appeared with Tommy Atkins as a character type. The monologue was almost the only form of art possible for “ballads” or “ditties” or studies of unique types of character in such situations.

All poetry, according to Aristotle, expresses the universal element in human nature. Lyric, epic, and dramatic writing alike must become poetic by such an intense realization of an idea, situation, or character that the soul is lifted into a realization of the emotions of the race. Some forget this in studying the differences between lyric and dramatic poetry. It is not the lyric alone that idealizes human experience and universalizes emotion.

The study of Kipling’s “Mandalay” especially illustrates the differences between the lyric and the dramatic spirit, and their necessary union in the portrayal of human experience. This is both a lyric and a monologue. It has a dramatic character. A British soldier in a specific place, London, is talking to some one who can appreciate his feeling, and every word is true to the character speaking and to the situation. But this dramatic element does not interfere with, but on the contrary aids, the realization and expression of a profoundly lyric feeling and spirit. The soldier reveals his love,—love deeper than racial prejudices,—and though “there aren’t no Ten Commandments” in the land of his beloved, he feels the universal emotion in the human heart, a profound love that is superior to any national bound or racial limit. In the poem this love dominates everything,—the rhythm, the color of the voice. He even turns from his hearer, and sees far away the vision of the old Moulmein Pagoda, and the suddenness of the dawn, coming up

“... like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!”

The fact that poetry expresses the “universal element in human nature” is true not only of lyric poetry, but also of dramatic poetry; and in the noblest exaltation of emotion, lyric, dramatic, and epic elements coalesce.

It is the affinity of the monologue with lyric and epic poetry that proves its own specific character. The fact that there can be a lyric, epic, and narrative monologue, proves its naturalness.

Many of America’s most popular writers have adopted the monologue as their chief mode of expression. James Whitcomb Riley’s sketches in the Hoosier dialect present the Hoosier point of view with a homely and sympathetic character as speaker. Even his dialect is but an aspect of the types of character conceived. The centre of interest is not always in the emotion or the ideas, but in the type of person that is the subject of a monologue.

The same is true of the poems by the late Dr. Drummond of Montreal.

The peculiar French-Canadian dialect was never so well portrayed; but this is only accidental. The chief interest lies in his creation or realization of types of character. The artistic form is the monologue, however conscious or unconscious may have been the author’s adoption of the form.

A recent popular book, “The Second Mrs. Jim,” uses a series of monologues as the means of interpreting a new kind of heroine, the mother-in-law. The centre of interest being in this character, the author adopted a series of eight monologues with the same listener, a friend to whom Mrs. Jim unfolds her inmost heart. With this person she can “come and talk without its bein’ spread all over the township.” She remarks once that she took something she wanted to be told to a neighbor who was a “good spreader, just as you’re the other kind.”

All the conditions of the monologue are complied with; the situation changes, sometimes being in Mrs. Jim’s house, but four or five times in that of her friend. Speaker and listener are always the same. The author wishes to centre attention upon the character of the speaker, her common-sense, her insight into human nature, her skill in managing Jim, and especially the boys; hence a listener is chosen who will be discreet and say but little, and who is in full sympathy with the speaker. There is little if any plot; but while Mrs. Jim narrates what has happened in the meantime, it is her character, her insight, her humor, her point of view and mode of expression, in which the chief interest centres. This book might be called a narrative monologue, but the narrative is of secondary importance; the centre of interest lies in the portrayal of a character.

The use of the monologue as a literary form has grown every year, and no reason can be seen why its adoption or application may not go on increasing until it becomes as truly a recognized literary form as the play. The varieties that can be found from the epic monologue “Ulysses” of Tennyson to such a popular poem as “Griggsby’s Station” by James Whitcomb Riley, indicate the uses to which the monologue can be turned and its importance as a form of poetry.

The fact that we meet a number of monologues before Browning’s time shows the naturalness and the necessity of this dramatic form; yet it is only in Browning that the monologue becomes profoundly significant. Browning remains the supreme master of the monologue. Here we find the deepest interpretation of the problems of existence, and the expression of the depths of human character. So strongly did this form fit his great personality and conception of art that his plays cannot compare with his monologues. It was by means of the monologue that he made his deepest revelations. It is safe to say that, without his adoption of the monologue, the best of his poetry would never have been written; and where else in literature can we find such interpretation of hypocrisy? Where else can we find a more adequate suggestion of the true nature of human love, especially the interpretation of the love of a true man, except in Browning? Who can thoroughly comprehend the spirit of the middle part of the nineteenth century, and get a key to the later spiritual unfolding, without studying this great poet’s interpretation of the burden of his time?

Who can contemplate, even for a few moments, some good example of this dramatic form, especially one of Browning’s great monologues, and not feel that this overlooked form is capable of revealing and interpreting phases of character which cannot be interpreted even by the play or the novel?

One form of art should never be compared with another. No form of art can ever be substituted for the play in revealing human action and motive, or even for the novel, with its deep and suggestive interpretation of human life. While the monologue will never displace any other form of art, the fact that it can interpret phases of human life and character which no other mode of art can express, proves it to be a distinct form and worthy of critical investigation. Its recognition constitutes one of the phases of the development of art in the nineteenth century, and it is safe to say that it will remain and occupy a permanent place as a literary form. We must not, however, exaggerate its importance on the one hand, nor on the other too readily pronounce it to be a mere incident and passing oddity. Its instinctive employment by leading authors, those with a message and philosophy of life, proves that its true nature and possibilities deserve study.

PART II

IX. NECESSITY OF ORAL RENDITION

To do this, the reader must carefully study those things which the writer could only suggest or imply in words. The poem must be re-created in his imagination. His feeling must be more awake, if possible, than that of the author.

In one sense, the terms “vocal expression” and “vocal interpretation of literature,” are a misuse of words. The histrionic presentation of a play is not, strictly speaking, a vocal interpretation, nor an interpretation by action. Vocal modulations, motions, and attitudes, the movements of living men and women, are all implied in the very conception of a drama. The voice and action are only the completion of the play.

The same is true of the monologue. The rendering of it is not an adjunctive performance, not a mere extraneous decoration. It is more than a personal comment; to render a monologue is to make it complete. “Words,” said Emerson, “are fossilized poetry.” If a monologue is fossilized poetry, its true rendering should restore the original being to life. The written or printed monologue is like an empty garment, to be understood only as it is worn. A living man inside the garment will show the adaptation of all its parts at once.

The presentation of a play or of a monologue is its fulfilment, its completion, expressing more fully the conceptions which were in the mind of the writer himself, though with the individuality and the true personal realization of another artist. No two Hamlets have ever been alike, nor ever can be alike, unless one of the two is an imitation of the other. Dramatic art implies two artists,—the writer, who gives broad outlines and suggestions; and the living, sympathetic dramatic interpreter, who realizes and completes the creation. The author creates a poem and puts it into words, and the vocal interpreter then gives it life.

A true vocal interpretation of the monologue, as of the play, does not require the changing of one word or syllable used by the author. It is the supplying of the living languages.

Words and actions are complemental languages. Verbal expression is more or less intellectual. It can be recorded. It names ideas and pictures. It is composed of conventional symbols, and only when the words are understood by another mind can it suggest a true sequence of ideas and events. Vocal expression, however, shows the attitude of the mind of the man towards these ideas. Words are objective symbols of ideas. The modulations of the voice reveal the process of thinking and feeling. The word, then, in all cases, implies the living voice. It is but an external form: the voice reveals the life. Action shows, possibly, even more than tones do, the character of the man, his relations, his “bearings,” his impressions or points of view.

These three languages are, accordingly, living witnesses. One of them is not complete, strictly speaking, without the others, and the artistic rendering of a monologue is simply taking the objective third which the author gives, and which can be printed, and supplying the subjective two-thirds which the imagination of the reader must create and realize from the author’s suggestion.

All printed language is but a part of one of these three languages, which belong together in an organic unity. In the very nature of the case, the better the writing, the greater the suggestion of the modulations of voice and body. The highest literature is that which suggests life itself, and a living man has a beaming eye, a smiling face, a moving body, and a voice that modulates with every change in idea and feeling. No process has ever been able to record the complexity of these natural languages. Their co-ordination depends upon dramatic instinct.

As the play always implies dramatic action, as the mind must picture a real scene and the characters must move and speak as animated beings before there can be the least appreciation of its nature as a play, so the monologue also implies and suggests a real scene or moment of human life.

The monologue is an artistic whole, and must be understood as a whole. Each part must be felt to be like the limb of a tree, a part of an organism. As each leaf on the tree quivers with the life hidden in trunk and root, so each word of the monologue must vibrate with the thought and feeling of the whole.

Hence, the interpreter of the monologue must command all the natural, expressive modulations of voice and body. He must have imagination and insight into human motives, and his voice and body must respond to this insight and understanding. He must know the language of pause, of touch, of change of pitch, of inflection, of the modulation of resonance, of changes in movement. He must realize, consciously or subconsciously, the importance of a look, of a turn of the head, of a smile, of a transition of the body, of a motion of the hand; in brief, throughout all the complex parts constituting the bodily organism he should be master of natural action, which appeals directly to the eye and precedes all speech.

Every inflection must be natural; every variation of pitch must be spontaneous; every emotion must modulate the color of the voice; every attitude of the interpreter must be simple and sustained. He must have what is known as the “mercurial temperament” to assume every point of view and assimilate every feeling.

The first great law of art is consistency, hence all the parts of a higher work of art must inhere, as do all parts of a plant or flower; but this unity and consistency should not be mechanical or artificial. Delivery can never be built; it must grow. True expression must be spontaneous and free. One must enjoy a monologue; one must live it. Every act or inflection must suggest a dozen others that might be given. The fulness of the life within, in thinking and feeling, must be delicately suggested. The most important point to be considered is a suggestion of the reality of life and the intensity of feeling. The interpreter must study nature. He must speak as the bird sings, not mechanically, but out of a full heart, yet not chaotically or from random impulses. All his movements must come, like the blooming of the rose, from within outward; but this can only result from meditation and command of mind, body, and voice. “Everything in nature,” said Carlyle, “has an index finger pointing to something beyond it”; so every phrase, every word, action, or pause, every voice modulation, must have a relation to every other modulation.

In the art of interpreting the monologue, which is a different art from the writing of one, all must be as much like nature as possible. Yet this likeness is secured, not by imitation or by reproducing external experiences, but by sympathetic identification and imaginative realization.

Every art has a technique. The modulations of the voice and the actions of the body must be directly studied, or there can be no naturalness. Meaningless movements and modulations lead to mannerisms. The reader must know the value of every action of voice or body, and so master them that he can bring them all into a kind of subconscious unity for the expression of the living realization of a thought or situation.

The interpreter must use no artificial methods, but must study the fundamental principles of the expressive modulations of voice and body and supplement these by a sympathetic observation of nature.

The questions to be settled by the reader have been shown by the analysis of the structure of the monologue. He must first consider the character which he is to impersonate, and his conception of it must be definite and clear as that of any actor in a play. In one sense, conception of character is more important in the monologue than in the play, on account of the fact that the speaker stands alone, and the monologue is only one end of a conversation. In a play the actor is always associated with others; has some peculiarity of dress; has freedom of movement, and his character is shown by others. He is only one of many persons in a moving scene, and often fills a subordinate place. But in the monologue, the interpreter is never subordinate, and has few accessories, or none. He must not only reveal the character that is speaking, but also indicate the character of the supposed listener. He must suggest by simple sounds and movements, not by make-up or artificial properties. Thus the interpretation of a monologue is more difficult than that of a play. The actor has long periods of listening when another is speaking, so that he has better opportunities to show the impression produced upon him by each idea. The interpreter of a monologue must often show that he, too, is listening, and express the impression received from another.

To illustrate the necessity of the vocal rendering of a monologue and the peculiar character of the interpretation needed, take one of the simplest examples, a humorous monologue of Douglas Jerrold’s, one of “Mrs. Caudle’s Curtain Lectures.”

Take, for example, the lecture she gives after Mr. Caudle has lent an umbrella:

The peculiar character of Mrs. Caudle must be definitely conceived, and the interpreter must express her feelings and reveal with great emphasis the impressions produced upon her, for these are the very soul of the rendering. The sudden awakening of ideas in her mind, or the way she receives an impression, must be definitely shown, for such manifestations are the chief characteristics of a monologue. Such mental action is the one element that makes the delivery of a monologue differ from that of other forms of literature.

The fact that one end of the conversation is omitted, or only echoed, concentrates our attention upon the workings of Mrs. Caudle’s mind. The interpreter must vividly portray the arrival of every idea, the horrors with which she contemplates every successive conjecture.

The reader must express Mrs. Caudle’s astonishment after she has found out Mr. Caudle’s offence. “‘What were you to do?’” is no doubt an echo of the question made by Mr. Caudle. Sarcastic surprise possesses her at the very thought of his asking such a question. “Let him go home in the rain, to be sure,” is given with positiveness, as if it settled the whole matter. “Take cold, indeed!” is also, no doubt, a sarcastic echo of Mr. Caudle’s words. The abrupt explosion and extreme change from the preceding indicates clearly her repetition of Mr. Caudle’s words. The pun: “He’d have better taken cold than taken our umbrella,” may sound like a jest, but with Mrs. Caudle it is too sarcastic for a smile.

Mrs. Caudle must “hear the rain” and appear startled. The thought of the following day causes sudden and extreme change of feeling, face, and voice. Her wrath is aroused to a high pitch when Caudle snores or gives some evidence that he is asleep, and she is most abrupt and bitter in: “Nonsense; you don’t impose upon me; you can’t be asleep with such a shower as that.” She repeats her question with emphasis. Then there must have been some groan or assent from poor Caudle, which is shown by a change of pitch and a sarcastic acceptance of his answer, “Oh, you do hear it!” Presently, Mr. Caudle causes another explosion by evidently suggesting that the borrower would return the umbrella, “as if anybody ever did return an umbrella!”

A dramatic imagination can easily realize the continuity of thought in Mrs. Caudle’s mind, her expression of profound grief over the poor children, the sudden thought of “poor mother” that awakens in her the reason for his doing the terrible deed, and her self-pity. Every change must be expressed decidedly, to show the working of her mind.

Such a monologue is decidedly dramatic, and to interpret it requires vivid imagination, quick perceptions, a realization of the relation of a specific type of character to a distinct situation and the interaction of situation and character upon each other. The interpreter must have a very flexible voice and responsive body. He must have command of the technique of expression and be able to suggest depth of meaning.

It is easy enough to study a monologue superficially, and find its meaning for ourselves in a vague way, sufficient to satisfy us for the moment, but there is necessity for more study when we attempt to make the monologue clear and forcible to others.

The interpreter will discover, when he tries to read the monologue aloud, that his subjective studies were crude and inconclusive. He will find difficulties in most unexpected places; but as he contemplates the work with dramatic instinct, or imaginative and sympathetic attention to each point, new light will dawn upon him. There is need always for great power of accentuation. Discoveries should be sudden, and the connections vigorously sustained. The modulations of the voice must often be extreme, while yet suggesting the utmost naturalness.

The length and abruptness of the inflections must change very suddenly. There must be breaks in the thought, with a startled discovery of many points, and extreme changes in pitch to show these. Some parts should go very slowly, while others should have great quickness of movement.

Any serious monologue will serve to illustrate the necessity of vocal expression for its interpretation. Take, for example, Browning’s “Tray,” and express the strong contrasts by the voice.

This short poem well illustrates Browning’s peculiar spirit and earnestness, and also the strong hold which his chosen dramatic form had upon him. It was written as a protest against vivisection. Browning represents the speaker as one seeking for an expression among the poets of the true heroic spirit. “Bard the first” opens with the traditions and spirit of knighthood, but the speaker interrupts him suddenly in the midst of his first sentence, implying by his tone of disgust that such views of heroism are out of date.

The second bard begins in the spirit of a later age,

“‘That sin-scathed brow ...
That eye wide ope, ...’”

and starts to portray a hero facing death on some precipice, but the speaker again interrupts. He is equally dissatisfied with this type of hero found in the pages of Byron or Bret Harte.

When the third begins—“A beggar child,”—the speaker indicates a sudden interest, “let’s hear this third!” The speech of the third bard must be given with greater interest and simplicity, and in accordance with the spirit of the age,—the change from the extravagant to the perfectly simple and true, from the giant in his mail, or the desperado, to just a little child and a dog.

Approval and tenderness should be shown by the modulations of the voice. Long, abrupt inflections express the excitement resulting from the discovery that the child has fallen into the stream, “Dismay! Help.” Then observe the sarcastic reference to human selfishness, and, in tender contrast to the action of the bystanders, old Tray is introduced, followed by the remarks of the on-lookers and their patronizing description of the dog’s conduct. Notice that the quotation is long, and that the point of view of the careless bystanders is preserved. The spirit of these bystanders is given in their own words until they laugh at old Tray’s pains and blind instinct in fishing up the child’s doll from the stream. Now follows the real spirit of bard the third, who portrays the sympathetic admiration for the dog.

“‘And so, amid the laughter gay,’”

requires a sudden change of key and tone-color to express the intensity of feeling and the general appreciation of the mystery of “a mere instinctive dog.”

The poem closes with an example of the cold, analytic spirit of the age, that hopes to settle the deepest problems merely by experiment.

“‘By vivisection, at expense,
Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence,
How brain secretes dog’s soul, we’ll see!’”

The student will soon discover that the monologue is not only a new literary or poetic form, but that it demands a new histrionic method of representation.

The monologue should be taken seriously. It is not an accidental form, the odd freak of some peculiar writer. Browning has said that he never intended his poetry to be a substitute for an after-dinner cigar. A similar statement is true of all great monologues. A few so-called monologues on a low plane can be understood and rendered by any one. Every form of dramatic art has its caricature and perversion. Burlesque seems necessary as a caricature of all forms of dramatic art and so there are burlesques of monologues. These, however, must not blind the eyes to the existence of monologues on the highest plane. Many monologues, though short and seemingly simple, probe the profoundest depths of the human soul. Such require patient study; imagination, sympathetic insight, and passion are all necessary in their interpretation.

X. ACTIONS OF MIND AND VOICE

The interpreter of the monologue must reveal the point of view of his character, and must show the awakening or arrival of every idea. All changes in point of view, the simplest transitions in feeling and impressions produced by an idea, must be suggested. The mental life, in short, must be genuinely and definitely revealed by the actions of voice and body.

The first sign or expression of life is rhythm. All life begins and ends in rhythm, and accordingly, rhythm is the basis of all naturalness. In vocal expression the rhythmic process of thinking, the successive focussing and leaping of the mind from idea to idea, must be revealed by the rhythmic alternation in speech of pause and touch.

Without these, genuine thinking cannot be expressed in speaking. The pause indicates the stay of attention; the touch locates or affirms the centre of concentration. The mind receives an impression in silence, and speech follows as a natural result.

The interpretation of a poem or any work of literature demands an intensifying of the processes of thinking, and the pause and touch constitute the language by which this increase of thinking is expressed. A language is always necessary to the completion or, at least, to the accentuation of, any mental action. The impression received from each successive idea must be so vivid as to dominate the rhythm of breathing, and the expansion and other actions of the body.

The progressive movement of mind from idea to idea implies consequent variation and discrimination more or less vigorous. This is revealed by change of pitch in passing from idea to idea or phrase to phrase, and the extent of this variation is due, as a rule, to the degree of discrimination in thinking.

In the employment of these three modulations, pause, touch, and change of pitch, each implies the others. The degree of change in pitch and the vigor of touch justify the length of pause. Lengthening the pause without increasing the touch suggests tameness, sluggishness, or dullness of thought.

Notice the long pauses, the intense strokes of the voice, and the decided changes of pitch harmoniously accentuated, which are employed to indicate the depth of passion in rendering “In a Year” (p. 201). Pauses are of special importance in a monologue. This woman shows by long pauses and abrupt changes her struggle to comprehend the real meaning of the coldness of the man whom she loves,—to whom she has given all. The touch and the changes of pitch show the abruptness and the intensity of her passion.

The careful student will further perceive an inflection in conversation, or change of pitch, during the utterance of the central vowel of each word, and a longer inflection in the word standing for a central idea. Inflections show the relations of ideas to each other, the logical method, the relative value of centres of attention, and the like. Marked changes of topics, for example, will be indicated by a long inflection upon the key-word.

In rendering Browning’s “One Way of Love,” the word “rose” in the first line is given saliency. It is the centre of his first effort. Note the long pause followed by decided rising inflections on the words:

“She will not turn aside?...”

succeeded by a pause with a firm fall,—

“Alas!
Let them lie....”

In the second stanza, note the falling inflection upon “lute,” which introduces a new theme, a new endeavor to win her love. Then follows another disappointment with suspensive or rising inflections denoting surprise with agitation, and then new realization