Browning and the Dramatic Monologue

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 Cæsar,” 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

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 Provençal 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.

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 rôle 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

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

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.