Browning and the Dramatic Monologue Part 12

By the time the reader has answered these questions the whole argument becomes luminous. A company has gathered at the Duke's palace to arrange the final settlement for a marriage between the Duke and the daughter of a count. The Duke and the steward of the Count, or some person acting as agent, have stepped aside to consult regarding the dowry. The place is chosen by the Duke; in drawing the curtain in front of the picture of his last d.u.c.h.ess, he unfolds his character and also the story, and forcibly portrays the character of his last victim. She was one who loved everybody and everything in life with true human sympathy. She "thanked" him for every gift, but that was not enough. She smiled at others. She was a flower he had plucked for himself alone, and she must not show love or tenderness, or blush at

"The bough of cherries some officious fool Broke in the orchard for her, ..."

It is doubtful whether she died of a broken heart or was deliberately murdered. His commands, of course, would not be given to her, but to his lackeys. Many think she was murdered. Browning leaves it artistically suggestive and uncertain.

These questions, of course, will not be answered in any regular order. One point will suggest another. The meaning will be partially apparent from the first; but usually the points will be discovered in this sequence.

When completed, the whole is as simple as a story. The pompous, contemptuous air of the Duke, the insinuating way in which he speaks, the hint afforded by his voice that he will have no trifling, that he had made his demands, and that was the end of it; all these details slowly unfold until the whole story, nay, even the deepest motives of his life and character, are clearly perceived.

What a wonderful portrayal in fifty-six lines! Many a long novel does not say so much, nor give such insight into human beings. Many a play does not reveal processes so deep, so profound as this.

Browning hints in his subt.i.tle, "Ferrara," the part of the world and the age in which such a piece of villany would have been possible.

If the reader will examine some of the most difficult monologues of Browning, or any of the more popular monologues, by the questions given, he will see at once the peculiar character of the monologue as a form of dramatic poetry. Such work must be at first conscious, but when it has been thoroughly done, the rendering or reading of a monologue will be as easy as that of a play. The enjoyment awakened by a good monologue, and the insight it gives into human nature, will well repay the study necessary to realize the artistic peculiarities of this form of poetry.

VII. THE MONOLOGUE AS A FORM OF LITERATURE

The nature of the monologue will be seen more clearly and forcibly if compared with other forms of literature.

Forms of literature have not been invented or evolved suddenly. They have been in every case slowly recognized; in fact, one of the last, if not most difficult phases of literary education and culture is the definite conception of the difference between the various forms of poetry. To many persons the word lyric and the word epic are loose terms, the one standing for a short poem and the other for a long one. The real spirit and character of the most elemental forms of poetry are often indefinitely and inadequately realized.

If this is true of the oldest and most fundamental forms of poetry, it is still more true of the monologue. The word awakens in most minds only the vaguest conceptions.

If the monologue be discriminated at all from other forms of literature, it is apt to be regarded as an accidental, if not an unnecessary or unnatural, phase of literary creation. Even in books on Browning, nine-tenths of whose work is in this form, the monologue is often spoken of as if it were a speech. It is sometimes treated as if it were simply a long monotonous harangue of some talker like Coleridge, the outflow of whose ideas and words subordinates or puts to silence a whole company. But unless the peculiar nature of the monologue is understood, much modern verse will fail to produce an adequate impression.

Like the speech, the monologue implies one speaker. But an oration implies an audience, a platform, conscious preparation, and a direct and deliberate purpose. The monologue, on the contrary, implies merely a conversation on the street, in the shop, or in the home. Usually, only one listener is found, and rarely is there an a.s.sembled audience or the formal occasion implied by a speech. The occasion is some natural situation in life capable of causing spontaneous outflow of thought and feeling and an involuntary revelation of motive.

The monologue is not a poetic interpretation of an oration, though the latter is frequently found in poetry. Burns's poem on the speech of Bruce at Bannockburn was called by Carlyle "the finest war-ode in any language,"

and it is none the less n.o.ble because it suggests a speaker. It is a poetic realization of an address to an army. Burns gives the situation and the chief actor speaking as the artistic means of awakening a realization of the event. But it is the poetic interpretation of oratory, a lyric, and not a monologue.

Dr. Holmes's "Our Boys" is an after dinner speech in metric form, full of good-natured allusions to members of the cla.s.s who were well-known men, but even such a definite situation does not make his work a monologue.

"Anything may be poetic by being intensely realized." Poetry may have as its theme any phase of human life or endeavor, and the spirit of oratory has often been interpreted by poetry. Oratory has a direct, conscious purpose. It implies a human being earnestly presenting arguments to move and persuade men to a course of action.

The monologue reflects the unconscious and spontaneous effect of one human being upon another, but it does not express the poet's own feelings, convictions, or motives, except indirectly. We must not take the words of any one of Browning's characters as an echo of the poet's personal convictions. The monologue expresses the impressions which a certain character receives from events or from other people.

Epic poetry, from its application to an individual case or situation, is made to suggest the ideals, aspirations, or characteristics of the race.

The epic makes events or characters more typical or universal, and hence more suggestive and expressive. Its personations embody universal ideals.

Odysseus is not simply a man, but the representative of every patient, long-suffering h.e.l.lenic hero, persevering and enduring trials with fort.i.tude. Achilles is not merely a youth full of anger, but a type of the pa.s.sionate, liberty-loving and aspiring Greek. Both Achilles and Odysseus are not so much individual characters as typical Greeks. They express n.o.ble emotions breathed into the hearts of mortals by Athena. Odysseus embodies the virtue of temperance and patience symbolized by the cloudless sky, represented by Athena's robe, and of perseverance shown by her unstooping helmet. Achilles with his "destructive wrath," embodies the spirit of youth and eager pa.s.sion corresponding to the lightning and the storm which are shown by the serpents on Athena's breast.

We are apt to regard the epic as simply differing in form from the drama; the drama being adapted to stage representation, while the epic is not.

But there are deeper differences. Though the drama may portray a character as n.o.ble as the suffering Prometheus, a representative of the race, or one as low as Nick Bottom; and though the epic may portray by the side of the swift-footed Achilles and the wise Ulysses the physical and rough Ajax, still at the heart of every form of poetry is found a different spirit.

Even when the same subject is introduced, a different aspect will be suggested. Every form of human art expresses something which can be adequately expressed in no other way.

Dramatic art is recognized as being complex. From the following definition of the term "dramatic" by Freytag in his "Technique of the Drama," many points may be inferred regarding its unique character:

"The term dramatic is applicable to two cla.s.ses of emotions: those which are sufficiently vigorous to crystallize into will and act, and those which are aroused by an act. It accordingly includes the psychical processes which go on within the human soul from the initiation of a feeling up to pa.s.sionate desire and activity, and also the influences exerted upon the soul by the acts of oneself or of others. In other words, it includes the outward movement of the will from the depths of the nature toward the external world, and the inward movement of impression from the external world which influence the inner nature: or, in fine, the coming into existence of an act; and its consequences for the soul. Neither action in itself nor pa.s.sionate emotion in itself is dramatic. The function of dramatic art is not the representation of pa.s.sion in itself, but of pa.s.sion leading to action; it is not the representation of an event in itself, but of its reflections in the human soul. The representation of pa.s.sionate emotion in itself, as such, is the function of the lyric; the depicting of interesting events, as such, is the business of the epic."[1]

This explanation of dramatic art at first seems very thorough and complete. It certainly includes more than the play, although worked out with special reference to the play. But any true study of dramatic art must recognize the fact that the play, important as it is, is only one of its aspects.

This definition, fine as it is, needs careful consideration, and possibly may be found, after all, inadequate. If it refers at all to some of the most important aspects, the reference is vague. Dramatic art must also include points of view, insight into motives, the nature and necessity of situation, and especially the discovery by one man of another's att.i.tude of mind.

The definition is notable because it does not define dramatic art, as is so apt to be the case, by limitation. When any form of art is defined by limitation, the next great artist that arises will break the shackles of such a rule, and show its utter inadequacy. When Sir Joshua Reynolds said blue could not be used as the general color scheme of a picture, Gainsborough responded with the now famous painting, "The Blue Boy."

Dramatic art is especially difficult to define because it is the very essence of poetry, and deals with that most difficult of all subjects, the human soul. Accordingly, ill.u.s.trations of dramatic art are not only safer than definitions, but more suggestive of its true nature. Definitions are especially inadequate in our endeavors to perceive the differences between the dramatic elements of a play and those of a monologue.

To realize more completely the general nature of dramatic art, let us note how a play differs from a story.

A certain n.o.ble and his wife slew their king while he was their guest, and usurped the crown. In order to conceal their crime and keep themselves on the throne, the new king slew other persons, and even murdered the wife and children of a n.o.ble who had fled to England and espoused the cause of the rightful heir to the throne, the son of the murdered king. The usurper was finally overthrown and killed in battle by the knight whose family he had slain.

Such are the bare items of the story of "Macbeth." When these facts were fashioned into a play, the interest was transferred from the events to the characters of the princ.i.p.al individuals concerned. Their ambitious motives, their resolution or hesitation to perform the murder, and the effects of this crime upon them were not only portrayed by Shakespeare, but to Lady Macbeth is given a different type of conscience from that of her husband. While at first, or before Macbeth committed his first crime, he hesitated long, his conscience afterward became "seared as with a hot iron." Although he hesitated greatly over the murder of Duncan, he later pursued his purpose without faltering for a moment. The conscience of Lady Macbeth, on the contrary, is awakened by crime. These two types of conscience are often found in life, but have never been so truly represented as in Shakespeare's interpretation of them. Possibly no other art except dramatic art could have portrayed this experience and interpreted such deep differences between human beings.

Now note the peculiarities of the monologue.

A man must part from a woman he loves. He has been rejected, or for other reasons it is necessary for him to speak the parting word; they may meet as friends, but never again can they meet as lovers.

There are not enough events here to make a story, and the mere statement of them awakens little interest. But Browning writes a monologue upon this slender theme which is so short that it can be printed here entire.

THE LOST MISTRESS

All's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes?

Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves!

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully: You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest?

May I take your hand in mine?

Mere friends are we,--well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Tho' I keep with heart's endeavor,-- Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Tho' it stay in my soul for ever!--

Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!

Here we have as speaker a distinct type of man, and the precise moment is chosen when he is bidding good-bye. Attention is focussed upon him for a single moment during a single speech. Observe the naturalness of the reference to insignificant objects in stanzas one and two. In the hour of bitterest experience, every one remembers some leaf or tree or spot of sunshine that seems burnt into the mind forever. Note the speaker's hesitation, and how in the struggle for self-control he makes seemingly careless remarks. How true to human nature! Here we have presented an instant in the life of a soul; a trying moment, when, if ever, weakness will be shown; when refuge is taken in little things to stem the tide of feeling, as the man gives up the supreme hope of his life. This is dramatic, and the disclosure of character is unconscious, spontaneous, involuntary.

Again, take as an ill.u.s.tration a longer monologue.

A certain young duke has been taken away by his mother to foreign parts and there educated, and has come back proud and conventional. He must marry; and a beautiful woman, chosen from a convent, is elevated to his exalted sphere. But, regarded as a mere flower cut from the woods and brought to adorn his room, she is not allowed to exercise any influence over her supposed home. Desiring to revive the medieval customs, the Duke arranges a ceremonious hunt, with costumes of the period, and the d.u.c.h.ess is given the part of presiding at the killing of the victim. This part she refuses. As the angry Duke rides away to the hunt, he meets an old gypsy, and, to punish the d.u.c.h.ess, instructs this old crone to give his wife a fright, promising her money for the service. When the Duke returns, d.u.c.h.ess and gypsy have fled.

This is the story of "The Flight of the d.u.c.h.ess." Browning chooses a family servant who was witness to the whole transaction to tell the story, when long after the event he comes in contact with a friend, a sympathetic foreigner, who will not betray him, and to whom he can safely confide the real facts.

The speaker starts out with a sudden reference to his being beckoned by the Duke to lead the gypsy back to his mistress. He describes the place, the character of the Duke,--born on the same day with himself,--

"... the pertest little ape That ever affronted human shape;"

his education, his return, his marriage with the d.u.c.h.ess, and gives, not a mere story, but his own point of view, his impressions, while the complex effect of the actions and character of the Duke, the d.u.c.h.ess, and the rest upon himself are meanwhile suggested.