Browning and the Dramatic Monologue Part 20

Action is a language that belongs to the whole body. As light moves quickest in the outer world, so action,--the language that appeals to the eye--is the first appeal to consciousness. Life expands,--the gleaming eye, the elevated and gravitating body, the lifted hand,--all these show character and a living or present realization of ideas, and are most important in the monologue.

On account of the abrupt opening of most monologues, the first clause requires salient and decided action. The speaker must locate his hearer, and must often indicate, by some decided movement, the effect produced upon him by some previous speech which has to be imagined. As the words of the listener are not given but must be suggested, it is necessary that the action be decided.

Though action or pantomime always precedes speech, this precedence is especially p.r.o.nounced in monologues. Notice, for example, in Bret Harte's "In a Tunnel," the look of surprise and astonishment followed by the words given with long rising inflections: "Didn't know Flynn?"

"Didn't know Flynn--Flynn of Virginia--long as he's been 'yar? Look'ee here, stranger, whar _hev_ you been?

"Here in this tunnel,--he was my pardner, that same Tom Flynn--working together, in wind and weather, day out and in.

"Didn't know Flynn! Well, that _is_ queer. Why, it's a sin to think of Tom Flynn--Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear,--stranger, look 'yar!

"Thar in the drift back to the wall he held the timbers ready to fall; then in the darkness I heard him call--'Run for your life, Jake! Run for your wife's sake! Don't wait for me.' And that was all, heard in the din, heard of Tom Flynn,--Flynn of Virginia.

"That's all about Flynn of Virginia--that lets me out here in the damp--out of the sun--that ar' dern'd lamp makes my eyes run.

"Well, there--I'm done! But, sir, when you'll hear the next fool asking of Flynn--Flynn of Virginia--just you chip in, say you knew Flynn; say that you've been 'yar."

The look of wonder is sustained until there is a change to an intense, pointed inquiry: "Whar _hev_ you been?" The intense surprise reveals the rough character of the speaker, a miner in a mining camp, and his admiration for Flynn, who has saved his life. Then note the sudden transition as he begins his story. His character must be maintained, and expressed by action through all the many transitions; but in the first clause especially there must be a pause with a long continued att.i.tude of astonishment.

Action is required to present this vivid scene which is suggested by only a few words, the admiration of the speaker for Flynn, who in the depths of the mine, with but a moment to decide, gives his life for another. The hero calls out "Run for your wife's sake," the heart of the speaker warms with admiration and the tears come; then the rough Westerner is seen brushing away his tears and attributing the water in his eyes to the "dern'd lamp." Truth in depicting human nature, depth of feeling, action, character, in short, the whole meaning, is dependent upon the decided actions of the body and the inflections of the voice directly a.s.sociated with these.

In "The Italian in England" (p. 152), the word "second" not only needs emphasis by the voice, as has been shown, to indicate that the speaker has already given an account of another experience, but he may possibly throw up his hands to indicate something unusual, something beyond words in the experience he is about to relate.

It is especially necessary in the monologue that action should show the discovery, arrival, or initiation of ideas. A change in the direction of attention, a new subject or current of ideas, cannot be indicated wholly by vocal expression. The mental conjectures of Mrs. Caudle, for example, are very p.r.o.nounced, and cannot be fully expressed by the voice without action.

Notice how definitely action, in union with vocal expression, shows whether Mrs. Caudle's new impressions are due to the natural a.s.sociation of ideas in her mind, or to the words or conduct of Caudle. The last mentioned give rise to her explosiveness, withering sarcasm, and anger.

Such discriminations produce the illusion of the scene.

In "Up at a Villa--Down in the City" (p. 65), notice how necessary it is for the interpreter to show the direction of his attention, whether he is speaking regarding his villa or the city. Note the disgust and att.i.tude of gloom in his face and bearing as he gazes towards his villa.

"Over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees,"

suggests a picture calling for admiration from us, but not from him. To him the tulip is a great "bubble of blood." All this receives a definite tone-color, and it must be borne in mind that without action of the body, the quality of the voice will not change. The emotion diffuses itself through the whole organism of the impersonator of the "person of quality,"

and even hands, feet and face are given a certain att.i.tude by this emotion. Contempt for the villa will depress his whole body and thus color his tone. On the contrary, when the speaker turns to the city, his face lights up. The "fountain--to splash," the "houses in four straight lines,"

the "fanciful signs which are painted properly,"--all these are apparently contemplated by him with such an expansion and elevation of his body as almost to cause laughter.

This contrast, which is sustained through the whole monologue, can be interpreted or presented only by the actions of the body and their effect on the tone.

Expression of face and body are necessary to suggest the delicate changes in thinking and feeling. Notice in "A Tale" (p. 163) that the struggle of the woman to remember is shown by action.

The two lines

"Said you found it somewhere, ...

Was it prose or was it rhyme?"

are not so much addressed to the listener as to herself, as she tries to remember, and she would show this by action. Every subtle change in thought and feeling is indicated by a decided expression in the face. In her efforts to remember, she would possibly turn away from him at first with a bewildered look, then she might turn toward him again, as she asked him the question; but if she asked this of herself, her head would remain turned away. When she decides with a bow of the head that it is Greek, note how her face would light up and possibly intimate confidence that she was right. At the close of the poem, notice the tender mischief of her glance when she refers to "somebody I know" who is "deserving of a prize."

The monologue is full of the subtlest variations of point of view and thought, and these variations call for a constant play of feature.

The struggle for an idea must be frankly disclosed. An interruption, a thought broken on account of a sudden leap of the mind, must be interpreted faithfully by the eyes, the face, the walk, or the body, in union with vocal expression.

In the soliloquy of the "Spanish Cloister" (p. 58), for example, notice how the whole face, head, and body of the speaker recoil at the very start on discovering Brother Lawrence in the garden. Notice, too, the fiendish delight as he sees the accident, "There his lily snaps!" How sarcastic is his reference to the actions of Brother Lawrence, who, unconscious that any one is looking at him, seems to stop and shake his head in a way that leads the speaker to infer that a "myrtle-bush wants tr.i.m.m.i.n.g:" but instantly, with a sneer he adds, "Oh, that rose has prior claims." Such sarcastic variations occur all through the monologue. "How go on your flowers?" is given with gleeful expectancy, and he notes with cruel joy the disappointment of Brother Lawrence when looking to find one "double,"

and chuckles to himself

"Strange!--And I, too, at such trouble, Keep them close-nipped on the sly!"

Note, too, the difference in facial action when the speaker is observing Brother Lawrence and when conjuring up schemes to send this good man "Off to h.e.l.l, a Manichee."

Another point to be noted in the study of the monologue is the giving of quotations. These, of course, are an echo of what the hearer has said, and must be rendered with care.

Look again at Browning's "A Tale," and note "cicada," which is quoted.

This is followed by an interrogation, and refers to the listener's humorously sarcastic question regarding the scientific aspects of her subject. She echoes it, of course, with her own feeling of surprise, and the exclamation "Pooh!" silences him so that she may go on with her story.

Notice how necessary action is here to enable the reader to interpret the meaning of this to the audience.

Quotations especially call for action as they reflect the opposition of the character of the listener to that of the speaker; they are always given with decided changes. The words only, however, and at times the ideas only, are quoted; the feeling, the impression, are all the speaker's own. Quotations are merely the conversational echo of the words of another such as are frequently heard in every-day life, and demand both action and vocal expression for their true interpretation.

The subject of quotations requires special attention in the monologue.

They must be given, not only with decided pauses, inflections, changes of movement and variations in accentuation, and in all the modulations of the voice, but with suggestive action, changes in the direction of the eye, head, and body. In short, there must be a complete change in all the expression from what preceded, because the impression produced by an idea in the speaker's own mind is not so forcible as the effect of a word from a listener; at any rate, the impression is different. In telling our story to him, his att.i.tude of mind, in demurring or a.s.senting, will cause a sudden change or recoil on our part. The difference in the impressions made upon the speaker by his own ideas and by what his listener says must be indicated, and this can only be indicated by uniting the language of action and vocal expression with words. A change of idea or some remembrance awakened in our own mind comes naturally, but a sudden remark or interruption produces a more decided and definite impression upon us.

The surprised look and abrupt turn of the head are necessary to show the sense of imaginative reality.

Observe the definite and extreme, even sudden, transitions which are made in conversation. These abrupt leaps of the mind from one subject to another are indicated by a simple turn, it may be, of the head, with sudden changes in the face, and, of course, with changes of pitch and movement. The monologue gives the best interpretation of these actions of the mind to be found in literature.

As an example, note Riley's "Knee-deep in June." The more decided and sudden the transitions in this poem, the better. The abrupt arrival of an idea, the subtle start it gives to face or head or body, should be naturally suggested.

Action is especially needed in all abrupt transitions in thought and feeling. In many of the more humorous monologues, there is often a sudden pathetic touch towards the last, requiring slower movement in the action of the body. Occasionally, very sudden and extreme contrasts occur. The reader must make long pauses in these cases, and accentuate strongly the action, of which vocal expression is more or less a result.

As further ill.u.s.trative of a sudden transition, note how in Riley's monologue, "When de Folks is Gone," the scared negro grows more and more excited until a climax of terror is reached in the penultimate line:

"Wha' dat shinin' fru de front do' crack?"

Between this line and the last the cause of the light outside is discovered, and a complete recovery from terror to joy must be indicated.

With the greatest relief he must utter the last line:

"G.o.d bress de Lo'd, hit's de folks got back."

The study of action in the rendering of a monologue brings us to one of the most important points in all dramatic expression. No form of dramatic art is given so directly to an audience as is a story or a speech. The interpreter of a monologue must feel his audience, but not speak to it. He must address all his remarks to his imaginary listener.

Where shall he locate this listener, and why in that particular place?

The late Joseph Jefferson called attention to the difference between oratory and acting. "The two arts," he said, "go hand in hand, so far as magnetism and intelligence are concerned, but there comes a point where they differ widely. The actor is, or should be, impressionable and sensitive; the orator, on the other hand, must have the power of impressing." Accordingly, the orator speaks directly to his audience; the actor does not.

This distinction is important. It may possibly go too far, because the orator must give his attention to his truth, must receive impressions from his ideas, and reveal his impressions to his audience. He too must be impressionable and sensitive, but his attentive and responsive att.i.tude is always to the picture created by his own mind. He is impersonal and gives direct attention to his auditors. He receives vivid impressions from truth, and then endeavors to give these to others.

In a play, on the contrary, the actor receives an impression from his interlocutor. He must give great attention to what his interlocutor is saying, and must reveal his impressions to his audience by faithfully portraying the effect of the other's thought and feeling upon himself.

In the monologue the same is true. The interlocutor, however, is imagined.

More imagination is called for, and greater impressionability and sensitiveness, because there is no interlocutor there for the audience to see. The hearer must judge entirely from the impressions made upon the speaker.

Action, therefore, is most important. The impersonator must reveal decidedly and definitely every impression made upon him, but must speak to, and act toward, his imaginary auditor, and only indirectly to his audience.