Browning and the Dramatic Monologue Part 22

We are two travellers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog. Come here, you scamp.

Jump for the gentleman--mind your eye!

Over the table--look out for the lamp!

The rogue is growing a little old: Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out doors when nights were cold, And ate, and drank, and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you: A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow, The paw he holds up there has been frozen), Plenty of catgut for my fiddle (This out-door business is bad for strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings.

No, thank you, sir, I never drink.

Roger and I are exceedingly moral.

Aren't we, Roger? See him wink.

Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel.

He's thirsty too--see him nod his head.

What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk; He understands every word that's said, And he knows good milk from water and chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir) even of my dog.

But he sticks by through thick and thin, And this old coat with its empty pockets, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin, He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving, To such a miserable, thankless master.

No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin-- By George! it makes my old eyes water-- That is, there's something in this gin That chokes a fellow, but no matter.

We'll have some music if you are willing, And Roger here (what a plague a cough is, sir) Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer!

'Bout face! attention! take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms you see.) Now hold Your cap while the gentlemen give a trifle To aid a poor old patriot soldier.

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes When he stands up to hear his sentence; Now tell how many drams it takes To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps, that's five--he's mighty knowing; The night's before us, fill the gla.s.ses; Quick, sir! I'm ill; my brain is going; Some brandy; thank you: there, it pa.s.ses.

Why not reform? That's easily said.

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform, And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out Heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love; but I took to drink; The same old story, you know how it ends.

If you could have seen these cla.s.sic features-- You needn't laugh, sir, I was not then Such a burning libel on G.o.d's creatures; I was one of your handsome men.

If you had seen her, so fair, so young, Whose head was happy on this breast; If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guess'd That ever I, sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a gla.s.s of grog.

She's married since, a parson's wife; 'Twas better for her that we should part; Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart.

I have seen her? Once! I was weak and spent On the dusty road; a carriage stopped, But little she dreamed as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped.

You've set me talking, sir, I'm sorry; It makes me wild to think of the change.

What do you care for a beggar's story?

Is it amusing? you find it strange?

I had a mother so proud of me, 'Twas well she died before. Do you know, If the happy spirits in Heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below?

Another gla.s.s, and strong to deaden This pain; then Roger and I will start.

I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden, Aching thing, in place of a heart?

He is sad sometimes, and would weep if he could, No doubt remembering things that were: A virtuous kennel with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur.

I'm better now; that gla.s.s was warming.

You rascal! limber your lazy feet!

We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street.

Not a very gay life to lead you think?

But soon we shall go where lodgings are free, And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink; The sooner the better for Roger and me.

"The Vagabonds" deserves study on account of its revelation of the subjectivity possible to the monologue. Notice the speaker's talk to his dog: "Come here, you scamp,"--"Jump for the gentleman,"--"Over the table, look out for the lamp." Then he begins the story of his life, exhibiting his pathetic condition, and displaying his realization of his downfall.

After this he resolutely turns to his violin and calls upon his dog to perform:

"Paws up! eyes front! salute your officer!

'Bout face! attention! take your rifle!"

Then suddenly the note of remorse is sounded; his sense of illness, his restoration with the brandy, are true in every line to human character.

The interpretation of such a poem is difficult because it verges so close upon the imitative that readers are apt to lose the spirit and intention of the author. It must be made entirely a study of character. The underlying spirit, not the accidents, must be accentuated by the action of the body.

In general, even when representative actions are most appropriate and helpful, the manifestative actions of face and body must be accentuated and at all times made to predominate over the representative actions. The more serious any interpretation is, the more necessary is it that manifestation transcend representation. Every student should observe how manifestative action of face and body always supports descriptive gesture.

Again, in the monologue there must not be too much motion. Motion is superficial, showing merely extraneous relations, and may indicate nervousness or lack of control. The att.i.tude must be sustained. Any motion should be held until it spreads through the whole being. Motions reveal superficial emotions; att.i.tudes, the deeper conditions. Conditions must transcend both motions and att.i.tudes, and att.i.tudes must always predominate over motions.

The monologue must not be spectacular, and cannot be interpreted by external and mechanical movements. The whole body must act, but in a natural way. Expansions of the body, the kindling eye, the animated face, form the centre of all true dramatic actions.

The att.i.tude at the climax of any motion makes the motion emphatic. The monologue is so subtle, and requires such accentuation of deep impression, that att.i.tudes are especially necessary. An att.i.tude accentuates a condition or feeling by prolonging its pantomimic suggestion. As the power to pause, or to stay the attention until the mind realizes a situation and awakens the depths of pa.s.sion, is important in vocal expression, so the staying of a motion at its climax, a sustaining of the att.i.tude that reveals the deepest emotional condition, is the basis of true dramatic action.

Of all languages, action is the least noticeable, the most in the background, but, on the other hand, of all languages it is the most continuous. From the cradle to the grave, sleeping or waking, pantomimic expression is never absent. Consciously or unconsciously, every step we take, every position we a.s.sume, reveals us, our character, emotions, experiences. Hence, any dramatic interpretation of human experiences or character, such as a monologue, demands thorough and conscientious study of this language, which reveals both the highest and the lowest conditions of the heart.

XII. THE MONOLOGUE AND METRE

One of the most important questions in regard to form in poetry, especially the form and interpretation of the monologue, relates to metre.

To most persons metre is something purely arbitrary and artificial. Books on the subject often give merely an account of the different kinds of feet with hardly a hint that metre has meaning. But metre is not a mechanical structure which exists merely for its own sake. When the metre is true, it expresses the spirit of the poem, as the leaf reveals the life and character of the tree.

The att.i.tude of mind of many persons of culture and taste toward metre is surprising. Rarely, for example, is a hymn read with its true metric movement. Is this one reason why hymns are no longer read aloud? Not only ministers and public speakers, but even the best actors and public readers, often blur the most beautiful lines. How rarely do we find an Edwin Booth who can give the spirit of Shakespeare's blank verse! Few actors realize the pain they give to cultivated ears or to those who have the imagination and feeling to appreciate the expressiveness of the metric structure in the highest poetry.

The development of a proper appreciation of metre is of great importance.

Though the student should acquaint himself with the metric feet and the information conveyed in all the rhetorics and books on metre, still he has hardly learned the alphabet of the subject.

To appreciate its metre, one must so enter into the spirit of a poem that the metric movement is felt as a part of its expression. The nature of the feet chosen, the length of the lines,--everything connected with the form of a fine poem, is directly expressive. The sublimer the poem, the painting, or any work of art, the more will the smallest detail be consistent with the whole and a necessary part of the expression.

Metre has been studied too much as a matter of print. Few recognize the fact that metre is necessarily a part of vocal rather than of verbal expression, and can only be suggested in print.

Metre can be revealed only by the human voice. As a printed word is only a sign, so print can afford a hint only of the nature of metre. Its study, accordingly, must be a.s.sociated with the living voice and the vocal interpretation of literature.

The mastery of metre requires first of all a development of the sense of rhythm, a realization especially of the subjective aspects of rhythm, a consciousness of the rhythm of thinking and feeling and the power we have of controlling or accentuating this. There must be developed in addition a sense of form and a realization of the nature of all expression, and of the necessity that ideas and feelings be revealed through natural and objective means.

Another step not to be despised is the training of the ear. At the basis of every specific problem of education will be found the necessary training of a sense. How can a painter be developed without education of the eye as well as control of the hand. So metre must be recognized by the ear before it can be revealed by the voice. Last of all, the imagination must recreate the poem and the reader must realize the specific language of every foot and feel its hidden meaning.