Browning and the Dramatic Monologue Part 28

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 pa.s.sion towards the audience, and in the negation of pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion, 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 pa.s.sing 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 att.i.tude 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 subst.i.tuted 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

When we have once discovered the nature and peculiarities of the monologue, the character of its interpretation, and its uses in dramatic expression, its general importance in art, literature, and education becomes apparent.

In the first place, its value is shown by the fact that it reveals phases of human nature not otherwise expressed in literature, or in any other form of art.

To ill.u.s.trate this, let us take Browning's "Saul." It is founded upon a very slight story in the Book of Kings to the effect that when Saul was afflicted with an evil spirit, a skilful musician was sought to charm away the demon, and the youthful David was chosen.

Browning takes this theme, transfigures it by his imagination, and produces what is considered by some the greatest poem of the nineteenth century. Without necessarily subscribing to this judgment, let us study this poem which has called forth from some critics so much enthusiasm.

Browning makes David the speaker in the monologue, and its occasion after the event, when he is "alone" with his sheep, endeavoring to realize what happened while playing before Saul, and what it meant.

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 pa.s.ses 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 G.o.d 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d'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?