Browning and the Dramatic Monologue Part 5

and many variations are found among different authors. Hennessey's remarks may be introduced as a way of arousing in the imagination of ordinary people a conception of the listener. The relationship of the two characters is thus possibly more easily pictured to the ordinary imagination.

Of the necessity of Hennessey there can be no doubt. Mr. Dooley would never speak in this way but for the sympathetic and reverently attentive Hennessey. The two are complemental and necessary to each other.

Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures were very popular, perhaps partly because of the silence expressing the patience of Caudle, though there were appendices that indicated remarks written down by Mr. Caudle, but long afterwards and when alone. There are some advantages in the pure form; the mind is kept more concentrated. So without Hennessey's direct remarks the picture of Dooley might have been even better sustained. The form of a monologue, however, must not be expected to remain rigid. The point here to be apprehended is the necessity of recognizing a listener as well as a speaker.

Every Dooley demands a listener. He must have appreciation. These monologues are a humorous, possibly unconscious, presentation of this principle. The audience or the reader is turned by the author into a contemplative spectator of a simple situation. A play demands a struggle, but here we have all the restfulness, ease, and repose of life itself. We all like to sit back and observe, especially when a character is unfolding itself.

In the monologue as well as in the play there is no direct teaching.

Things happen as in life, and we see the action of a thought upon a certain mind and do our own exhorting or preaching.

The monologue adapts itself to all kinds of characters and to every species of theme. It does not require a plot, or even a great struggle, as in the case of the play. Attention is fixed upon one individual; we are led into the midst of the natural situations of every-day life, and receive with great force the impressions which events, ideas, or other characters make upon a specific type of man.

Eugene Field often makes children talk in monologues. Some persons have criticized Field's children's poems and said they were not for children at all. This is true, and Field no doubt intended it so. He made his children talk naturally and freely, as if to each other, but not as they would talk to older people.

"Jes' 'Fore Christmas" is true to a boy's character, but we must be careful in choosing a listener. The boy would not speak in this way to an audience, to the family at the dinner table, nor to any one but a confidant. He must have, in fact, a Hennessey,--possibly some other boy, or, more likely, some hired man.

It is a mistake, unfortunately a common one, to give such a poem as a speech to an audience. It is not a speech, but only one end of a conversation. It is almost lyric in its portrayal of feeling, but still it concerns human action and the relations of persons to each other.

Therefore, it is primarily dramatic, and a monologue. The words must be considered as spoken to some confidential listener.

A proper conception of the monologue produces a higher appreciation of the work of Field. As monologues, his poems are always consistent and beautiful. When considered as mere stories for children, their artistic form has been misconceived, and interpreters of them with this conception have often failed.

Even "Little Boy Blue," a decided lyric, has a definite speaker, and the objects described and the events indicated are intensely as well as dramatically realized. Notice the abrupt transitions, the sudden changes in feeling. It is more easily rendered with a slight suggestion of a sympathetic listener.

Many persons regard James Whitcomb Riley's "Knee-deep in June" as a lyric; but has it enough unconsciousness for this? To me it is far more flexible and spontaneous when considered as a monologue. The interpreter of the poem can make longer pauses. He can so identify himself with the character as to give genial and hearty laughter, and thus indicate dramatically the sudden arrival of ideas. To reveal the awakening of an idea is the very soul of spontaneous expression, and such awakening is nearly always dramatic. So in the following conception, what a sudden, joyous discovery can be made of

"Mr. Blue Jay full o' sa.s.s, In them base-ball cloes o' hisn."

Notice also the sudden breaks in transition that can be indicated in

"Blue birds' nests tucked up there Conveniently for the boy 'at's apt to be Up some other apple tree."

Notice after "to be" how he suddenly enjoys the birds' cunning and laughs for the moment at the boys' failure. You can accentuate, too, his dramatic feeling for May and "'bominate its promises" with more decision and point.

The "you" in this poem and the frequent imperatives indicate the conception in the author's mind of a speaker and a sympathetic companion out in the fields in June. It certainly detracts from the simplicity, dramatic intensity, naturalness, and spontaneity to make of it a kind of address to an audience. The same is true of the "Liztown Humorist,"

"Kingsby's Mill," "Joney," and many others which are usually considered and rendered as stories. They are monologues. Possibly a completer t.i.tle for them would be lyric monologues.

While the interpreter of these monologues can easily turn his auditors into a sympathetic and familiar group who might stand for his listener, he can transport them in imagination to the right situation; and while this is often done by interpreters with good effect, to my mind this does not change their character as monologues.

Granting, however, that some of Riley's poems are more or less speeches, it must be admitted that he has written some definite and formal poems which cannot be so conceived. "Nothin' to Say," for example, is one of the most decided and formal monologues found anywhere. In this the listener

NOTHIN' TO SAY

Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!-- Gyrls that's in love, I've noticed, ginerly has their way!

Yer mother did afore you, when her folks objected to me-- Yit here I am, and here you air; and yer mother--where is she?

You look lots like yer mother: Purty much same in size; And about the same complected; and favor about the eyes: Like her, too, about her _livin_ here,--because _she_ couldn't stay: It'll 'most seem like you was dead--like her!--But I hain't got nothin'

to say!

She left you her little Bible--writ yer name acrost the page-- And left her ear-bobs fer you, ef ever you come of age.

I've allus kep' 'em and gyuarded 'em, but ef yer goin' away-- Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!

You don't rikollect her, I reckon? No; you wasn't a year old then!

And now yer--how old air you? W'y, child, not "_twenty!_" When?

And yer nex' birthday's in Aprile? and you want to git married that day?

... I wisht yer mother was livin'!--But--I hain't got nothin' to say!

Twenty year! and as good a gyrl as parent ever found.

There's a straw ketched onto yer dress there--I'll bresh it off--turn round.

(Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away!) Nothin' to say, my daughter! Nothin' at all to say!

can be as definitely located as the speaker. To conceal his own tears, the speaker turns or stops and pretends to brush off a straw caught on his daughter's dress. We have here in this monologue also something unusual, but very suggestive and strictly dramatic,--an aside wherein he evidently turns away from his daughter--

("Her mother was jes' twenty when us two run away.")

Since the daughter is definitely located as listener and the other speeches are spoken to her, this can be given easily as a contrast, as an aside to himself, and a slight turn of the body will serve to emphasize, even as an aside often does in a play, the location of the daughter, and the speaker's relation to her. The sentiment also serves to emphasize the character of the speaker.

In "Griggsby's Station" we have a most decided monologue. Who is speaking, and to whom is the monologue addressed? Is the speaker the daughter in a family suddenly grown rich, talking to her mother? The character of the speaker and of the listener must be definitely conceived and carefully suggested in order to give truth to the rendering or even to realize its meaning.

The same is true regarding many of Holman Day's stories in his "Up in Maine," and other books. With hardly any exception these are best rendered as monologues.

Many of the poems of Sam Walter Foss and other popular writers of the present are monologues. The homelike characters demand sympathetic listeners, who are, by implication, of the same general type and character as the speaker. Even "The House by the Side of the Road" is better given with the spirit of the monologue. It is too personal, too dramatic, to be turned into a speech.

Again, notice Mrs. Piatt's "Sometime," and a dozen examples in Webb's "Vagrom Verse"; also "With Lead and Line along Varying Sh.o.r.es"; and in Oscar Fay Adams's "Sicut Patribus," where you would hardly expect monologues, you find that "At Bay" and "Conrad's Choir" have the form of monologues.

Many monologues in our popular writers seem at first simple and without the formal and definite construction of those employed by Browning, yet after careful examination we feel that the conception of the monologue has slowly taken possession of our writers, it may be unconsciously, and that the true interpretation of many of the most popular poems demands from the reader a dramatic conception.

For the comprehension of any monologue, those points where the speaker is directly affected by the hearer need especial attention. The speaker occasionally echoes the words of his hearer. Mrs. Caudle, for instance, often quotes the words of her spouse, and these were printed by Douglas Jerrold in italics and even in separate paragraphs. "For the love of mercy let you sleep?" for example, was thus printed to emphasize the interruption by Caudle. These words would be echoed by her with affected surprise. Then she would pour out her sarcasm: "Mercy indeed; I wish you would show a little of it to other people." In most authors these echoed speeches are indicated by quotation marks. Browning sometimes has words in parentheses. Note "(What 'cicada'? Pooh!)" in "A Tale." "Cicada" was certainly spoken by the listener, but the other words in the parentheses and other parentheses in this monologue are more personal remarks by the speaker. They have reference, however, to the listener's att.i.tude.

In some cases Browning gives no indication by even quotation marks that the speaker is echoing words of the hearer. The att.i.tude of the listener must be varied by the dramatic instinct of the reader. The grasp of the situation greatly depends upon this. It is one of the most important aspects of the dramatic instinct. ("Up at a Villa--Down in the City," see p. 65.) "Why" and "What of a Villa" certainly refers to the words, or at least the att.i.tude, of the listener, which is realized from the manner of the speaker.

In the same poem the question "Is it ever hot in the square?" may be the echo of a word or a thought of the listener. In this case the speaker would answer it more abruptly and positively when he says, "There is a fountain to spout and splash." If, on the contrary, the thought is his own, and comes up naturally in his mind as one of the points in his description or as a result of living over his experience down in the city, he would give it less abruptly, with less force or emphasis. In general, a quotation or the echo of the words of a listener are given by the speaker with a different manner.

Tennyson, though the fact is often overlooked, has written many monologues.

Some readers give "Lady Clara Vere de Vere" as a mere story. Is there, then, no thought of the character of the yeoman who is talking with burning indignation at the death of his friend?

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town.

At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred earls, You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came.

Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms.

A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats of arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind.

You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply.

The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.