Browning and the Dramatic Monologue Part 13

Vividly he describes the first entrance of the d.u.c.h.ess into the old castle and her desire to transfigure it all, as was her right, into the beauty and loveliness of a home; and how she was shut up, entirely idle.

As a partic.i.p.ant in the hunting scene, he describes the bringing out of ancestral articles of clothing, the tugging on of old jack-boots, and the putting on of discarded articles of medieval dress. What a touch regarding the experiences of the Duke's tailor! Then follows the long study as to the role the d.u.c.h.ess should play,--she, of course, being supposed to sit idly awaiting it, whatever it might be. When, to the astonishment of the Duke, she refuses the part, his cruelty and that of his mother is shown in the fearful description of the latter's tongue. At last they leave the d.u.c.h.ess alone to become aware of her sins.

What pictures does the servant paint! The old gypsy crone sidles up to the Duke as he is riding off to the hunt. He gives no response until she says she has come to pay her respects to the new d.u.c.h.ess. Then his face lights up, and he whispers in her ear and tells her of the fright she is to give the d.u.c.h.ess; and beckoning a servant,--the speaker in the monologue, sends him as her guide.

This man, as he guides the old woman toward the castle, sees her become transfigured before him. Later he, with Jacinth, his sweetheart, waits outside on the balcony until, awakened by her crooning song, he becomes aware that the gypsy is bewitching the d.u.c.h.ess. Yet, when his mistress issues forth, a changed woman, with transfigured face and a look of determination, he obeys her least motion, brings her palfrey, and thus aids in her escape. Browning gives a characteristic final touch, and we see this man gazing into the distance and expressing his determination soon to leave all and go forth into the wide world to find the lost d.u.c.h.ess.

The theme of all art is to interpret impressions or to produce upon the human heart an adequate impression of events and of truth. Dramatic art has always led the other arts in its power to present the motives of different characters, show the various processes of pa.s.sion pa.s.sing into action, the consequences of action, or the working of the complex elements of a human character.

Professor Dowden in his recent life of Browning, in endeavoring to explain the peculiarities of Browning's plays, makes an important point, which is still more applicable to the dramatic form which he calls "the short monodrama," but which I call the monologue. "Dramatic, in the sense that he (Browning) created and studied minds and hearts other than his own, he pre-eminently was; if he desired to set forth or to vindicate his most intimate ideas or impulses, he effected this indirectly, by detaching them from his own personality and giving them a brain and a heart other than his own in which to live and move and have their being. There is a kind of dramatic art which we may term static, and another kind which we may term dynamic. The former deals especially with characters in position, the latter with characters in movement. Pa.s.sion and thought may be exhibited and interpreted by dramatic genius of either type; to represent pa.s.sion and thought and action--action incarnating and developing thought and pa.s.sion--the dynamic power is required. And by action we are to understand not merely a visible deed, but also a word, a feeling, an idea, which has in it a direct operative force. The dramatic genius of Browning was in the main of the static kind; it studies with extraordinary skill and subtlety character in position; it attains only an imperfect or labored success with character in movement" ("Browning," by Edward Dowden, p. 53).

The expression "static dramatic" is more applicable to Browning's plays, paradoxical as it may seem, than to his monologues. The monologues are full of dynamic force. Even Dowden himself speaks in another place of "Muleykeh," and calls it "one of the most delightful of Browning's later poems, uniting as it does the poetry of swift motion with the poetry of high-hearted pa.s.sion." Browning certainly does in many of his monologues suggest most decided action. The expression "static" must be understood as referring to the dramatic elements or manifestations of character, which result from situation and thinking rather than through action and plot.

If the scope of dramatic art be confined to a formal play with its unity of action among many characters, with its introduction, slow development, explosion, and catastrophe, then the monologue must have a very subordinate place. The dramatic element, however, is in reality much broader than this. It is not a mere invention of a poet, but the expression of a phase of life. This may be open, the result of a conflict on the street, or concealed, the result of deep emotions and motives. It may be the outward and direct effect of one human being upon another, or the result of unconscious influence.

Nor is it mere external action, mere conflicts of men in opposition to each other that reveal character. Its fundamental revelations are found in thinking and feeling. Whatever method or literary form can reveal or interpret the thought, emotion, motive, or bearing of a soul in a specific situation, is dramatic. The essence of the dramatic spirit is seen when Shakespeare presents Macbeth thinking alone, after speaking to a servant:--

"Go, bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed."

While waiting for this signal that all is ready, Shakespeare uncovers the conflicts of a soul about to commit a crime. The inner excitement, the roused imagination and feeling, the chaotic whirl of thoughts and pa.s.sions reveal the nature of the human conscience. What would Macbeth be to us without the soliloquies? What would the play of "Hamlet" be without the uncoverings of Hamlet's inmost thought when alone? Nay, what is the essence of the spirit of Shakespeare, the most dramatic of all poets? Not the plots, frequently borrowed and always very simple, but the uncovering of souls. He makes men think and feel before us. The unities of time, place, and action are all transcended by a higher unity of character. It is because Shakespeare reveals the thinking and feeling heart that he is the supreme dramatic poet.

No spectacular show, no mere plot, however involved, no mere record of events, however thrilling, interprets human character. Nor does dramatic art centre in any stage or formal play, nor is the play dramatic unless it centres in thinking and reveals the att.i.tude of the mind. The dramatic element in art shows the result of soul in conflict with soul; and more than this, it implies the revelation of a soul only half conscious of its motives and the meaning of life, revealing indirectly its fiercest battles, its truest nature.

VIII. HISTORY OF THE MONOLOGUE

A glance over English literature shows us the fact that the monologue was no sudden invention of Browning's, but that it has been gradually developed, and is a natural form, as natural as the play. A genuine form of poetry is never invented. It is a mode of expressing the fundamental life of man, and while authors may develop it, bring it to perfection, and make it a means for their "criticism of life," we can always find hints of the same form in the works of other authors, nations, and ages.

If we examine the monologue carefully, comparing it with various poems, ancient and modern, we shall find that the form has been long since antic.i.p.ated, and was simply carried to perfection by Browning. It is not artificial nor mechanical, but natural and necessary for the presentation of certain phases of experience.

The monologue, as has already been shown, is closely akin to the lyric; hence, among lyric poems we find in all ages some which are monologues in spirit. If criticism is to appreciate this form and its function in literary expression, and show that it is the outcome of advancement in culture and of the necessity for a broader realization of human nature, some attention should be given to its early examples.

If we go no farther back than English poetry, and in this only to Sir Thomas Wyatt (b. 1503) we find that "The Lover's Appeal" has some of the characteristics of a monologue. The words are spoken by a distinct character directly to a specific hearer.

"And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay! say nay! for shame, To save thee from the blame Of all my grief and shame.

And wilt thou leave me thus?

Say nay! say nay!"

Marlowe's "The Pa.s.sionate Shepherd to His Love," beginning--

"Come live with me and be my love,"

also represents a lover talking to his beloved. In reading it we should picture their relations to each other. The poem may be spoilt by introducing a transcendence of the dramatic element. It is a simple lyric.

The shepherd is idealized, and expresses the universal love of the human heart. Still it is not the kind of love that one would directly express to an audience. The reader will instinctively imagine his character and his hearer, and, if reading to others, will unconsciously place her a little to the side. This objective element aids lyric expression. To address it to an audience, as some public readers do, implies that the loving youth is a Mormon.

Both these poems imply two characters, one speaking, one listening, and an adequate interpretation of each poem must suggest a feeling between two human beings.

In Sir Walter Raleigh's "Reply to Marlowe's Shepherd," the positions of the listener and the speaker are simply reversed.

These poems are, of course, lyrics. They may be said by any lover. The emotion is everything. The situation or idea is simple. The expression of intense personal feeling predominates, and the impetuous, spontaneous movement of pa.s.sion subordinates or eliminates all conception of character. Still, though primarily lyrics, in form these poems are monologues. In each there is one person directly addressing another. In the expression of these lyrics, we find the naturalness of the situation represented by a monologue.

While "The Pa.s.sionate Shepherd to his Love" is one of the distinctive lyrics in the language, yet the intense realization of the object loved will cause the sympathetic interpreter to turn a little away from the audience. The subjective and personal elements in the poem awaken emotion so exalted in its nature that the speaker is unconscious of all except his beloved.

Still there is a slight objective element. The words are spoken by a shepherd in love and are addressed directly, at least in imagination, to his beloved. But when not carried too far or made dramatic and other than lyric, this monologue element may be an aid, not a hindrance; it may intensify the expression of the lyric feeling.

Such poems, which are very common, may be called monologue lyrics or lyrical monologues. They show the naturalness of the form of the monologue, its unconscious use, its gradual recognition, and completion.

Forms of poetry are complemental to each other, and one who tries to be merely dramatic without appreciating the lyric spirit becomes theatric.

In rendering such lyrics, the turning aside demands greater intensity of lyric feeling, otherwise it is better that they be given with simple directness to the audience.

"Why so pale and wan, fond lover?

Prythee, why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her, Looking ill prevail?

Prythee, why so pale?

"Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her, Saying nothing do't?

Prythee, why so mute?

"Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her; If of herself she will not love, Nothing can make her: The D--l take her!"

This poem implies a speaker who is laughing at a lover, and both speaker and listener remain distinct. Its rendering seems dramatic. Its jollity and good nature must be strongly emphasized and it must be directly addressed to the lover. It is still lyric, however, because the ideas and feelings are more p.r.o.nounced than any distinct type of character, in either the speaker or the listener.

The same is true of Michael Drayton's "Come, let us kiss and part." This implies a situation still more dramatic. The characters of the speaker and the listener seem to be brought in immediate contact, revealing not only intense feeling, but something of their peculiarities.

"Since there's no help, come, let us kiss and part; Nay, I have done, you get no more of me; And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart That thus so cleanly I myself can free; Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows; And when we meet at any time again, Be it not seen in either of our brows That we one jot of former love retain.-- Now at the last gasp of Love's latest breath, When his pulse failing, pa.s.sion speechless lies, When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, And Innocence is closing up his eyes, Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over, From death to life thou might'st him yet recover."

Burns's "John Anderson, my Jo" has possibly more of the elements of a monologue. We must conceive the character of an old Scottish wife, enter into sympathy with her love for her "Jo," and fully express this to him.

Her love is the theme. Yet it is not the feeling of any lover, but instead, that of an aged wife, a n.o.ble, a faithful and loving character of a specific type.

Still, though the poem can be rendered dramatically, in dialect, and with the conception of a specific type of woman, the poet realized the emotion as universal, and the specific picture is furnished only as a kind of objective means of showing the n.o.bleness of love. Some persons, in rendering it, make it so subjective that they represent the woman as talking to a mental picture of her husband, rather than to his actual presence. But it would seem that some dramatic interpretation is necessary. We do not identify ourselves completely with the thought and feeling, but rather with her situation or point of view as the source of the feeling, and certainly it may be rendered with the interest centred in her character.

Many other poems of Burns's have a dramatic element. The failure to recognize some of his poems as monologues has possibly been the cause of some of the adverse criticism upon him. He was not insincere in "Afton Water." It is not a personal love poem. In fact, it expresses admiration for nature more than any other emotion. The Mary in this poem is an imaginary being. Dr. Currie was no doubt correct when he said the poem was written in honor of Mrs. Stewart of Stair. It may also be in honor of Highland Mary, as the poet's brother, Gilbert, thought. The two views will not seem inconsistent to one who knows Burns's custom in writing his poems.

Burns frequently used this indirect or dramatic method. In situations calling only for the expression of simple friends.h.i.+p, he adopted the manner of a lover pouring out his feelings to his beloved, and many poems which are nothing more than celebrations of friendly and kindly relations are yet conceived as uttered by a lover.

One of his last poems, written, in fact, when he was on his death-bed, was addressed to Jessie Lewars, the sister of a brother exciseman, a young girl who took care of the poet and of his sick wife and family during his last illness, and without whose kindness the dying poet would have lacked many comforts. In writing this poem, however, his manner still clung to him, and he expresses his grat.i.tude in the tone of a lover.

"Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee: Or did misfortune's bitter storms Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield should be my bosom, To share it a', to share it a'.

"Or were I in the wildest waste, Of earth and air, of earth and air, The desert were a paradise If thou wert there, if thou wert there.

Or were I monarch o' the globe, Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown Wad be my queen, wad be my queen."