Browning and the Dramatic Monologue Part 19

That's the tale: its application?

Somebody I know Hopes one day for reputation Thro' his poetry that's--Oh, All so learned and so wise And deserving of a prize!

If he gains one, will some ticket, When his statue's built, Tell the gazer "'Twas a cricket Helped my crippled lyre, whose lilt Sweet and low, when strength usurped Softness' place i' the scale, she chirped?

"For as victory was nighest, While I sang and played,-- With my lyre at lowest, highest, Right alike,--one string that made 'Love' sound soft was snapt in twain, Never to be heard again,--

"Had not a kind cricket fluttered, Perched upon the place Vacant left, and duly uttered 'Love, Love, Love,' whene'er the ba.s.s Asked the treble to atone For its somewhat sombre drone."

But you don't know music! Wherefore Keep on casting pearls To a--poet? All I care for Is--to tell him that a girl's "Love" comes aptly in when gruff Grows his singing. (There, enough!)

We have a suggestion of the position of the speaker, a woman upon the arm of the chair of her lover or husband. How pointed and simple is the first statement: "Scold me!" an apology for not remembering or for not having given more attention. The humorous or pretended effort to remember whether it was prose or rhyme, Greek or Latin, is given by slow, gradual inflections followed by a marked, abrupt inflection upon the word "Greek,"

as if she were absolutely sure of that point and her memory of it definite. Again, note toward the last, how the impression of his pretending not to understand causes her to give a humorous and abrupt emphasis to the point of her story.

The flexibility and great variety in the modulations of the voice requisite in the interpretation of a monologue will be made clear by comparing such a monologue with some short poem which suggests a speech.

Byron's "To Tom Moore," though there is one speaker, is not a monologue.

"My boat is on the sh.o.r.e, And my bark is on the sea; But before I go, Tom Moore, Here's a double health to thee."

It is a kind of after-dinner speech, or lyric full of feeling, an imaginative proposal by Byron of a health to Tom Moore. But Moore is not expected to say anything. Byron is dominated entirely by his own mood. It is therefore quite lyric and not at all dramatic. Note how intense but regular are the rhythmic pulsations, the pause and the touch. While there are changes of pitch and inflection, variety of movement and tone-color, yet all of these are used in a very simple and ordinary sense. There is none of that extreme use of inflection, pause or tone-color found in Browning's "Memorabilia."

The difference between the modulations of the voice in a monologue and in a play should be noted. Take, for example, the words of the Archbishop in "Henry V" regarding the character of the King. They are addressed to friends in conversation and are almost a speech. They have the force of a judicial decision and are given with a great deal of emphasis as well as with logical continuity of ideas. But this emphasis is regular and simple.

It can be noted in any animated or emphatic conversation, and the argument of the speech may be studied to advantage by speakers on account of the few and salient or emphatic ideas.

In rendering some monologues, however, which embody the same ideas, such as the "Memorabilia" (see p. 160), which has been made the central ill.u.s.tration of this chapter, greater range, greater abruptness in transitions, more and greater complexity of the modulations of the voice as well as sudden and strong impressions are required of the reader. He should read both pa.s.sages in contrast, and note the difference in delivery.

One distinct peculiarity of the monologue is the fact that it can give a past event from a dramatic point of view. Note, for example, that in Jean Ingelow's familiar poem, "The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolns.h.i.+re," the first stanza gives us the spirit or movement of the whole poem. The first line,

"The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,"

emphasizes the excitement.

A definite situation is set before us, and we can see, too, why the events are given as belonging to the past. A vivid impression of the high tide along the whole coast of Lincolns.h.i.+re is afforded by its relation to one humble cottage and family. An old grandmother tells the story long after the events have blended in her mind into one lasting tragic impression.

This brings the whole poem into unity, makes a distinct, concrete picture and a most impressive poetic, not to say dramatic, interpretation of the event.

The author by presenting this old mother talking about her beloved daughter-in-law, Elizabeth, with "her two bairns," and the excited race of the son to reach home before she went for the cows, appeals to sympathy and feeling, awakens imagination, and presents not only a vivid and specific picture, but such distinct types of character as to make the event real. The poem is a fine example of the union of lyric and dramatic imagination.

The speaker becomes more and more excited and animated as she gives her memories of the successive events, but in the midst of each event relapses into grief. Again and again at the close of stanzas, a single clause or line indicates her emotion, rather than her memory of the exciting events.

The event is portrayed dramatically, but these last lines are decidedly lyric. After the excited calling of "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" by her son the very name seems to awaken tenderness in her heart, and she utters this deep lyric conviction:--

"A sweeter woman n'er drew breath Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth."

The son, when he reaches home after his excited chase to save his wife, looks across the gra.s.sy lea,--

"To right, to left,"

and cries

"Ho, Enderby!"

For at that moment he hears the bells ring "Enderby!" which seem to be the knell of his hopes. The next line,

"They rang 'The Brides of Enderby,'"

expresses the emotion of the grandmother as she recalls the effect of the bells upon her son, and possibly her own awakening to the meaning of the tune which has taken such deep hold of her imagination, and becomes naturally the central point of the calamity in her memory.

The poem brings into direct contrast the excited realization of each event and her feeling over the disaster as a whole. The first is dramatic; the second, lyric. The mother realizes dramatically her son's exclamations and feelings, but the line

"They rang 'The Brides of Enderby'"

is purely lyric and expressive of her own feeling in remembrance of the danger.

The climax of the dramatic movement of the story comes in the intense realization of the personal danger to herself and her son when they saw the mighty tidal wave rolling up the river Lindis, which

"Sobbed in the gra.s.ses at our feet: The feet had hardly time to flee Before it brake against the knee."

Then the poet does not mention the son's efforts in her behalf, the flight to the roof of their dwelling in the midst of the waves, and makes a sudden transition again from the dramatic situation to the lyric spirit as she moans with no thought of herself:

"And all the world was in the sea."

Another sudden transition in the poem is indicated by a mere dash after "And I--" Starting to relate her own experience with a loving mother's instinct she turns instead to the grief of her son,--

"... my sonne was at my side, And yet he moaned beneath his breath."

This is followed by another pa.s.sionate dramatic climax,--

"And didst thou visit him no more?

Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare, The waters laid thee at his doore, Ere yet the early dawn was clear.

Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, The lifted sun shone on thy face, Down drifted to thy dwelling-place."

Here feeling is deepest in the speaker, and in the listener, and, of course, in the reader. The rest of the poem is a sweet and mournful lyric:

"I shall never hear her more Where the reeds and rushes quiver."

The poem closes with a crooning over Elizabeth's song as the aged woman heard it for the last time.

Many public readers centre their whole interest in the imitation or mere representation of this song, and all the fervor of the piece is made accidental to this. But such a method centres all attention in mere vocal skill, to the loss, if not to the perversion of its spirit. This song must not be given literally, but in the character of the aged speaker. It lives in the old mother's mind as a heart-breaking memory, and any artificial or literal rendering of it destroys the illusion or the true impression of the poem. It should be given in a very subdued tone with the least possible suggestion, if any at all, of the music of the song.

The first stanza is apt also to be given out of character. It is a burst of pa.s.sionate remembrance and must be given carefully as the overture embodying the spirit of the whole. When the grandmother is asked by the interlocutor regarding the story, she breaks into sudden excitement, and then gradually pa.s.ses into the quieter mood of reminiscence. After that, the poem is rhythmic alternation between her memory of the exciting events, and her own experiences; in short, a co-ordination of the lyric and the dramatic spirit.

The study of this poem affords a fine ill.u.s.tration of movement,--similar to that of a great symphony. The long pauses, sudden transitions in pitch and color, and especially the pulsations of feeling, when given in harmony ill.u.s.trate the marvellous power of the human voice.

XI. ACTIONS OF MIND AND BODY

As the monologue is a form of dramatic expression, it necessarily implies action,--the most dramatic of all languages. Dramatic expression, in its very nature, implies life, and life is shown by movement. For this reason action is in some sense the primary or most necessary language required for dramatic interpretation.