Chapter IV: Part I: The Monologue as a Dramatic Form (3)

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by rights,
'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off the heights.
You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen steam and wheeze,
And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees.

Is it better in May, I ask you? you've summer all at once;
In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April suns!
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three fingers well,
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red bell
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick and sell.

Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout and splash!
In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam-bows flash
On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and paddle and pash
Round the lady atop in the conch--fifty gazers do not abash,
Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in a sort of
sash!

All the year long at the villa, nothing's to see though you linger,
Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted forefinger.
Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and mingle
Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle.
Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is shrill,
And the bees keep their tiresome whine round the resinous firs on the
hill.
Enough of the seasons,--I spare you the months of the fever and chill.

Ere you open your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells begin:
No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in:
You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin.
By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets blood, draws
teeth;
Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath.
At the post-office such a scene-picture--the new play, piping hot!
And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves were shot.

Above it, behold the Archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes,
And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new law of the
Duke's!
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So-and-so
Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, Saint Jerome, and Cicero,
"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming,) "the skirts of Saint Paul has
reached,
Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous than ever he
preached."
Noon strikes,--here sweeps the procession! our Lady borne smiling and
smart
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her heart!
_Bang, whang, whang_, goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife;
No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in life.

But bless you, it's dear--it's dear! fowls, wine, at double the rate.
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays passing the gate
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the city!
Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity!
Look, two and two go the priests, then the monks with cowls and sandals,
And the penitents dressed in white shirts, a-holding the yellow candles.
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with handles,
And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better prevention of
scandals.
_Bang, whang, whang_, goes the drum, _tootle-te-tootle_ the fife.
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life!

Of course, there are arguments in favor of placing the "person of quality" in the city near his beloved objects. One of the last lines, beginning "Look, two and two go the priests," seems to imply the discovery and actual presence of the procession. But if Browning had located the speaker in the city, would he not say "here" and not "there," as he does at the end of the third line?

If at the villa, why does he say to his listener, "Well, now, look at our villa!" The fact that he points to it and says,

"stuck like the horn of a bull
Just on a mountain's edge,"

seems to imply, though in plain sight of it, that he is some distance away. Again, if at the villa, how can he discover the procession?

Was the monologue spoken during a walk? We can easily imagine the "person of quality" and his companion starting from the villa and talking while coming down into the city. But this is hardly possible, because when Browning changes his situation in this way, he always suggests definitely the stages of the journey. He never makes a mistake regarding the location or situation of his characters. His conceptions are so dramatic that he is always consistent regarding his characters and the situations or points of view they occupy. However obscure he may be in other points, he never confuses time and place or dramatic situation.

Is it not best to imagine him as having walked out with a friend to some point where the villa above and the city below are both clearly visible? And as the humor of the monologue consists in the impressions which the two places make upon the speaker, the contrasts are sharp and sudden. In such a position we can distinctly realize him now looking with longing towards the city that he loves and then turning with disgust and contempt towards the villa he despises.

Possibly his listener is located on the side towards the villa, as that unknown and almost unnoticed personage seems once or twice, at least, to make a mild defence. That his listener does not wholly agree with him, is indicated by "Why?" at the end of the eleventh line, to which he replies, heaping encomiums upon the city, careless of the fact that his arguments would make any lover of beauty smile: "Houses in four straight lines."

"And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted properly."

"What of a villa?" may also be an echo of the listener's question or remark, or apply to a look expressive of his attitude of mind. "Is it ever hot in the square?" suggests some satire on his part. The listener, however, is barely noticed, as the speaker seems to scorn the slightest opposition or expression of opinion.

In such a position, we can easily imagine him with the whole city at his feet in sufficiently plain view to allow him to discover enough of the procession to waken memory and enthusiasm, and bring all up as a present reality. The procession can be easily imagined as starting from some convent outside the walls and appearing below them on its way to town. All the facts of the procession need not be discovered. It is a scene he has often observed and delighted in, and distance would lend enchantment to the speaker and serve as the climax of his enthusiasm, as he portrayed to his less responsive friend the details of the procession.

Some of his references to both villa and city are certainly from memory. For example, the different sights and sounds that he has seen and heard from time to time in the city, such as the "diligence," the "scene-picture at the post-office."

The spirit of the monologue, the enthusiasm and exultation over what gives anything but pleasure to others, requires such a character as will enjoy "the travelling doctor" who "gives pills, lets blood, draws teeth." Notice Browning's touch for the reformers, he makes such a man rejoice at the news, "only this morning three liberal thieves were shot." The "liberal thieves" are doubtless three Italian reformers who had been trying to deliver their country. It is possible to imagine the procession as wholly from memory, and "noon strikes" to be simply a part of his imagination and exultation. How gaily he skips as our Lady, the Madonna, is

"borne smiling and smart,
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords stuck in her
heart!"

He has no conception of the symbol of the seven deadly sins, but dances away at the music, "No keeping one's haunches still." Later, however, when he exclaims to his listener, "Look," he seems to make an actual discovery. Does he start as he actually sees a procession in the distance? A real one coming before him would give life and variety to the monologue. Browning intentionally leaves the conceptions gradually to dawn in the imagination. The doubts, and the questions which may be asked, have been dwelt upon in order to emphasize the point that the speaker must be conceived in a definite situation. When once a situation is located, this will modify some of the shades of feeling and expression.

The point, then, is, that a reader or interpreter must conceive the speaker as occupying a definite place, and when this is done, the position will determine somewhat the feeling and the expression. Difference in situation causes many differences in action and in voice modulations. Whatever location, therefore, the reader decides upon, everything else must be consistent with it.

One point in this monologue may be especially obscure, where reference is made to the city being "dear!" "fowls, wine, at double the rate." I was one of three in a carriage who were once stopped at a gate in Florence and examined to see whether we carried any "salt," "oil," or anything on which there was a tax, which, according to the owner of the villa, "is a horror to think of." Some Italian cities do not have free trade with the surrounding country; food stuffs are taxed upon "passing the gate," thus making life in the city more expensive. And here is the reason why this man sadly mourns:

"And so, the villa for me, not the city!
Beggars can scarcely be choosers: but still--ah, the pity, the pity!"

Whatever may be said regarding Browning's obscurity, however far he may have gone into the most technical knowledge of science in any department of life, however remote his allusions to events or objects or lines of knowledge which are unfamiliar to the world, there is one thing about which he is always definite, possibly more definite than any other writer. In every monologue we can find an indication of the place or situation in which the monologue is located.

Browning has given us one monologue which takes place during a walk, "A Grammarian's Funeral." The speaker is one of the band carrying the body of his master from the "common crofts," and so he is represented as looking up to the top of the hill and talking about the appropriateness of burying the master on the hilltop. Browning's intimate knowledge of Greek was shown by the phrase "gave us the doctrine of the enclitic _De_." The London "Times" criticized this severely when the poem was published, saying that with all respect to Mr. Browning, there was no such enclitic. Browning answered in a note that proved his fine scholarship, and called attention to the fact that this was the point in dispute which the grammarian had tried to settle.

Even the stages of the journey are shown,

"Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place
Gaping before us."

In another place he says,

"Caution redoubled,
Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly!"

while all the time he pours out his tribute to his master:

"Oh, if we draw a circle premature
Heedless of far gain,
Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure
Bad is our bargain!...
That low man seeks a little thing to do,
Sees it and does it:
This high man, with a great thing to pursue,
Dies ere he knows it.
That low man goes on adding one to one,
His hundred's soon hit:
This high man, aiming at a million,
Misses an unit.
That, has the world here--should he need the next,
Let the world mind him!
This, throws himself on God, and unperplexed
Seeking, shall find him."

Then, when they arrive at the top, he says,

"Well, here's the platform, here's the proper place,"

and addressing the birds,

"All ye highfliers of the feathered race,"

he continues, giving his thoughts, as suggested by the very situation:

"This man decided not to Live but Know--
Bury this man there?
Here, here's his place, where meteors shoot, clouds form,
Lightnings are loosened,
Stars come and go! Let joy break with the storm,
Peace let the dew send!
Lofty designs must close in like effects:
Loftily lying,
Leave him, still loftier than the world suspects,
Living and dying."

Browning's "At the 'Mermaid'" reproduces a scene of historic interest. The inn where Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, and other sympathetic friends used to meet, is presented to the imagination, and Shakespeare is the speaker. Some one has proposed a toast to him as the next poet. Shakespeare protests, and the poem is his answer. Here are shown his modesty, his optimism, his reverence, and his noble views of life. He smilingly points to his works and talks about them to these his friends in a simple, frank way.

"Look and tell me! Written, spoken,
Here's my lifelong work: and where--
Where's your warrant or my token
I'm the dead king's son and heir?

"Here's my work: does work discover--
What was rest from work--my life?
Did I live man's hater, lover?
Leave the world at peace, at strife?...

"Blank of such a record, truly,
Here's the work I hand, this scroll,
Yours to take or leave; as duly,
Mine remains the unproffered soul.
So much, no whit more, my debtors--
How should one like me lay claim
To that largest elders, betters
Sell you cheap their souls for--fame?...

"Have you found your life distasteful?
My life did, and does, smack sweet.
Was your youth of pleasure wasteful?
Mine I saved and hold complete.
Do your joys with age diminish?
When mine fail me, I'll complain.
Must in death your daylight finish?
My sun sets to rise again....

"My experience being other,
How should I contribute verse
Worthy of your king and brother?
Balaam-like I bless, not curse.
I find earth not gray, but rosy,
Heaven not grim, but fair of hue.
Do I stoop? I pluck a posy.
Do I stand and stare? All's blue....

"Meanwhile greet me--'friend, good fellow,
Gentle Will,' my merry men!
As for making Envy yellow
With 'Next Poet'--(Manners, Ben!)"

It is difficult to imagine any other situation, any other place, any other group of friends, chosen by Browning, that would have been more favorable to the frank unfolding by Shakespeare of the motives which underlie his work and his character. This any one may recognize, whatever his opinions may be regarding the success of this monologue.

The poem is meaningless without a grasp of the situation. "Manners, Ben!" at the close is a protest against Ben's drinking too soon. Is this a delicate hint at Ben's habits? Or was his beginning to drink a method by which Browning suggests a comment of Ben's to the effect that Shakespeare talked too much?

Browning here brings out the true Shakespeare spirit, not, of course, to the satisfaction of those who have their hobbies and systems and consider Shakespeare the only poet, but to others who wish to comprehend the real man.

Douglas Jerrold has indicated the situation of his series of monologues in the title, "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures." The mind easily pictures an old-fashioned bed, the draperies drawn around it, with Mr. and Mrs. Caudle retired to rest. Mrs. Caudle seizes this moment when she has her busy spouse at her mercy. Before she falls asleep, she refers to his various shortcomings and fully discusses future contingencies or consequences of his evil deeds as a kind of slumber song for poor Caudle. The imagination distinctly sees Caudle holding himself still, trying to go to sleep. No word can relieve the tension of his mind, and Mrs. Caudle monopolizes all the conversation. Caudle is exercising those powers which Epictetus says that "God has given us by which we can keep ourselves calm and reposeful, as Socrates did, without change of face under the most trying circumstances."

A study of any monologue will furnish an illustration of situation, but we are naturally, in the study of the subject, led back again to Browning.

In his "Andrea del Sarto," we are introduced to a scene common in the lives of artists. It has grown too dark to paint, and, dropping his brush, the painter sits in the gray twilight and talks with his wife, who serves him as a model, and muses over his work and his life. No one can fully appreciate the poem who has not been in a studio at some such moment when the artist stopped work and came out of his absorption to talk to those dear to him. At such a time the artist will be personal, will criticize himself severely, and throw out hints of what he has tried to do, of his higher aims, visions, and possibilities, and, while showing appreciation of what other artists have said of him, will recognize, also, the mistakes and failures of his art or life. It is the unfolding of a sensitive soul, a transition from a world of ideals, imaginations, and visions, to one of reality.

Nowhere else in poetry has any author so fully caught the essence of such an hour. Nowhere else can there be found art criticism equal to this self-revelation of the artist who is called "the faultless painter." What a revelation! What might he have done! What has he been! What a woman is beside him, his greatest curse, but one whose willing slave he recognizes himself to be! What a weak acquiescence, and what a fall!

Notice also the abrupt beginning: "But do not let us quarrel any more." She is asking ostensibly for money for her "cousin," but really, to pay the gambling debts of one of her lovers. He grants her request, but pleads that she stay with him in his loneliness and promises to work harder, and again and again in his criticism of himself, of his very perfection, even while he shows Raphael's weakness in drawing, he hints that there is something in the others not in him. In fact, he recognizes one of the deepest principles of life, as well as art, and exclaims,

"Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's heaven for? All is silver-gray,
Placid and perfect with my art: the worse!"

He reveals his deep grief, how he dare not venture abroad all day lest the French nobles in the city should recognize him and deal with him for having used for himself--or rather for his wife, to build her a house, at her entreaty--the money which had been given by Francis for the purchase of pictures and for his return to Paris. And yet we find a weak soul's acquiescence in fate--

"All is as God o'errules."

How sympathetically does Browning reproduce the painter's point of view in--

"... why, there's my picture ready made,
There's what we painters call our harmony!
A common grayness silvers everything,--
All in a twilight."

Or again:

"... let me sit
The gray remainder of the evening out."

While this poem is recognized as a great art criticism, its spirit can be realized only by one recognizing the dramatic situation and appreciating the delicate suggestions of the atmosphere of a studio and of time and place in relation to an artist's life.

One of the finest situations in Browning's verse is that in "La Saisiaz." The poet has an appointment to climb a mountain with one of his friends, a Miss Smith, daughter of one of the firm of Smith, Elder & Co., but when the time comes, she is dead. The other, himself, keeps the appointment, walks up alone, and pausing on the height, utters aloud his reflections upon the immortality of the soul.

The poem is none the less a monologue because it is Browning himself that speaks, and because the friend of whom and to whom he speaks has just passed to the unseen world. She whom he had expected as his companion in this climb is so near to him as to be almost literally realized as a listener. The poem fulfils the conditions of a monologue: a living soul intensely realizing a thought and situation with relation to another soul.

It is hardly possible to exaggerate the importance of situation in art. It is the situation that gives us the background. An isolated object can hardly be made the subject of a work of art. Art is relation, and shows the kinship of things. "It is where the bird is," said Hunt, "that makes the bird."

V. TIME AND CONNECTION

The monologue touches only indirectly the progressive development of character as regards time. It deals with only one instant, the present, which reflects the past and the future. But for this very reason its aspect differs from that of the drama, since it focuses attention upon the instant and reveals motives, possibilities, and even results. The monologue is not "still-life" in any sense of the word. In an instant's flash it may show the turning point of a life.

The most important words in the study of a monologue are usually the first. As a monologue is a sudden vision of a life, it of course breaks into the continuity of thought or discussion. The first words are nearly always spoken in answer to something previously said or in reference to some event or circumstance which is only suggested, yet which must be definitely imagined. One of the most important questions for the student to settle is the connection of what is printed with what is not printed. When does a character begin to speak, that is, in answer to what,--as a result of what event, act, or word?

For this reason the first words of a monologue must usually be delivered slowly and emphatically, if auditors are to be given a clue to the processes of the thought. The inflections and other modulations of the voice in uttering the first words must always directly suggest the connection with what precedes.

"Rabbi Ben Ezra" begins abruptly: "Grow old along with me!" This poem has already been discussed with reference to the necessity of conceiving the listener, but we must also apprehend the thought which the listener has uttered before we can get the speaker's point of view. The young man has, no doubt, expressed pity or regret for the old man's isolation, for the loss of all his friends, and must have remarked something about how gloomy a thing it is to grow old. This is the cause of the older man's outburst of joyous expostulation amounting almost to a rebuke. Now the reader must realize this, must make it appear in the emphasis which he gives to the first words of the Rabbi: that is, he must so render these words as to bring the ideas of the Rabbi in opposition to those of the young man. The antithesis to what has been said or implied gives the keynote of the poem, whether we are interpreting it to another or endeavoring to understand it for ourselves.

We perceive here a striking contrast between the dramatic monologue and the story. The story may begin, "Once upon a time," but the monologue as a part of real life must suggest a direct continuity of thought and also of contact with human beings. Even a play may introduce characters, gradually lead up to a collision, and make emphatic an outbreak of passion, but the monologue must, as a rule, break in at once with the specific answer of a definite character in a living situation to a definite thought which has been uttered by another. The reader must receive an impression of the character at the moment, but in relation to a continuous succession of ideas.

Accordingly, the right starting of the monologue is of vital importance. In a story we often wait a long while for it to unfold. But except in the first preliminary reading, one cannot read on in the monologue, hoping that the meaning will gradually become clear. When a reader fully understands the meaning, he must turn and express this at the very beginning. The very first phrase must be colored by the whole.

Frequently the settling of the connection of the thought is the most difficult part in the study of a monologue, yet, on account of the unique difference of this type of literature from a story and other literary forms, the study of the beginning is apt to be overlooked. The reader must first find out where he is. I was once in search of Bishopsgate Street in London, and meeting, in a very narrow part of a narrow street a unique old man, who reminded me of Ralph Nickleby, I asked him to tell me the way. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Where are you now?" I told him I thought I was in Threadneedle Street. "Right," and then he pointed out the street, which was only a few steps away, but which I had been seeking for some time in vain. He was wise, for unless I knew where I was, he could not direct me.

In the study of a monologue, if we will find exactly where we are, many difficult questions will be settled at once; and the interpreter by pausing and using care can make clear, through the emphatic interpretation of the first sentences, a vast number of points which would otherwise be of great difficulty.

Mr. Macfadyen has well said, "Much of the apparent obscurity of Browning is due to his habit of climbing up a precipice of thought, and then kicking away the ladder by which he climbed."

The opening of Browning's "Fra Lippo Lippi" requires a conception of night and a sudden surprise--

"I am poor brother Lippo, by your leave!
You need not clap your torches to my face.
Zooks, what's to blame? you think you see a monk!"

These words cannot be given excitedly or dramatically without realizing the role the police are playing, their rough handling of Lippo, and their discovery that they have seized a monk at an unseemly hour of the night and not in a respectable part of the city. We must identify ourselves with Lippo and feel the torches of the police in the face, and the hand "fiddling" on his throat. This whole situation must be as definitely conceived as if a part of a play. The reference to "Cosimo of the Medici" should be spoken very suggestively, and we should feel with Lippo the consequent relief that resulted, and the dismay also of the police on finding they have in hand an artist friend of the greatest man in Florence. "Boh! you were best!" means that the hands of the policeman have been released from his throat.

All this dramatic action, however, must be secondary to the conception of the character of the monk-painter. Almost immediately, in the very midst of the excitement, possibly with reference to the very fellow who had grasped his throat, the artist, with the true spirit of a painter, exclaims,

"He's Judas to a tittle, that man is!
Just such a face!"

and as the chief of the squad of police sends his watchmen away, the painter's heart once more awakes and discovers a picture, and he says, almost to himself:

"I'd like his face--
His, elbowing on his comrade in the door
With the pike and lantern,--for the slave that holds
John Baptist's head a-dangle by the hair
With one hand ('Look you, now,' as who should say)
And his weapon in the other, yet unwiped!
It's not your chance to have a bit of chalk,
A wood-coal or the like? or you should see!
Yes, I'm the painter, since you style me so.
What, brother Lippo's doings, up and down,
You know them, and they take you? like enough!
I saw the proper twinkle in your eye--
'Tell you, I liked your looks at very first.
Let's sit and set things straight now, hip to haunch."

Thus the monologue is introduced, and with a captain of a night-watch in Florence as listener, this great painter, who tried to paint things truly, pours out his critical reflections,--

"A fine way to paint soul, by painting body
So ill, the eye can't stop there, must go further
And can't fare worse!"

This great reformer in art is made by Browning to declare why men should paint

"God's works--paint anyone, and count it crime
To let a truth slip by,"

for according to this man, who initiated a new movement in art,

"Art was given for that;
God uses us to help each other so,
Lending our minds out....
This world's no blot for us
Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good:
To find its meaning is my meat and drink."

This monologue, while only a fragment of simple conversation, touches those profound moments which only an artist can realize, and unfolds the real essence of a character.

Abrupt beginnings are very common in monologues, but the student will find that these are often the easiest to master. They can be easily interpreted by dramatic instinct. There is always a situation, dramatic in proportion to the abruptness of the beginning, and a few glances will fasten attention upon the real theme. The monologue will never stir one who desires long preliminary chapters of descriptions before the real story is opened, but one with true dramatic imagination can easily make a sudden plunge into the very midst of life and action.

The unity of time on account of the momentary character of a monologue needs no discussion. And yet we find in one otherwise strong monologue, "Before Sedan," by Austin Dobson, a strange violation of the principle of time.

BEFORE SEDAN

"THE DEAD HAND CLASPED A LETTER."

Here, in this leafy place,
Quiet he lies,
Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies;
'Tis but another dead;
All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,--
Kings must have slaves;
Kings climb to eminence
Over men's graves:
So this man's eye is dim;--
Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched,
There, at his side?
Paper his hand had clutched
Tight ere he died;--
Message or wish, maybe;--
Smooth the folds out and see.

Hardly the worst of us
Here could have smiled:--
Only the tremulous
Words of a child;--
Prattle, that has for stops
Just a few ruddy drops.

Look. She is sad to miss,
Morning and night,
His--her dead father's--kiss;
Tries to be bright,
Good to mamma, and sweet,
That is all. "Marguerite."

Ah, if beside the dead
Slumbered the pain!
Ah, if the hearts that bled
Slept with the slain!
If the grief died;--but no;--
Death will not have it so.

The title of this monologue suggests something of the situation, and from the first sentence we gather that it is spoken by one searching for the dead in remote nooks of the battle-field. From the remarks against war, the speaker seems to be one of the citizens searching their farms for any who, wounded, have crawled away for water, or have died in an obscure corner.

A body is found, and something white, a paper, in the soldier's hand, is discovered; the leader, who is the speaker, asks another to smooth out the folds, as it may express some dying wish. It is found to be a letter from his child, which the dying man has taken out and kissed. All this is in the true spirit of the monologue. But now we come to a blemish,--"could have smiled." So far, all has been in the present tense, dramatically discovered and represented as a living, passing scene; but here there is a relapse into mere narration, and the speaker appears to be telling the story long afterwards.

We never have such a blemish in a production of Browning's. In his hands the monologue is always a present, living, moving thing. It is not a narrative of some past action.

All dramatic art is related to time, but the only time in which we can act is the present. This fact is a help to the understanding of the monologue, for we must bring a living character into immediate action and contact with some other, or with many other, human beings.

VI. ARGUMENT

To comprehend the meaning of a monologue, it is necessary to grasp, fully and clearly, the relation of the ideas, or the continuity of thought.

In an essay or speech, the argument is everything, and even a story depends upon a sequence of events. Many persons object to the monologue because the full comprehension of the meaning can only come last, and seem to think that the characters and situations should be mere accidents. Mr. Chesterton has well said: "If a man comes to tell us that he has discovered perpetual motion, or been swallowed by the sea-serpent, there will yet be some point in the story where he will tell us about himself almost all that we require to know."

Not only is this true, but the impression of every event or truth, which is all any man can tell, is dependent upon the character of the man, and while the monologue seems to reverse the natural method in requiring us to conceive of character and situation before the thought, it thus presents a deeper truth and causes a more adequate impression.

Both the person talking and the scene must be apprehended by the imagination; then the meaning is no longer abstract; it is presented with the living witnesses. Persons who want only the meaning usually ignore all situation or environment. The co-ordination of many elements is the secret of the peculiar power and force of the monologue.

The monologue is not unnatural. Life is complex, and elements in nature are not found in isolation. The colors of nature are always found in combination, and primary colors are rare. Art is composed of a very few elements, but how rarely do we find one of these separated from the others. So an emphatically demonstrated abstract truth is rarely found. Truth gives reality to truth. Thought implies a thinking soul. No thought is completed until expressed; art is ever necessary to show relations. In every age the parable, or some other indirect method, has been employed for the simplest lessons. Words can only hint at truth. An abstraction verges toward an untruth. A mere rule, even an abstract statement of law, is worth little except as obeyed or its working seen among men.

Men or women of the finest type rarely discuss their fellow-beings, for the smallest remark quoted from another may produce a false impression. What was the occasion? What was the spirit with which it was spoken? What was the smile upon the face? What was the tenderness in the voice? The exact words may be quoted, yet without the tone and action these may be falsified. Even facts may convey an utterly false impression.

Everything in nature is related. An interpretation of truth, accordingly, demands the presentation of right relations. The flower that is cut and placed in a vase has lost the bower of green leaves, the glimmer of the sunlight, the sparkle of the dew, and the blue sky "full of light and deity."

In the monologue we must pass from "the letter that killeth" to "the spirit that giveth life." The primary meaning hides itself, that we may take account of the witnesses first, for in the mouth of "two or three witnesses every word may be established."

"The word that he speaks is the man himself." But how rarely do we realize this. It is impossible to do so without a conception of the voice. The smile and the actions of the body and natural modulations of the voice reveal the fulness of the impression and the life that is merely suggested by a word. The monologue, implying all these, makes men realize a truth more vividly by showing the feeling and attitude toward truth of a living, thinking man.

It is not to superficialize the truth that the monologue adopts an indirect method. It does not concern itself with situations and characters for mere amusement or adornment. It does not introduce scenery to atone for lack of thought, but seeks to awaken the right powers to realize it.

A profound theme may be discussed dramatically as well, and at times much better than in an essay or a speech. To receive a right impression from "Abt Vogler," for example, the reader must consciously or unconsciously realize the point of view, and also the philosophic arguments for the highest idealism of the age. We must know the depth of meaning in the line:

"On the earth the broken arcs; in the heaven, a perfect round."

We must perceive, too, the philosophy beneath such words as these:

"All we have willed or hoped or dreamed of good shall exist,"

and even the argument that makes "Our failure here but a triumph's evidence."

"Sorrow is hard to bear, and doubt is slow to clear,
Each sufferer says his say, his scheme of the weal and woe:
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;
The rest may reason and welcome; 'tis we musicians know."

"Musicians" is used in a suggestive sense to indicate mystics and idealists.

The argument of the monologue, accordingly, is found in dramatic sequence of natural thinking. It is not a logical or systematic arrangement of points, but the association of ideas as they spring up in the mind.

As has been shown, the start is everything, since it indicates the connection of the speaker with the unwritten situation or preceding thought of his listener. The argument then follows naturally.

The argument of "A Death in the Desert" is one of the most complex and difficult to follow. Browning opens and closes the poem with a bracketed passage, and inserts one also in another place. These bracketed lines are written or said by another than Pamphylax, the speaker in the main part of the monologue. They refer to the old fragments and parchments with their methods of enumeration by Greek letters. This gives the impression and feeling of the ancient documents and the peculiar difficulties in the criticism of the texts of the New Testament, upon which so much of the evidence of Christianity depends. Pamphylax gives in the monologue an account of the death of John, the beloved disciple, who was supposed to have been the last man who had actually seen the Christ with his own eyes. It occurs in the midst of the persecution which came about this time. The dying John is in the cave, near Ephesus, with a boy outside pretending to care for the sheep, but ready to give warning of the approach of Roman soldiers. The speaker, who was present, describes all that happened, and repeats the words of the dying apostle. Browning makes John foresee that the evidences of Christianity would no longer depend upon simply "I saw," as there would be no one left when John was dead who could say it. He thus makes him foresee all the critical difficulties of modern times in relation to the evidences of Christianity, and, in the spirit of John's gospel and of the whole philosophy of that time, as well as with a profound understanding of the needs of the nineteenth century, he makes John unfold a solution of the difficulties.

This profoundly significant poem will tax to the very utmost any method of explaining the monologue. But Browning anticipates this difficulty in part, and gives the atmosphere of the ancient manuscripts, introducing to us details about the rolls, the situation, the spectators, and the appearance of John. In fact, a monologue is found within a monologue, the words of John himself constituting the essence or spirit of the passage; and thus Browning is enabled to present the deepest thought through the words of the beloved disciple. The difficulties are thus brought into relation with the philosophy of that age, and at the same time the strongest critical and philosophical thought of the poet's time is expounded.

One special difficulty in tracing the argument of a monologue will be found in the sudden and abrupt transitions. These, however, are perfectly natural; in fact, they are the peculiar characteristics of all good monologues, and express the dramatic spirit. Since the monologue is the direct revelation of this spirit in human thinking rather than in human acting, which is shown by the play, these sudden changes of mood or feeling are necessary to the monologue as the drama of the thinking mind.

The person who reads a monologue aloud will find that its abrupt transitions are a great help, and not a hindrance. When properly emphasized and accentuated by voice and action, they become the chief means of making the thought luminous and forcible.

One of the best examples of what we may call the dramatic argument of a monologue is found in Browning's "The Bishop orders his Tomb at Saint Praxed's Church," one of the ablest criticisms ever offered upon both the moral and the artistic spirit of the Renaissance. Notice that "Rome, 15--" is a subtitle. The Bishop begins with the conventional lament, "Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!" He is dying, and has called his nephews,--now owned as sons, for he has been unfaithful to his priestly vow of chastity,--about his bed for his farewell instructions. His greatest anxiety is regarding his monument, and as he thinks of this purpose of his life, his whole character reveals itself. We perceive his old jealousy and envy of a former bishop, and the very thought of this predecessor causes sudden transitions and agitations in the dying man's mind. We discover that his seeming love of the beautiful is only a sensuous admiration entirely different from that true love of art which Browning endeavored to interpret. To his sons he speaks frankly of his sins. His pompous and egotistical likings are shown in his causing his sons to march in and out in a stately ceremonial. This adds color to the poem and helps to concentrate attention upon the character of the speaker.

Ruskin has some important words in his "Modern Painters" upon this poem: "I know no other piece of modern English, prose or poetry, in which there is so much told as in these lines, of the Renaissance spirit,--its worldliness, inconsistency, pride, hypocrisy, ignorance of itself, love of art, of luxury, and of good Latin. It is nearly all I said of the central Renaissance in thirty pages in 'The Stones of Venice,' put into as many lines, Browning's being also the antecedent work. The worst of it is that this kind of concentrated writing needs so much solution before the reader can fairly get the good of it, that people's patience fails them, and they give the thing up as insoluble."

In studying the argument the reader should note the many sudden changes in almost every phrase, especially at first. For example,

"Nephews--sons mine ... ah God, I know not!"

And so he continues: "She is dead beside," and

"Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace."

Note his break into business:

"And so, about this tomb of mine...."

This must be given with much saliency in order to show that it is the chief point he has in mind and the purpose of his bringing them together. Most of the other sayings are only dramatic asides, which, however, must be strongly emphasized as indicative of his character.

Note the expression of his hate in "Old Gandolf cozened me," though he fought tooth and nail to save his niche. But still, his enemy had secured the south corner:

"He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!"

Yet he accepts the result, and feels that his niche is not so bad:

"One sees the pulpit o' the epistle-side."

"Onion-stone" and "true peach" are, of course, in direct opposition. Then he tells the great secret of his life, how he has hidden a great lump of

"... lapis lazuli,
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,"

and where it can be found to place between his knees on the monument. And in this he shall have a great triumph over his enemy--

"For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!"

After this outbreak of selfishness and envy he resumes the conventional whine:

"Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years."

Suddenly, with a totally different inflection, he returns to the thought of his tomb:

"Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black--
'Twas ever antique-black I meant!"

This is said suddenly, and with the most positive and abrupt inflections. Notice that amid the gloom he will even laugh over the bad Latin of old Gandolf the "elucescebat" of his inscription, and abruptly demands of his sons that his epitaph be

"Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word."

Observe his sudden transition from

"Nay, boys, ye love me--all of jasper, then!"

to his appeal to their superstition because he has

"... Saint Praxed's ear to pray
Horses for ye...."

and his sudden threat:

"Else I give the Pope
My villas!"

If we realize his character, this kind of "concentrated writing" will not need "so much solution" before the reader can "get the good of it." Certainly people's patience should not fail them, nor should they "give the thing up as insoluble." On the contrary, one who follows the suggestions indicated, understands the natural languages, and has any appreciation of the dramatic spirit, will feel that Browning's form is the best means of giving with a few strokes a thorough understanding of the character of a great movement and era in human history.

This is one of Browning's "difficult" poems. Why difficult? Because most "concentrated"; because it gives the fundamental spirit of a certain era of the world; because the poet uses in every case the exact word, however unusual it may be, to express the idea. He should not be blamed if he send the reader to the dictionary to correct his ignorance. Why should not art be as accurate as science? Why should it perpetuate ignorance?

* * * * *

To understand a monologue according to these suggestions the student must first answer such questions as, Who speaks? What kind of a man says this? To whom does he speak? Of whom is he talking? Where is he? At what point in the conversation do we break in upon him in the unconscious utterance of his life and motives? Then, last of all,--What is the argument? The general subject and thought will gradually become plain from the first question and the argument may be pretty clear before all the points are presented.

When the points are taken up in this order, the meaning of a monologue will unfold as naturally as that of an essay or a simple story, and at the same time afford greater enjoyment and express deeper truth in fewer words.

All of these questions are not applicable to every monologue. Sometimes one has greater force than the others. Some monologues are given without any necessity of conceiving a distinct place; some require no definite time in the conversation; in a few the listener may be almost any one; but in some monologues every one of these questions will have force. The application of these points, however, is easy, and will be spontaneous to one with dramatic instinct. Only at first do they demand special attention and care.

The application of all the points suggested or questions to be answered will be shown best by an illustration,--a short monologue which exemplifies them all. Let us choose for this purpose Browning's "My Last Duchess."

The speaker is the Duke, and the meaning of the whole is dependent upon the right conception of his character. He stands before us puffed up with pride, one who chooses "Never to stoop."

The person spoken of, the Duchess, and her character form the real theme of the poem, and the character of the Duke is made to look blacker by contrast. How her youth, beauty, and loveliness shine through his sneers! "She liked whatever she looked on, and her looks went everywhere," and he was offended that she recognized "anybody's gift" on a plane with his gift of a "nine-hundred-year-old name." This grew, and he "gave commands, then all smiles stopped together."

MY LAST DUCHESS

FERRARA

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
"Fra Pandolf" by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
Her husband's presence only called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, "Her mantle laps
Over my lady's wrist too much," or, "Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:" such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heart--how shall I say?--too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
The dropping of the daylight in the West,
The bough of cherries some officious fool
Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
She rode with round the terrace,--all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush at least. She thanked men,--good! but thanked
Somehow--I know not how--as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speech--(which I have not)--to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
Or there exceed the mark"--and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
When'er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your master's known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

To whom is the Duke speaking? From the phrase, "The Count your master," and other hints, we infer that the listener is the legal agent of the Count who is father of the next victim, the new Duchess, and that this legal agent has stepped aside to talk with the Duke about the "dowry." The Duke has led the agent upstairs, drawn aside the curtain from the portrait of his last Duchess, and monopolizes the conversation.

The situation is marvellously suggestive. He draws the curtain which "none puts by" but himself, and assumes an attitude of a connoisseur of art, and calls the portrait "a wonder." Does this admiring of art for art's sake suggest the degeneracy of his soul? He asks the other to "sit and look at her." The subject in hand is shown by the word "last." How suggestive is the emphasis upon the word, for they have been talking about the new Duchess. In a few lines, as dramatically suggestive as any in literature, his character and motives are all revealed, as he intimates to his hearer what is expected from him.

Why did he say all this to such a person? To overawe him, to show him what kind of man he had to deal with, and the necessity of accepting the Duke's terms lest "commands" might also be given regarding him, and his "smiles" stop, like those of the lovely Duchess. It is only an insinuation, but in keeping with the Duke's character. The rising at the end shows that he takes it for granted that everything is settled as he wished it. Notice that the agent falls behind, like an obedient lackey, but as this would not appear well to the "company below," the Duke says:--

"Nay, we'll go
Together down."