Chapter VII: Part II: Dramatic Rendering of the Monologue (1)

IX. NECESSITY OF ORAL RENDITION

The monologue, in common with all forms of literature, but especially with the drama, implies something more than words,--only its verbal shell can be printed. As the expression of a living character, it necessarily requires the natural signs of feeling, the modulations of the voice, and the actions of the body.

After all questions regarding speaker, hearer, person spoken of, place, connection, subject, and meaning have been settled, the real problem of interpretation begins. The result of the reader's study of these questions must be revealed in the first word or phrase he utters as speaker. Since the poem may be unknown to his auditors, each point must be made clear to them, each question answered, by the suggestive modulations of his voice and the expressive action of his body.

This is the real problem of the dramatic artist, and without its solution he can give no interpretation. The long meditation over a monologue, the serious questionings and comparisons, are not enough. He must have a complete comprehension of all the points enumerated,--but this is only the beginning. He must next discover the bearings of the supposed speaker, the attitude of his mind, his feelings and motives.

To do this, the reader must carefully study those things which the writer could only suggest or imply in words. The poem must be re-created in his imagination. His feeling must be more awake, if possible, than that of the author.

In one sense, the terms "vocal expression" and "vocal interpretation of literature," are a misuse of words. The histrionic presentation of a play is not, strictly speaking, a vocal interpretation, nor an interpretation by action. Vocal modulations, motions, and attitudes, the movements of living men and women, are all implied in the very conception of a drama. The voice and action are only the completion of the play.

The same is true of the monologue. The rendering of it is not an adjunctive performance, not a mere extraneous decoration. It is more than a personal comment; to render a monologue is to make it complete. "Words," said Emerson, "are fossilized poetry." If a monologue is fossilized poetry, its true rendering should restore the original being to life. The written or printed monologue is like an empty garment, to be understood only as it is worn. A living man inside the garment will show the adaptation of all its parts at once.

The presentation of a play or of a monologue is its fulfilment, its completion, expressing more fully the conceptions which were in the mind of the writer himself, though with the individuality and the true personal realization of another artist. No two Hamlets have ever been alike, nor ever can be alike, unless one of the two is an imitation of the other. Dramatic art implies two artists,--the writer, who gives broad outlines and suggestions; and the living, sympathetic dramatic interpreter, who realizes and completes the creation. The author creates a poem and puts it into words, and the vocal interpreter then gives it life.

A true vocal interpretation of the monologue, as of the play, does not require the changing of one word or syllable used by the author. It is the supplying of the living languages.

Words and actions are complemental languages. Verbal expression is more or less intellectual. It can be recorded. It names ideas and pictures. It is composed of conventional symbols, and only when the words are understood by another mind can it suggest a true sequence of ideas and events. Vocal expression, however, shows the attitude of the mind of the man towards these ideas. Words are objective symbols of ideas. The modulations of the voice reveal the process of thinking and feeling. The word, then, in all cases, implies the living voice. It is but an external form: the voice reveals the life. Action shows, possibly, even more than tones do, the character of the man, his relations, his "bearings," his impressions or points of view.

These three languages are, accordingly, living witnesses. One of them is not complete, strictly speaking, without the others, and the artistic rendering of a monologue is simply taking the objective third which the author gives, and which can be printed, and supplying the subjective two-thirds which the imagination of the reader must create and realize from the author's suggestion.

All printed language is but a part of one of these three languages, which belong together in an organic unity. In the very nature of the case, the better the writing, the greater the suggestion of the modulations of voice and body. The highest literature is that which suggests life itself, and a living man has a beaming eye, a smiling face, a moving body, and a voice that modulates with every change in idea and feeling. No process has ever been able to record the complexity of these natural languages. Their co-ordination depends upon dramatic instinct.

As the play always implies dramatic action, as the mind must picture a real scene and the characters must move and speak as animated beings before there can be the least appreciation of its nature as a play, so the monologue also implies and suggests a real scene or moment of human life.

The monologue is an artistic whole, and must be understood as a whole. Each part must be felt to be like the limb of a tree, a part of an organism. As each leaf on the tree quivers with the life hidden in trunk and root, so each word of the monologue must vibrate with the thought and feeling of the whole.

Hence, the interpreter of the monologue must command all the natural, expressive modulations of voice and body. He must have imagination and insight into human motives, and his voice and body must respond to this insight and understanding. He must know the language of pause, of touch, of change of pitch, of inflection, of the modulation of resonance, of changes in movement. He must realize, consciously or subconsciously, the importance of a look, of a turn of the head, of a smile, of a transition of the body, of a motion of the hand; in brief, throughout all the complex parts constituting the bodily organism he should be master of natural action, which appeals directly to the eye and precedes all speech.

Every inflection must be natural; every variation of pitch must be spontaneous; every emotion must modulate the color of the voice; every attitude of the interpreter must be simple and sustained. He must have what is known as the "mercurial temperament" to assume every point of view and assimilate every feeling.

The first great law of art is consistency, hence all the parts of a higher work of art must inhere, as do all parts of a plant or flower; but this unity and consistency should not be mechanical or artificial. Delivery can never be built; it must grow. True expression must be spontaneous and free. One must enjoy a monologue; one must live it. Every act or inflection must suggest a dozen others that might be given. The fulness of the life within, in thinking and feeling, must be delicately suggested. The most important point to be considered is a suggestion of the reality of life and the intensity of feeling. The interpreter must study nature. He must speak as the bird sings, not mechanically, but out of a full heart, yet not chaotically or from random impulses. All his movements must come, like the blooming of the rose, from within outward; but this can only result from meditation and command of mind, body, and voice. "Everything in nature," said Carlyle, "has an index finger pointing to something beyond it"; so every phrase, every word, action, or pause, every voice modulation, must have a relation to every other modulation.

In the art of interpreting the monologue, which is a different art from the writing of one, all must be as much like nature as possible. Yet this likeness is secured, not by imitation or by reproducing external experiences, but by sympathetic identification and imaginative realization.

Every art has a technique. The modulations of the voice and the actions of the body must be directly studied, or there can be no naturalness. Meaningless movements and modulations lead to mannerisms. The reader must know the value of every action of voice or body, and so master them that he can bring them all into a kind of subconscious unity for the expression of the living realization of a thought or situation.

The interpreter must use no artificial methods, but must study the fundamental principles of the expressive modulations of voice and body and supplement these by a sympathetic observation of nature.

The questions to be settled by the reader have been shown by the analysis of the structure of the monologue. He must first consider the character which he is to impersonate, and his conception of it must be definite and clear as that of any actor in a play. In one sense, conception of character is more important in the monologue than in the play, on account of the fact that the speaker stands alone, and the monologue is only one end of a conversation. In a play the actor is always associated with others; has some peculiarity of dress; has freedom of movement, and his character is shown by others. He is only one of many persons in a moving scene, and often fills a subordinate place. But in the monologue, the interpreter is never subordinate, and has few accessories, or none. He must not only reveal the character that is speaking, but also indicate the character of the supposed listener. He must suggest by simple sounds and movements, not by make-up or artificial properties. Thus the interpretation of a monologue is more difficult than that of a play. The actor has long periods of listening when another is speaking, so that he has better opportunities to show the impression produced upon him by each idea. The interpreter of a monologue must often show that he, too, is listening, and express the impression received from another.

To illustrate the necessity of the vocal rendering of a monologue and the peculiar character of the interpretation needed, take one of the simplest examples, a humorous monologue of Douglas Jerrold's, one of "Mrs. Caudle's Curtain Lectures."

Take, for example, the lecture she gives after Mr. Caudle has lent an umbrella:

MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE THE FAMILY UMBRELLA

Bah! That's the third umbrella gone since Christmas. "What were you to
do?" Why, let him go home in the rain, to be sure. I'm very certain
there was nothing about him that could spoil. Take cold, indeed! He
doesn't look like one of the sort to take cold. Besides, he'd have
better taken cold than taken our only umbrella. Do you hear the rain,
Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear the rain? And as I'm alive, if it isn't
St. Swithin's day! Do you hear it against the windows? Nonsense; you
don't impose upon me. You can't be asleep with such a shower as that!
Do you hear it, I say? Oh, you do hear it! Well, that's a pretty
flood, I think, to last for six weeks; and no stirring all the time
out of the house. Pooh! don't think me a fool, Mr. Caudle. Don't
insult me. He return the umbrella! Anybody would think you were born
yesterday. As if anybody ever did return an umbrella! There--do you
hear it! Worse and worse! Cats and dogs, and for six weeks, always six
weeks. And no umbrella!

I should like to know how the children are to go to school to-morrow?
They shan't go through such weather, I'm determined. No; they shall
stop at home and never learn anything--the blessed creatures!--sooner
than go and get wet. And when they grow up, I wonder who they'll have
to thank for knowing nothing--who, indeed, but their father? People
who can't feel for their own children ought never to be fathers.

But I know why you lent the umbrella. Oh, yes, I know very well. I was
going out to tea at dear mother's to-morrow--you knew that; and you
did it on purpose. Don't tell me; you hate me to go there, and take
every mean advantage to hinder me. But don't you think it, Mr. Caudle.
No, sir; if it comes down in buckets-full, I'll go all the more. No;
and I won't have a cab. Where do you think the money's to come from?
You've got nice high notions at that club of yours. A cab, indeed!
Cost me sixteenpence at least--sixteenpence, two-and-eight-pence, for
there's back again. Cabs, indeed! I should like to know who's to pay
for 'em; I can't pay for 'em, and I'm sure you can't, if you go on as
you do; throwing away your property, and beggaring your
children--buying umbrellas!

Do you hear the rain, Mr. Caudle? I say, do you hear it? But I don't
care--I'll go to mother's to-morrow; I will; and what's more, I'll
walk every step of the way,--and you know that will give me my death.
Don't call me a foolish woman, it's you that's the foolish man. You
know I can't wear clogs; and with no umbrella, the wet's sure to give
me a cold--it always does. But what do you care for that? Nothing at
all. I may be laid up, for what you care, as I daresay I shall--and a
pretty doctor's bill there'll be. I hope there will! I shouldn't
wonder if I caught my death; yes: and that's what you lent the
umbrella for. Of course!...

Men, indeed!--call themselves lords of the creation!--pretty lords,
when they can't even take care of an umbrella!

I know that walk to-morrow will be the death of me. But that's what
you want--then you may go to your club and do as you like--and then,
nicely my poor dear children will be used--but then, sir, you'll be
happy. Oh, don't tell me! I know you will. Else you'd never have lent
the umbrella!...

The children, too! Dear things! They'll be sopping wet; for they
shan't stop at home--they shan't lose their learning; it's all their
father will leave 'em, I'm sure. But they shall go to school. Don't
tell me I said they shouldn't: you are so aggravating, Caudle; you'd
spoil the temper of an angel. They shall go to school; mark that. And
if they get their deaths of cold, it's not my fault--I didn't lend the
umbrella.

The peculiar character of Mrs. Caudle must be definitely conceived, and the interpreter must express her feelings and reveal with great emphasis the impressions produced upon her, for these are the very soul of the rendering. The sudden awakening of ideas in her mind, or the way she receives an impression, must be definitely shown, for such manifestations are the chief characteristics of a monologue. Such mental action is the one element that makes the delivery of a monologue differ from that of other forms of literature.

The fact that one end of the conversation is omitted, or only echoed, concentrates our attention upon the workings of Mrs. Caudle's mind. The interpreter must vividly portray the arrival of every idea, the horrors with which she contemplates every successive conjecture.

The reader must express Mrs. Caudle's astonishment after she has found out Mr. Caudle's offence. "'What were you to do?'" is no doubt an echo of the question made by Mr. Caudle. Sarcastic surprise possesses her at the very thought of his asking such a question. "Let him go home in the rain, to be sure," is given with positiveness, as if it settled the whole matter. "Take cold, indeed!" is also, no doubt, a sarcastic echo of Mr. Caudle's words. The abrupt explosion and extreme change from the preceding indicates clearly her repetition of Mr. Caudle's words. The pun: "He'd have better taken cold than taken our umbrella," may sound like a jest, but with Mrs. Caudle it is too sarcastic for a smile.

Mrs. Caudle must "hear the rain" and appear startled. The thought of the following day causes sudden and extreme change of feeling, face, and voice. Her wrath is aroused to a high pitch when Caudle snores or gives some evidence that he is asleep, and she is most abrupt and bitter in: "Nonsense; you don't impose upon me; you can't be asleep with such a shower as that." She repeats her question with emphasis. Then there must have been some groan or assent from poor Caudle, which is shown by a change of pitch and a sarcastic acceptance of his answer, "Oh, you _do_ hear it!" Presently, Mr. Caudle causes another explosion by evidently suggesting that the borrower would return the umbrella, "as if anybody ever did return an umbrella!"

A dramatic imagination can easily realize the continuity of thought in Mrs. Caudle's mind, her expression of profound grief over the poor children, the sudden thought of "poor mother" that awakens in her the reason for his doing the terrible deed, and her self-pity. Every change must be expressed decidedly, to show the working of her mind.

Such a monologue is decidedly dramatic, and to interpret it requires vivid imagination, quick perceptions, a realization of the relation of a specific type of character to a distinct situation and the interaction of situation and character upon each other. The interpreter must have a very flexible voice and responsive body. He must have command of the technique of expression and be able to suggest depth of meaning.

It is easy enough to study a monologue superficially, and find its meaning for ourselves in a vague way, sufficient to satisfy us for the moment, but there is necessity for more study when we attempt to make the monologue clear and forcible to others.

The interpreter will discover, when he tries to read the monologue aloud, that his subjective studies were crude and inconclusive. He will find difficulties in most unexpected places; but as he contemplates the work with dramatic instinct, or imaginative and sympathetic attention to each point, new light will dawn upon him. There is need always for great power of accentuation. Discoveries should be sudden, and the connections vigorously sustained. The modulations of the voice must often be extreme, while yet suggesting the utmost naturalness.

The length and abruptness of the inflections must change very suddenly. There must be breaks in the thought, with a startled discovery of many points, and extreme changes in pitch to show these. Some parts should go very slowly, while others should have great quickness of movement.

Any serious monologue will serve to illustrate the necessity of vocal expression for its interpretation. Take, for example, Browning's "Tray," and express the strong contrasts by the voice.

TRAY

Sing me a hero! Quench my thirst
Of soul, ye bards!
Quoth Bard the first:
"Sir Olaf, the good knight, did don
His helm and eke his habergeon ..."
Sir Olaf and his bard.--!

"That sin-scathed brow" (quoth Bard the second),
"That eye wide ope as though Fate beckoned
My hero to some steep, beneath
Which precipice smiled tempting Death...."
You too without your host have reckoned!

"A beggar-child" (let's hear this third!)
"Sat on a quay's edge: like a bird
Sang to herself at careless play,
And fell into the stream. 'Dismay!
Help, you the stander-by!' None stirred.

"Bystanders reason, think of wives
And children ere they risk their lives.
Over the balustrade has bounced
A mere instinctive dog, and pounced
Plumb on his prize. 'How well he dives!

"'Up he comes with the child, see, tight
In mouth, alive too, clutched from quite
A depth of ten feet--twelve, I bet!
Good dog! What, off again? There's yet
Another child to save? All right!

"'How strange we saw no other fall!
It's instinct in the animal.
Good dog! But he's a long while under:
If he got drowned I should not wonder--
Strong current, that against the wall!

"'Here he comes, holds in mouth this time
--What may the thing be? Well, that's prime!
Now, did you ever? Reason reigns
In man alone, since all Tray's pains
Have fished--the child's doll from the slime!'

"And so, amid the laughter gay,
Trotted my hero off,--old Tray,--
Till somebody, prerogatived
With reason, reasoned: 'Why he dived,
His brain would show us, I should say.

"'John, go and catch--or, if needs be,
Purchase that animal for me!
By vivisection, at expense
Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence,
How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'"

This short poem well illustrates Browning's peculiar spirit and earnestness, and also the strong hold which his chosen dramatic form had upon him. It was written as a protest against vivisection. Browning represents the speaker as one seeking for an expression among the poets of the true heroic spirit. "Bard the first" opens with the traditions and spirit of knighthood, but the speaker interrupts him suddenly in the midst of his first sentence, implying by his tone of disgust that such views of heroism are out of date.

The second bard begins in the spirit of a later age,

"'That sin-scathed brow ...
That eye wide ope, ...'"

and starts to portray a hero facing death on some precipice, but the speaker again interrupts. He is equally dissatisfied with this type of hero found in the pages of Byron or Bret Harte.

When the third begins--"A beggar child,"--the speaker indicates a sudden interest, "let's hear this third!" The speech of the third bard must be given with greater interest and simplicity, and in accordance with the spirit of the age,--the change from the extravagant to the perfectly simple and true, from the giant in his mail, or the desperado, to just a little child and a dog.

Approval and tenderness should be shown by the modulations of the voice. Long, abrupt inflections express the excitement resulting from the discovery that the child has fallen into the stream, "Dismay! Help." Then observe the sarcastic reference to human selfishness, and, in tender contrast to the action of the bystanders, old Tray is introduced, followed by the remarks of the on-lookers and their patronizing description of the dog's conduct. Notice that the quotation is long, and that the point of view of the careless bystanders is preserved. The spirit of these bystanders is given in their own words until they laugh at old Tray's pains and blind instinct in fishing up the child's doll from the stream. Now follows the real spirit of bard the third, who portrays the sympathetic admiration for the dog.

"'And so, amid the laughter gay,'"

requires a sudden change of key and tone-color to express the intensity of feeling and the general appreciation of the mystery of "a mere instinctive dog."

The poem closes with an example of the cold, analytic spirit of the age, that hopes to settle the deepest problems merely by experiment.

"'By vivisection, at expense,
Of half-an-hour and eighteen pence,
How brain secretes dog's soul, we'll see!'"

The student will soon discover that the monologue is not only a new literary or poetic form, but that it demands a new histrionic method of representation.

The monologue should be taken seriously. It is not an accidental form, the odd freak of some peculiar writer. Browning has said that he never intended his poetry to be a substitute for an after-dinner cigar. A similar statement is true of all great monologues. A few so-called monologues on a low plane can be understood and rendered by any one. Every form of dramatic art has its caricature and perversion. Burlesque seems necessary as a caricature of all forms of dramatic art and so there are burlesques of monologues. These, however, must not blind the eyes to the existence of monologues on the highest plane. Many monologues, though short and seemingly simple, probe the profoundest depths of the human soul. Such require patient study; imagination, sympathetic insight, and passion are all necessary in their interpretation.

X. ACTIONS OF MIND AND VOICE

The complex and difficult language of vocal expression cannot, of course, be explained in such a book as this, but there are a few points which are of especial moment in considering the monologue.

All vocal expression is the revelation of the processes of thinking or the elemental actions of the mind. The meaning of the expressive modulations of the voice must be gained from a study of the actions of the mind and their expression in common conversation. While words are conventional symbols, modulations of the voice are natural signs, which accompany the pronunciation of words, and are necessary elements of natural speech.

Such expressive modulations of the voice as inflections are developed in the child before words. Hence, vocal expression can never be acquired from mechanical rules or by imitation. As the monologue reveals primarily the thinking and feeling of a living character, it affords a very important means of studying vocal expression.

In all dramatic work there is a temptation to assume merely outward bearings and characteristics, attitudes, and tones without making the character think. The monologue is a direct revelation of the mind and can be interpreted only by naturally expressing the thought.

The interpreter of the monologue must reveal the point of view of his character, and must show the awakening or arrival of every idea. All changes in point of view, the simplest transitions in feeling and impressions produced by an idea, must be suggested. The mental life, in short, must be genuinely and definitely revealed by the actions of voice and body.

The first sign or expression of life is rhythm. All life begins and ends in rhythm, and accordingly, rhythm is the basis of all naturalness. In vocal expression the rhythmic process of thinking, the successive focussing and leaping of the mind from idea to idea, must be revealed by the rhythmic alternation in speech of pause and touch.

Without these, genuine thinking cannot be expressed in speaking. The pause indicates the stay of attention; the touch locates or affirms the centre of concentration. The mind receives an impression in silence, and speech follows as a natural result.

The interpretation of a poem or any work of literature demands an intensifying of the processes of thinking, and the pause and touch constitute the language by which this increase of thinking is expressed. A language is always necessary to the completion or, at least, to the accentuation of, any mental action. The impression received from each successive idea must be so vivid as to dominate the rhythm of breathing, and the expansion and other actions of the body.

The progressive movement of mind from idea to idea implies consequent variation and discrimination more or less vigorous. This is revealed by change of pitch in passing from idea to idea or phrase to phrase, and the extent of this variation is due, as a rule, to the degree of discrimination in thinking.

In the employment of these three modulations, pause, touch, and change of pitch, each implies the others. The degree of change in pitch and the vigor of touch justify the length of pause. Lengthening the pause without increasing the touch suggests tameness, sluggishness, or dullness of thought.

Notice the long pauses, the intense strokes of the voice, and the decided changes of pitch harmoniously accentuated, which are employed to indicate the depth of passion in rendering "In a Year" (p. 201). Pauses are of special importance in a monologue. This woman shows by long pauses and abrupt changes her struggle to comprehend the real meaning of the coldness of the man whom she loves,--to whom she has given all. The touch and the changes of pitch show the abruptness and the intensity of her passion.

The careful student will further perceive an inflection in conversation, or change of pitch, during the utterance of the central vowel of each word, and a longer inflection in the word standing for a central idea. Inflections show the relations of ideas to each other, the logical method, the relative value of centres of attention, and the like. Marked changes of topics, for example, will be indicated by a long inflection upon the key-word.

In rendering Browning's "One Way of Love," the word "rose" in the first line is given saliency. It is the centre of his first effort. Note the long pause followed by decided rising inflections on the words:

"She will not turn aside?..."

succeeded by a pause with a firm fall,--

"Alas!
Let them lie...."

In the second stanza, note the falling inflection upon "lute," which introduces a new theme, a new endeavor to win her love. Then follows another disappointment with suspensive or rising inflections denoting surprise with agitation, and then new realization

ONE WAY OF LOVE

All June I bound the rose in sheaves.
Now, rose by rose, I strip the leaves
And strow them where Pauline may pass.
She will not turn aside? Alas!
Let them lie. Suppose they die?
The chance was they might take her eye.

How many a month I strove to suit
These stubborn fingers to the lute!
To-day I venture all I know.
She will not hear my music? So!
Break the string; fold music's wing:
Suppose Pauline had bade me sing!

My whole life long I learn'd to love.
This hour my utmost art I prove
And speak my passion--heaven or hell?
She will not give me heaven? 'Tis well!
Lose who may--I still can say,
Those who win heaven, bless'd are they!

of failure with a falling inflection indicating submission. The same is true of the word "love" in the last stanza which brings one to the climax of the poem. This has a long, firm falling inflection. Note the suspensive intense rise upon "heaven" and the falling on "hell." The question:

"She will not give me heaven?..."

reiterates the earlier questions, only with greater grief and intensity. The character of his "love," which a poor reader may slight, neglect, or wholly pervert, must suggest the nobility of the man, and the last words must reveal his intensity, tenderness, and, especially, his self-control and hopeful dignity.

Note in Browning's "Confessions" (p. 7) that the rising inflections on the first words indicate doubt or uncertainty, and seem to say, "Did I hear aright?" But the firm falling inflection in the answer,

"Ah, reverend sir, not I!"

indicates that the speaker has settled the doubt and now expresses his protest against such a view of life. The inflections after this become more colloquial.

There is, however, still a suggestion of earnestness as the description continues until at the last a decided inflection on the word "sweet" expresses his real conviction. Though life may appear but vanity to his listener, such is not his experience. The modulations of the voice in speaking "sad and bad and mad" can show that they embody his hearers' opinions and convictions, not his own, and "it was sweet!" can be given to show that they are his own.

Inflection, especially in union with pause, serves an important function in indicating the saliency of specific ideas or words. Note, for example, in Browning's "The Italian in England" that in the phrase "That second time they hunted me," there is a specific emphasis on "second." This word shows that he is talking of his many trials when in Italy and the narrowness of his escape, while also indicating some other time when he was hunted by the Austrians. This sentence, and especially this word "second," should be given the pointedness of conversation, and then will naturally follow the account of his escape.

In this poem, Browning suggests what difficulties were encountered by the Italian patriots who labored to free their country from Austrian rule. It is a strange and unique story told in London to some one who is planning with the speaker for Italian liberty.

THE ITALIAN IN ENGLAND

That second time they hunted me
From hill to plain, from shore to sea,
And Austria, hounding far and wide
Her blood-hounds thro' the country-side,
Breathed hot an instant on my trace,--
I made, six days, a hiding-place
Of that dry green old aqueduct
Where I and Charles, when boys, have plucked
The fire-flies from the roof above,
Bright creeping thro' the moss they love:
--How long it seems since Charles was lost!
Six days the soldiers crossed and crossed
The country in my very sight;
And when that peril ceased at night,
The sky broke out in red dismay
With signal-fires. Well, there I lay
Close covered o'er in my recess,
Up to the neck in ferns and cress,
Thinking on Metternich our friend,
And Charles's miserable end,
And much beside, two days; the third,
Hunger o'ercame me when I heard
The peasants from the village go
To work among the maize; you know,
With us in Lombardy, they bring
Provisions packed on mules, a string
With little bells that cheer their task,
And casks, and boughs on every cask
To keep the sun's heat from the wine;
These I let pass in jingling line,
And, close on them, dear, noisy crew,
The peasants from the village, too;
For at the very rear would troop
Their wives and sisters in a group
To help, I knew. When these had passed,
I threw my glove to strike the last,
Taking the chance: she did not start,
Much less cry out, but stooped apart,
One instant rapidly glanced round,
And saw me beckon from the ground.
A wild bush grows and hides my crypt;
She picked my glove up while she stripped
A branch off, then rejoined the rest
With that; my glove lay in her breast.
Then I drew breath; they disappeared:
It was for Italy I feared.

An hour, and she returned alone
Exactly where my glove was thrown.
Meanwhile came many thoughts: on me
Rested the hopes of Italy.
I had devised a certain tale
Which, when 'twas told her, could not fail
Persuade a peasant of its truth;
I meant to call a freak of youth
This hiding, and give hopes of pay,
And no temptation to betray.
But when I saw that woman's face,
Its calm simplicity of grace,
Our Italy's own attitude
In which she walked thus far, and stood,
Planting each naked foot so firm,
To crush the snake and spare the worm--
At first sight of her eyes, I said,
"I am that man upon whose head
They fix the price, because I hate
The Austrians over us; the State
Will give you gold--oh, gold so much!--
If you betray me to their clutch,
And be your death, for aught I know,
If once they find you saved their foe.
Now, you must bring me food and drink,
And also paper, pen and ink,
And carry safe what I shall write
To Padua, which you'll reach at night
Before the duomo shuts; go in,
And wait till Tenebrae begin;
Walk to the third confessional,
Between the pillar and the wall,
And kneeling whisper, '_Whence comes peace?_'
Say it a second time, then cease;
And if the voice inside returns,
'_From Christ and Freedom; what concerns
The cause of Peace?_' for answer, slip
My letter where you placed your lip;
Then come back happy we have done
Our mother service--I, the son,
As you the daughter of our land!"

Three mornings more, she took her stand
In the same place, with the same eyes:
I was no surer of sun-rise
Than of her coming. We conferred
Of her own prospects, and I heard
She had a lover--stout and tall,
She said--then let her eyelids fall,
"He could do much"--as if some doubt
Entered her heart,--then, passing out,
"She could not speak for others, who
Had other thoughts; herself she knew:"
And so she brought me drink and food.
After four days, the scouts pursued
Another path; at last arrived
The help my Paduan friends contrived
To furnish me: she brought the news.
For the first time I could not choose
But kiss her hand, and lay my own
Upon her head--"This faith was shown
To Italy, our mother, she
Uses my hand and blesses thee."
She followed down to the sea-shore;
I left and never saw her more.

How very long since I have thought
Concerning--much less wished for--aught
Beside the good of Italy.
For which I live and mean to die!
I never was in love; and since
Charles proved false, what shall now convince
My inmost heart I have a friend?
However, if I pleased to spend
Real wishes on myself--say, three--
I know at least what one should be
I would grasp Metternich until
I felt his red wet throat distil
In blood thro' these two hands. And next,
--Nor much for that am I perplexed--
Charles, perjured traitor, for his part,
Should die slow of a broken heart
Under his new employers. Last
--Ah, there, what should I wish? For fast
Do I grow old and out of strength.
If I resolved to seek at length
My father's house again, how scared
They all would look, and unprepared!
My brothers live in Austria's pay
--Disowned me long ago, men say;
And all my early mates who used
To praise me so--perhaps induced
More than one early step of mine--
Are turning wise: while some opine
"Freedom grows license," some suspect
"Haste breeds delay," and recollect
They always said, such premature
Beginnings never could endure!
So, with a sullen "All's for best,"
The land seems settling to its rest.
I think then, I should wish to stand
This evening in that dear, lost land,
Over the sea the thousand miles
And know if yet that woman smiles
With the calm smile; some little farm
She lives in there, no doubt: what harm
If I sat on the door-side bench,
And while her spindle made a trench
Fantastically in the dust,
Inquired of all her fortunes--just
Her children's ages and their names,
And what may be the husband's aims
For each of them. I'd talk this out,
And sit there, for an hour about,
Then kiss her hand once more, and lay
Mine on her head, and go my way.

So much for idle wishing--how
It steals the time! To business now.

The conversation takes place preliminary "to business." It is a fine example of the monologue for many reasons. It takes simply a single moment in life, a moment in this case when a turn is made from serious business into personal experiences. The speaker is probably waiting for other reformers to take active measures for the liberation of his country. In this moment, seemingly wasted, light is thrown upon the inner life of this patriot.

This beautiful example of Browning's best work will serve as a good illustration of the force and power of a monologue to interpret life and character and also the elements necessary to its delivery. The student will do well to thoroughly master it, noting every emphatic word and the necessity of long pauses and salient inflections to make manifest the inner thought and feeling of this man.

From such a theme some may infer that the monologue portrays accidental parts of human life, but Browning in this poem has given deep insight into a great struggle for liberty. Such irrelevant words spoken even on the verge of what seems to us the greater business of life may more definitely indicate character, and on account of the fact that they spring up spontaneously may reveal men more completely than when they proceed "to business."

Note the importance of inflection in "Wanting is--what?" In giving "Wanting is--" there is a suspensive action of the voice with an abrupt pause, as if the speaker were going to continue with "everywhere" or something of the kind. The dash helps to indicate this. The idea is still incomplete, when the attitude of the mind totally changes, and he gives a very strong and abrupt rise in "what," as if to say: "Will you, Browning, with your optimistic beliefs, utter a note of despair?" The understanding of the whole poem, of the passing from one point of view to another, depends upon the way in which this abrupt change of thought in the first short line is given by the voice.

WANTING IS--WHAT?

Wanting is--what?
Summer redundant,
Blueness abundant,--
Where is the blot?
Beamy the world, yet a blank all the same,--
Framework which waits for a picture to frame:
What of the leafage, what of the flower?
Roses embowering with naught they embower!
Come then, complete incompletion, O Comer,
Pant through the blueness, perfect the summer!
Breathe but one breath
Rose-beauty above,
And all that was death
Grows life, grows love,
Grows love!

Change of point of view, situation, or emotion is revealed by a change in the modulation of the resonance of the voice, or tone-color. In this poem, note the joyous, confident feeling in the short lines, beginning with the word "what," then after a long pause, the change in key and resonance to the regret and despair expressed in the first of the long lines. Then there is a passing to a point of view above both the optimistic and pessimistic attitudes which have been contrasted. This truer attitude accepts the dark facts, but sees deeper than the external, and prays for the "Comer" and the transfiguring of all despair and death into life and love.

Note also the importance of pause after a long falling inflection on the word "roses" to indicate an answer to the previous question. The first two words of the poem, this word, and the contrast of the three moods by tone-color are the chief points in the interpretation.

Read over again also "One Way of Love" (p. 150), and note that there are not merely changes in inflection in passing from the successive questions and from disappointment to acquiescence, but change also in the texture or tone-color of the voice. This contrast in tone-color becomes still more marked in the last stanza between the vigorous suspense and disappointment in

"She will not give me heaven?..."

and the heroic resignation of "'Tis well!" with a change of key still more marked. Between these clauses there is a long pause and an extreme change of pitch which are suggestive of the intensity of his sorrow as well as of the nobility and dignity of his character. He does not exclaim contemptuously, that "the grapes are green."

Everywhere we find that changes in situation, dramatic points of view, imaginative relations, sympathetic attitudes of mind, or feeling resulting from whatever cause, are expressed by corresponding changes in the modulations of the texture or resonance of the tone, which may here be called tone-color.

One of the most elemental characteristics of conversation is the flexible variation of the successive rhythmic pulsations, that is to say, the movement. This variation is especially necessary in all dramatic expression. One clause will move very slowly, and show deliberative thinking, importance, weight, a more dignified point of view or firm control; another will be given rapidly, as indicative of triviality, mere formality, uncontrollable excitement, lack of weight and sympathy, or of subordination and disparagement. A slow movement indicates what is weighty and important; a rapid one excitement or what is unimportant.

These are the elements of naturalness or the expressive modulations of the voice in every-day conversation. For the rendering of no other form of literature is the study and mastery of these elements so necessary as in that of the monologue. Monologues are so infinitely varied in character, they reproduce so definitely all the elements of conversation, even requiring them to be accentuated; they embody such sudden transitions in thought and feeling, such contrasts in the attitude of the mind, that a thorough command of the voice is necessary for their interpretation.

Not only must the modulations of the voice be studied to render the monologue, but a thorough study of the monologue becomes a great help in developing power in vocal expression. Because of the necessary accentuation of otherwise overlooked points in vocal expression, the orator or the teacher, the reader or the actor, can be led to understand and realize more adequately those expressive modulations upon the mastery of which all naturalness in speaking depends.

Not only must we appreciate the distinct meaning of each of these modulations, but also that of their combination and degrees of accentuation, which indicate marked transitions in feeling and situation. In fact, no voice modulation is ever perceived in isolation. They may not all be found in a sentence, but some of them cannot be present without others. For example, touch is meaningless without pause, and a pause is justified by change of pitch. Inflection and change of pitch constitute the elements of vocal form which reveal thought, and all combine with tone-color and movement, which reveal feeling and experience. Naturalness is the right union and combination of all the modulations.

MEMORABILIA

Ah, did you once see Shelley plain,
And did he stop and speak to you,
And did you speak to him again?
How strange it seems, and new!

But you were living before that,
And also you are living after;
And the memory I started at--
My starting moves your laughter!

I crossed a moor, with a name of its own
And a certain use in the world, no doubt,
Yet a hand's-breadth of it shines alone
'Mid the blank miles round about:

For there I picked up on the heather
And there I put inside my breast
A moulted feather, an eagle-feather!
Well, I forget the rest.

Read over any short monologue several times and satisfactorily locate and define the meaning of each of these modulations. Observe also the great variety of changes among these modulations and their necessary union for right interpretation.

Take for example "Memorabilia," one of Browning's shortest monologues, and observe in every phrase the nature and necessity of these modulations of the voice.

The reading of a volume of Shelley is said to have greatly influenced Browning when a boy, and this monologue is a tribute to that poet. Some lover of Shelley, possibly Browning himself, meets one who has seen Shelley face to face. He is agitated at the thought of facing one who had been in the presence of that marvellous man. Note the abrupt inflections, the quick movement indicating excitement, the decided touches, and animated changes of pitch.

At the seventh line a great break is indicated by a dash. The speaker seems to be going on to say: "The memory I started at must have been the greatest event of your life." But as he notes the action of the other, the contemptuous smile at his enthusiasm, perhaps a sarcastic remark about Shelley, there is a sudden, abrupt pause after "started at" which is given with a rising or suspensive inflection. "My starting" has extreme change in pitch, color, and movement. Astonishment is mingled with disappointment and grief. Then follows a still greater transition. In the last eight lines of the poem, the speaker, after a long pause, possibly turning slightly away from the other and becoming more subjective, in a slow movement and a total change of tone-color, pays a noble, poetic, and grateful tribute to the object of his admiration. He carefully weighs every word, and accentuates his thought with long pauses, and decided touches upon the words. He gives "moor" a long falling inflection, pausing after it to suggest that he meant more than a moor, possibly all modern or English literature or poetry. He adds

"... with a name of its own
And a certain use in the world, no doubt,"

as a reference to English poetry or literature and to show that he was not ignorant of its beauties and glories. Still stronger emphasis should be given to "hand's-breadth," with a pause after it, subordinating the next words, for he is trying to bring his listener indirectly up to the thought of Shelley. "Miles" may also receive an accent in contrast to "hand's-breadth." Then there is great tenderness:

"For there I picked up ..."

Note the change in the resonance of the voice and the low and dignified movement. There is a long inflection, followed by a pause on the word "feather" and a still longer one on the word "eagle." Now follows another extreme transition. Thought and feeling change. He comes back to the familiarity of conversation. He shows uncertainty or hesitation by inflection and a long pause after the word "Well." He has no word of disparagement of other writers, but simply adds,

"Well, I forget the rest."

All else is forgotten in contemplating that one precious "feather" which is, of course, Shelley's poetry.

It is impossible to indicate in words all the mental and emotional actions, or the modulations of the voice necessary to express them. The more complex the imaginative conditions, the more all these modulations are combined. Notice that change of movement, of key, and also of tone-color combine to express extreme changes in situation, feeling, or direction of attention. When there is a very strong emphatic inflection, there is usually an emphatic pause after it. Wherever there is a long pause there is always a salient change of pitch or some variation in the expression to justify it. After an emphatic pause when words are closely connected, there is always a decided subordination, and thus a whole sentence, or, by a series of such changes, an entire poem, is given unity of atmosphere, coloring, and form.

No rules can be laid down for such artistic rendering; for the higher the poetry and the deeper the feeling, the less applicable is any so-called rule. Only the deepest principles can be of lasting use.

Take, for example, Browning's epilogue to "The Two Poets of Croisic," printed also by him in his book of selections under the title of "A Tale:"

A TALE

What a pretty tale you told me
Once upon a time
--Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
Was it prose or was it rhyme,
Greek or Latin? Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there's no forgetting
This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,
Went where suchlike used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely
Sing but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly
Quite as singing: I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that's behind.

There stood he, while deep attention
Held the judges round,
--Judges able, I should mention,
To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss: such ears
Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly,
Played in time and tune,
Till the judges, weighing coldly
Each note's worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile "In vain one tries
Picking faults out: take the prize!"

When, a mischief! Were they seven
Strings the lyre possessed?
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
Thank you! Well, sir,--who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?--it happed
One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then! No! a cricket
(What "cicada"? Pooh!)
--Some mad thing that left its thicket
For mere love of music--flew
With its little heart on fire,
Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah joy!) our singer
For his truant string
Feels with disconcerted finger,
What does cricket else but fling
Fiery heart forth, sound the note
Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay and, ever to the ending,
Cricket chirps at need,
Executes the hand's intending,
Promptly, perfectly,--indeed
Saves the singer from defeat
With her chirrup low and sweet.

Till, at ending, all the judges
Cry with one assent
"Take the prize--a prize who grudges
Such a voice and instrument?
Why, we took your lyre for harp,
So it shrilled us forth F sharp!"

Did the conqueror spurn the creature,
Once its service done?
That's no such uncommon feature
In the case when Music's son
Finds his Lotte's power too spent
For aiding soul-development.

No! This other, on returning
Homeward, prize in hand,
Satisfied his bosom's yearning:
(Sir, I hope you understand!)
--Said "Some record there must be
Of this cricket's help to me!"

So, he made himself a statue:
Marble stood, life-size;
On the lyre, he pointed at you,
Perched his partner in the prize;
Never more apart you found
Her, he throned, from him, she crowned.

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 bass
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!)