Chapter XLVI: Act III

_Lady Windermere._ (_Standing_ (_Lady Windermere discovered
_by the fireplace._) Why doesn't at fireplace, L., crosses
he come? This waiting is horrible. to chair, L. of C., takes
He should be here. Why is he not cloak from chair, puts
here, to wake by passionate words cloak on crossing to door
some fire within me? I am cold-- U.L., stops, decides to
cold as a loveless thing. Arthur stay, crosses to R. of D.C.
must have read my letter by this Enter Mrs. Erlynne._)
time. If he cared for me, he
would have come after me, and
have taken me back by force. But
he doesn't care. He's entrammeled
by this woman--fascinated by
her--dominated by her. If a woman
wants to hold a man, she has
merely to appeal to what is
worst in him. We make gods of
men and they leave us. Others
make brutes of them and they
fawn and are faithful. How
hideous life is! ... Oh! it was
mad of me to come here, horribly
mad. And yet which is the
worst, I wonder, to be at the
mercy of a man who loves one,
or the wife of a man who in one's
own house dishonors one? What
woman knows? What woman
in the whole world? But will he
love me always, this man to
whom I am giving my life?
What do I bring him? Lips that
have lost the note of joy, eyes
that are blighted by tears, chill
hands and icy heart. I bring
him nothing. I must go back--no;
I can't go back, my letter
has put me in their power--
Arthur would not take me back!
That fatal letter! No! Lord
Darlington leaves England
tomorrow. I will go with him--I
have no choice. (_Sits down for a
few moments. Then starts up and
puts on her cloak._) No, no! I
will go back, let Arthur do with
me what he pleases. I can't wait
here. It has been madness my
coming. I must go at once. As
for Lord Darlington--Oh! here
he is! What shall I do? What
can I say to him? Will he let me
go away at all? I have heard
that men are brutal, horrible.
... Oh! (_Hides her face in her
hands._)

_Enter Mrs. Erlynne, L._[52]

Soliloquy when a character is left alone on the stage is a perfect illustration of the difference between permanent and ephemeral technique. As a device for easy exposition, it has been popular from the beginning of drama till recently. Now, though one may use it in a rough draft, a technique which is likely to become permanent in this respect forces us to go over this draft, cutting soliloquy to mere action and the few exclamations which the character might utter under the circumstances. Soliloquy has no such permanent place in technique as have preliminary exposition, suspense, and climax. Soliloquy, when other people are on the stage and known by the speaker to be listening is also absurd. It is because of this fact that the dramatic or psychologic monologue, the form taken by a very large portion of Browning's voluminous poetry, breaks down if we attempt to stage it. "Some speaker is made to reveal his character, and, sometimes, by reflection, or directly, the character of some one else--to set forth some subtle and complex soul-mood, some supreme, all-determining movement or experience of a life, or, it may be, to ratiocinate subtly on some curious question of theology, morals, philosophy, or art. Now it is in strictly preserving the monologue character that obscurity often results. A monologue often begins with a startling abruptness, and the reader must read along some distance before he gathers what the beginning means. Take the monologue of Fra Lippo Lippi for example. The situation is necessarily left more or less unexplained. The poet says nothing _in propria persona_, and no reply is made to the speaker by the person or persons addressed. Sometimes a look, a gesture or a remark must be supposed on the part of the one addressed, which occasions a responsive remark. Sometimes a speaker _imputes_ a question, and the reader is sometimes obliged to stop and consider whether a question is imputed by the speaker to the one he is addressing, or is a direct question of his own. This is often the case throughout _The Ring and the Book_."[53]

_Giuseppe Caponsacchi_. Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,--
So things disguise themselves,--I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 'twas here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then ... nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter--no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,--I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When first I told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
Well, he can say no other than what he says.
We have been young, too,--come, there's greater guilt!
Let him but decently disembroil himself,
Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,--
We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!"
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 'tis--"Friend,
Collect yourself!"--no laughing matter more--
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
Tell us again!"--tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just--your lips,
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,--
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, is retaken by the same
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense.[54]

It may be true that when one reads a dramatic monologue, the changes in thought caused by some movement or look of an imagined hearer may seem sufficiently motivated. When, on the other hand, this monologue is staged, it becomes exceedingly unreal because we feel that the second person would not be silent but would interrupt with question or comment. More than this, unless the listening actor changes from pose to pose with rapid plasticity, he will become stiff in attitude, thus making us conscious of him when we should be listening to the speaker. Increasing the number of hearers does not relieve the situation, but merely increases the number of possible interrupters or of people who stand about the stage more and more stiffly. Soliloquy is, therefore, to be avoided except when it seems or can be made to seem perfectly natural. Monologue, acceptable perhaps to a reader, becomes well-nigh impossible on the stage.

The aside must be subjected to very nearly the same tests. In _Two Loves and a Life_ of Tom Taylor and Charles Reade, Musgrave and his daughter, Anne, are opening letters surreptitiously. They come to the letter of William Hyde, which the girl opens with reluctance, crying,--

Ah, see, father, it is a blank!

_Musgrave._ A blank! Then it is as I thought!

_Anne._ How?

_Musgrave._ Here, girl!

(_He takes the letter and holds it to the fire in the brazier._)

_Anne._ See! Letters become visible!

_Musgrave._ A stale trick. 'Tis done with lemon juice or milk, when
folks would keep what they write from those who are in their secret.
Politicians correspond so, Anne, and rebels.

_Anne._ But William Hyde is neither, father.

_Musgrave._ Of course not. Now then!

_Anne._ (_Aside._) Thank Heaven! 'tis all about his calling!

_Musgrave._ Read! (_Aside._) I have learned the key to their cypher,
which I have copied from the priest's letter.

_Anne._ (_Reads._) "Dear Will, we have thine advices, and shall be at
Lancaster Fair. All the smart fellows--"

_Musgrave._ (_To himself._) Ah! Bardsea Hole--all the Jacobite
gentlemen--good.

_Anne._ (_Reads._) "By the time the grilse come ashore--"

_Musgrave._ (_To himself._) Grilse? ammunition. Go on.

_Anne._ (_Reads._) "Which shall be as you fix, on Tuesday the 16th, at
ten of the clock, P.M. There is a bill against you and the old
clothier, payable at Ulverstone today, drawn by the butcher. Look out
and see that he does not nab either of you--"

_Musgrave._ (_Aside._) The proclamation!

_Anne._ (_Reads._) "For your friends assembled. John Trusty."

_Musgrave._ From Townley. It _is_ as I suspected. (_He starts up._)

_Anne._ Father!

_Musgrave._ I'm a made man, Anne. Give me joy--joy![55]

In this once popular drama we have five asides close together, for of course "to himself" is the equivalent of an aside. All are bad, for in each case the other person on the stage must be supposed not to hear, and the aside is merely a device for telling us what the speaker is thinking. They vary in badness, however, for while Musgrave might well explain "grilse" to Anne as "ammunition," he says, "I have learned the key to their cipher, which I have copied from the priest's letter," not as something which he is necessarily thinking at the time, but as something which the audience needs to know at this point. An aside is objectionable when a man speaks what he would be careful only to think, either because of the very nature of his thought or because somebody is near at hand who should not overhear. Asides should be kept for confidential remarks which may be made to some person standing near the speaker, but could not be heard by persons standing at a greater distance; and to what naturally breaks from us in a moment of irritation, terror, or other strong emotion. Asides of the first group, confidential remarks, gain much in naturalness if spoken in half tones. Nothing could be more preposterous than the old stage custom of coming down to the footlights to tell an audience in clear-cut tones confidences which must not be overheard by people close at hand on the stage. Asides which are only brief soliloquies are little better. Asides in which the speaker merely says to the audience what he might perfectly well say to the people on the stage are foolish unless the author wishes to make the point that the character has the habit of talking to himself. The following from Vanbrugh's _The Provoked Wife_ shows two entirely natural uses of the aside by Lady Brute, and one debatable use by Sir John.