“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.