Читать книгу Browning and the Dramatic Monologue - S. S. Curry - Страница 6

YOUTH AND ART

It once might have been, once only:

We lodged in a street together,

You, a sparrow on the housetop lonely,

I, a lone she-bird of his feather.

Your trade was with sticks and clay,

You thumbed, thrust, patted, and polished,

Then laughed, “They will see, some day,

Smith made, and Gibson demolished.”

My business was song, song, song;

I chirped, cheeped, trilled, and twittered,

“Kate Brown’s on the boards ere long,

And Grisi’s existence imbittered!”

I earned no more by a warble

Than you by a sketch in plaster:

You wanted a piece of marble,

I needed a music-master.

We studied hard in our styles,

Chipped each at a crust like Hindoos,

For air, looked out on the tiles,

For fun, watched each other’s windows.

You lounged, like a boy of the South,

Cap and blouse—nay, a bit of beard, too;

Or you got it, rubbing your mouth

With fingers the clay adhered to.

And I—soon managed to find

Weak points in the flower-fence facing,

Was forced to put up a blind

And be safe in my corset-lacing.

No harm! It was not my fault

If you never turned your eye’s tail up

As I shook upon E in alt., Or ran the chromatic scale up; For spring bade the sparrows pair, And the boys and girls gave guesses, And stalls in our street looked rare With bulrush and water-cresses. Why did not you pinch a flower In a pellet of clay and fling it? Why did not I put a power Of thanks in a look, or sing it? I did look, sharp as a lynx (And yet the memory rankles) When models arrived, some minx Tripped up stairs, she and her ankles. But I think I gave you as good! “That foreign fellow—who can know How she pays, in a playful mood, For his tuning her that piano?” Could you say so, and never say, “Suppose we join hands and fortunes, And I fetch her from over the way, Her, piano, and long tunes and short tunes?” No, no; you would not be rash, Nor I rasher and something over: You’ve to settle yet Gibson’s hash, And Grisi yet lives in clover. But you meet the Prince at the Board. I’m queen myself at bals-parés, I’ve married a rich old lord, And you’re dubbed knight and an R. A. Each life’s unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still patchy and scrappy; We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired—been happy. And nobody calls you a dunce, And people suppose me clever; This could but have happened once, And we missed it, lost it forever.

The theme is the dream and experience of two lovers. The speaker is married to a rich old lord, and her lover of other days, a sculptor, is “dubbed knight and an R. A.” Stirred by her youthful dreams, or it may be by the meeting of her lover in society, or possibly in imagination—as a queen of “bals-parés” would hardly talk to a “knight and an R. A.” in this frank manner—it is the woman who breaks forth suddenly with the dream of her old love—

“It once might have been, once only,”—

and relates the story of the days when they were both young students, she of singing and he of sculpture, and describes, or lightly caricatures, their experience. Is her laughter, as she goes on in such a playful mood describing the different events of their lives, an endeavor to conceal a hidden pain? Has she grown worldly minded, sneering at every youthful dream, even her own, or is she awakening from this worldly point of view to a realization at last of “life unfulfilled”?

Browning, instead of an abstract discussion, presents in an artistic form an important truth, that he who lives for the world does not live at all. By introducing this woman to us in a serious attitude of mind, reflecting on the one hand a worldly mood, on the other the deep, abiding love of a true woman, he makes the desired impression. The last line throbs with deep emotion, and we feel how slowly and sadly she would acknowledge the failure of life:

“And we missed it, lost it forever.”

Browning’s “Caliban upon Setebos” furnishes a forcible illustration of the importance of the speaker and the necessity of preserving his character and point of view in the monologue. “ ’Will sprawl” begins a long parenthesis which implies the first intention of Caliban to lie flat in “the pit’s much mire.” He describes definitely the position he likes “in the cool slush.” The words express Caliban’s feelings at his noonday rest and the position he takes for enjoyment. He has not yet risen to the dignity of the consciousness of the ego. He does not use the pronoun “I” or the possessive “my.” His verbs are impersonal—“ ’Will sprawl,” not “I will sprawl,”—and he

“Talks to his own self, howe’er he please,

Touching that other whom his dam called God.”

He lies down in this position to have a good “think” regarding his “dam’s God, Setebos.” Notice the continual recurrence of the impersonal “thinketh” without any subject. Here we have a most humorous but really profound meditation of such a creature with all the elements of “natural theology in the island.” The subheading before the monologue, “Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself,” indicates the current of Browning’s ideas.

When we have once pictured Caliban definitely in our minds with his “saith” and “thinketh,” we perceive the analogy which he establishes after the manner of men between his own low nature and that of deity.

To read such a work without a definite conception of the character talking, makes utter nonsense of the reading. Every sentiment and feeling in the poem regarding God is dramatic. However deep or profound the lesson conveyed, it is entirely indirect.

How different is the story of the glove and King Francis, as treated by Leigh Hunt, from its interpretation by Browning! Leigh Hunt centres everything in the sequence of events and the simple statement of facts.

“King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,

And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court.”

But Browning! He chooses a distinct character, Peter Ronsard, a poet, to tell the story, and adopts a totally different point of view, centring all in the speaker’s justification of the woman who threw the glove. Practically the same facts are told; even the King’s words are almost identical with those given by Hunt:

“ ’Twas mere vanity,

Not love, set that task to humanity!”

and he gives the ordinary point of view:

“Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing

From such a proved wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

But human character and motive is given a deeper interpretation and the poet does not accept their views:

“Not so, I; for I caught the expression

In her brow’s undisturbed self-possession

Amid the court’s scoffing and merriment;—

As if from no pleasing experiment,

She rose, yet of pain not much heedful

So long as the process was needful.”

The poet followed her and asked what it all meant, and if she did not wish to recall her rash deed.

“For I, so I spoke, am a poet,

Human nature—behooves that I know it!”

So he tells you she explained that he had vowed and boasted what he would do, and she felt that she would put him to the test. Browning represents her as rejecting Delorge, whose admiration was shown by this incident to be superficial, and as marrying a humble but true-hearted lover.

“The Ring and the Book” illustrates possibly more amply than any other poem the peculiar dramatic force of the monologue.

The story, out of which is built a poem twice as long as “Paradise Lost,” can be told in a few words. Guido, a nobleman of Arezzo, poor, but of noble family, has sought advancement at the Papal Court. Embittered by failure, he resolves to establish himself by marriage with an heiress, and makes an offer for Pompilia, an innocent girl of sixteen, the only child of parents supposed to be wealthy. The father, Pietro, refuses the offer, but the mother arranges a secret marriage, and Pietro accepts the situation. The old couple put all their property into the hands of the son-in-law and go with him to Arezzo. The marriage proves unhappy, and Guido robs and persecutes the old people until they return poor to Rome. The mother then makes the unexpected revelation that Pompilia is not her child. She had bought her, and Pietro and the world believe that she was her own. On this account they seek to recover Pompilia’s dowry. Pompilia suffers outrageous treatment from her husband, who wishes to be rid of her and yet keep her property, and lays all kinds of snares in the endeavor to drive her away. She at length flees, and is aided in so doing by a noble-hearted priest. On the road they are overtaken by the husband, who starts proceedings for a divorce at Rome. The divorce is refused, but the wife is placed in mild imprisonment, though later she is allowed to return to her so-called parents, in whose home she gives birth to a son. Guido now tries to get possession of the child, as, by this means he secures all rights to the property. With some hirelings he goes to the lonely house, and murders Pompilia and her parents. Pompilia does not die immediately, but lives to give her testimony against her husband. Guido flees, is arrested on Roman territory, and is tried and condemned to death. An appeal is made to the Pope, who confirms the sentence.

This story is told ten or twelve times, all interest centring in the characters of the speakers, in their points of view and attitudes of mind. More fully, perhaps, than any other poem, “The Ring and the Book” shows that every one in relating the simplest events or facts gives a coloring to the truth of his character.

In Book I Browning speaks in his own character, and states the facts and how the story came into his hands. In Book II, called “Half-Rome,” a Roman, more or less in sympathy with the husband, tells the story. In Book III, styled “The Other Half-Rome,” one in sympathy with the wife tells the story. In Book IV, called “Tertium Quid,” a society gentleman, who prides himself on his critical acumen, tells the story in a drawing-room. Each speaker in these monologues has a character of his own, and the facts are strongly colored according to his nature and point of view. In Book V Guido makes his defence before the judges. He is a criminal defending himself, and puts facts in such a way as to justify his actions. In Book VI the priest who assisted Pompilia to escape passionately proclaims the lofty motives which actuated Pompilia and himself. In Book VII Pompilia, on her deathbed, gives her testimony, telling the story with intense pathos. In Book VIII a lawyer, with all the ingenuity of his profession, speaks in defence of Guido, but without touching upon the merits of the case. In Book IX Pompilia’s advocate, endeavoring to display his fine cultured style, gives a legal justification of her course. In Book X the Pope decides against Guido, and gives the reasons for this decision. Book XI is Guido’s last confession as a condemned man; here his character is still more definitely unfolded. He tries to bribe his guards; though still defiant, he shows his base, cowardly nature at the close, and ends his final weak and chaotic appeal by calling on Pompilia, thus giving the highest testimony possible to the purity and sweetness of the woman he murdered:

“Don’t open! Hold me from them! I am yours,

I am the Granduke’s—no, I am the Pope’s!

Abate—Cardinal—Christ—Maria—God, …

Pompilia, will you let them murder me?”

In his defence he was concealing his real deeds and character, and justifying himself. In this book he reveals himself with great frankness.

In Book XII the case is given as it fades into history, and the poem closes with a lesson regarding the function or necessity of art in telling truth.

“The Ring and the Book” affords perhaps the highest example of the value of the monologue as a form of art. Men who have only one point of view are always “cranks,”—able, that is, to turn only one way. A preacher who can appreciate only the point of view of his own denomination will never get very near the truth. The statesman who declares “there is but one side to a question” may sometime by his narrowness assist in plunging his country into a great war. No man can help his fellows if unable to see things from their point of view. “The Ring and the Book” shows every speaker coloring the truth unconsciously by his own character, and Browning, by putting the same facts in the mouths of different persons, enables us to discover the personal element.

This is the specific function of the monologue. It artistically interprets truth by interpreting the soul that realizes it. This excites interest in the speaker and shows its dramatic character.

Browning, by its aid, interprets peculiarities of human nature before unnoticed. Dramatic instinct is given a new literary form and expression. Human nature receives a profounder interpretation. We are made more teachable and sympathetic. The monologue exhibits one person drawing quick conclusions, another meeting doubt with counter-doubt, or still another calmly weighing evidences; it occupies many points of view, thus giving a clearer perception of truth through the mirror of human character.