XV Faults in Rendering a Monologue
Many faults in the rendering of a monologue have been necessarily suggested in the preceding discussion. There are some, however, which have been but barely referred to, that possibly need some further attention.
The monologue must not be stagy. It should possess the quiet simplicity, the long pauses, the abrupt movement, the animated changes in pitch, and the simple intensity which belong to conversation. The Italian in England would remember and feel again the excitement of danger, and gratitude for delivery; but he would not employ descriptive gestures and declamatory presentation as if delivering an oration.
An important error to be avoided in rendering a monologue is monotony or inflexibility. A monologue is more suggestive than any other form of literature, for it implies sudden exclamations and abrupt transitions. The ideas and feelings are often hardly hinted at by the writer. There is not only greater difficulty in realizing the continuity of ideas and meaning, but a greater necessity for abrupt changes of voice than in any other mode of expression.
The reader of the monologue must suggest the impressions produced upon him, the hidden causes, the unreported words of another character, and at the same time a distinct and definite imaginative situation. Hence, the rendering of a monologue requires the greatest possible accentuation of the processes of thinking and feeling and the most delicate transitions of ideas. An impression produced by a mere look must be definitely revealed by the interpreter.
We thus see the necessity for the employment of great flexibility of voice and of body, and especially the exercise of versatility of the mind. The interpreter must have a sympathetic temperament, and must be able to accentuate and sustain the simplest look, the most delicate inflection and change of pitch, and to modulate the color and movement of his voice with perfect freedom. To read a monologue on one pitch completely perverts its spirit. Monotony is a bad fault in rendering all forms of literature, but it is possibly worse in the monologue on account of the peculiarly broken and suggestive character of that form of writing.
All the elements of conversation must be not only realized, but emphasized. The reader must be able to make some of these so salient as to reveal the very first initiation of an idea; otherwise, the real point may be lost. The thought must be made clear at all hazards.
The monologue must not be tame. Because it is printed in such regular lines the suggestive character may be lost, and the words simply presented as in a story or essay. There is a great temptation to give the feeling with the personal directness of the lyric story or essay. The monologue requires extreme definiteness and decision in the conception of character and feeling, and every point must be made salient.
Another fault in the rendering of the monologue is a declamatory tendency. As the reader discovers but one speaker he confuses the words with a speech. He feels the presence of the audience to whom he is addressing the words, or unconsciously imagines an audience, in preparing his monologue, and forgets entirely the dramatic auditor intended by the author. Thus, the interpreter, confusing the points of situation, transforms the monologue into a stump speech.
It degrades the quiet intensity of “A Grammarian’s Funeral” to make the grammarian’s pupil, who is aiding in bearing his body up the mountain side, declaim against the world. How quietly intense and simple should be the rendering of “By the Fireside.”
Although the subtleties of conversation need some accentuation, and although there is an enlargement of the processes of thinking, and fuller realization of the truth than in conversation, the monologue never becomes a speech. An audience may be felt, but never directly dominated, nor even addressed. In the oration, the speaker directly dominates the audience; in dramatic representation, the artist does not even look at his audience. His eye belongs to his interlocutor. The direction of the audience is that of attraction, and away from the audience that of negation. He must feel a tendency to gravitate in passion towards the audience, and in the negation of passion to turn from them; but still he succeeds, not by direct instruction, but by fidelity of portraiture.
The monologue is as indirect as a play. It is the revelation of a soul, and to be used not to persuade, but to influence subtly. The truth is portrayed with living force, and the auditor left to draw his own conclusions and lessons.
Another fault is indefiniteness. Every part of a monologue must be brought into harmony with the rest. Part must be consistent with part, as are the hand and foot belonging to the same organism. If “Abt Vogler” be started as a soliloquy, it must not be turned into a speech to an audience, nor even into a direct speech to one individual. If conceived as a speech to one individual, that character must be preserved throughout. Even though talking to some one, he would be very meditative, and would often turn and speak as if to himself.
Closely allied to indefiniteness is exaggeration of certain parts. All accentuation must be in direct proportion. If inflection be made longer and more salient, there must also be longer pauses, greater changes of pitch, and greater variations of movement and color. In the enlargement of a portrait, it is necessary that all parts be enlarged in proportion. If only the nose or the upper lip be enlarged, the truth of the portrait is lost.
But on account of the suggestive character of the monologue, essentials only must be expanded and accentuated. Hardly any form of art demands that accidentals be more completely subordinated. To exaggerate accidents is to produce extravagance; to appeal to a lower sense is to violate the artistic law of unity. Naturalness can be preserved in any artistic accentuation by increased emphasis of essentials. This prevents the monologue from being tame on the one hand, and extravagant on the other.
Failures in the ordinary rendering of a monologue are frequently occasioned by lack of imagination. The scene, situation, and relation of the characters do not seem to be clearly or vividly realized. Hence, there is a lack of passion, of emotional realization of a living scene, and consequently of natural modulations of voice and body. The audience depends entirely upon the interpreter, since there is no scenery to suggest the situation. All centres in the mind of the reader. If he does not see, and does not show the impression of his vision, his auditor cannot be expected to realize anything.
At first thought, it seems impossible for a reader to cause an audience to discover a complicated situation from a look. The reader may think it necessary to make a long explanation first and be tempted to depend upon objects around him. It is presently found, however, that a mere hint, a turn of the head, a passing expression of the face, will kindle the imagination of the auditor. If the reader really sees things himself, and is natural, flexible, and forcible, he need not fear that his audience will not imagine the scene. An illusion is easily produced. Imagination kindles imagination; vision evokes vision. Every picture, every situation, the location of every character, the entrance of every idea, must be naturally revealed, and there is no need for extravagance of labor. Whatever turns the attention of the audience to the labor of the reader will prevent imaginative creation of the scene, while all minds will be concentrated on the thought when there is a natural, easy manifestation of a simple impression.
The reader in rendering a monologue has especial need for dramatic imagination, and must have insight into the motives of character. The character he portrays must think and live, and the character to whom he is supposed to speak must also be realized. He must sympathetically identify himself with every point of view. A lack of dramatic instinct upon the stage may at times be concealed by a show of scenery and properties, but without dramatic instinct the rendering of a monologue is impossible. It is the dramatic imagination that enables a reader to feel the implied relations, to awaken to a consciousness of a situation, or of the meaning and intimation of the impression produced by another character.
Lack of clearness must be corrected by unusual emphasis. In fact, the monologue demands what may be called dramatic emphasis. Not only must words that stand for central ideas be made salient, but so also must be the impressions of ideas or of situations that need special attention. These give to the audience the situation and life. It is the dramatic ellipses that need especially to be revealed in order to make a monologue clear as well as forcible. A monologue demands the direct action of the dramatic instinct.
All dramatic art must live and move. There is always something of a struggle implied, and this must be suggested and represented. The whole interest of dramatic art centres in the effect of one human being upon another. Without dramatic realization of the effect of character upon character, genuine interpretation of a monologue is not possible.
The monologue must never be theatrical or spectacular. If the interpreter exaggerates at the first some situation, however great or important, beyond the bounds of living, moving, natural life, the result becomes mere posing. An attitude that might have been a simple and clear revelation of feeling is altogether exaggerated, and appeals to the eye instead of to the imagination. It is the result, perhaps, of an expert mechanic, but not of dramatic instinct. If there is a locating of everything, literalism is substituted for imaginative suggestiveness. An extravagant earnestness, or loudness, or unnatural stilted methods of emphasis, will entirely prevent the reader’s imaginative and dramatic action in identifying himself with the character, or entering into sympathetic relations with the scene. A monologue must always be perfectly true to life, and as simple and natural as every-day movements upon the street.
The interpreter of a monologue must study nature; must train his voice and body to the greatest degree of flexible responsiveness, and become acquainted with the human heart. He must cultivate a sympathetic appreciation of all forms of literature; must understand the subtle influences of one human being over another, and comprehend that only by delicate suggestion of the simplest truth can the imagination and sympathies be awakened. He must have confidence in his fellow-men, and be able, by a simple hint, to awaken men’s ideals. In short, faults in rendering monologues must be prevented by genuineness, by developing taste, and awakening the imagination, dramatic instinct, and artistic nature.