Part 20 (1/2)

Action is a language that belongs to the whole body. As light moves quickest in the outer world, so action,--the language that appeals to the eye--is the first appeal to consciousness. Life expands,--the gleaming eye, the elevated and gravitating body, the lifted hand,--all these show character and a living or present realization of ideas, and are most important in the monologue.

On account of the abrupt opening of most monologues, the first clause requires salient and decided action. The speaker must locate his hearer, and must often indicate, by some decided movement, the effect produced upon him by some previous speech which has to be imagined. As the words of the listener are not given but must be suggested, it is necessary that the action be decided.

Though action or pantomime always precedes speech, this precedence is especially p.r.o.nounced in monologues. Notice, for example, in Bret Harte's ”In a Tunnel,” the look of surprise and astonishment followed by the words given with long rising inflections: ”Didn't know Flynn?”

”Didn't know Flynn--Flynn of Virginia--long as he's been 'yar? Look'ee here, stranger, whar _hev_ you been?

”Here in this tunnel,--he was my pardner, that same Tom Flynn--working together, in wind and weather, day out and in.

”Didn't know Flynn! Well, that _is_ queer. Why, it's a sin to think of Tom Flynn--Tom with his cheer, Tom without fear,--stranger, look 'yar!

”Thar in the drift back to the wall he held the timbers ready to fall; then in the darkness I heard him call--'Run for your life, Jake! Run for your wife's sake! Don't wait for me.' And that was all, heard in the din, heard of Tom Flynn,--Flynn of Virginia.

”That's all about Flynn of Virginia--that lets me out here in the damp--out of the sun--that ar' dern'd lamp makes my eyes run.

”Well, there--I'm done! But, sir, when you'll hear the next fool asking of Flynn--Flynn of Virginia--just you chip in, say you knew Flynn; say that you've been 'yar.”

The look of wonder is sustained until there is a change to an intense, pointed inquiry: ”Whar _hev_ you been?” The intense surprise reveals the rough character of the speaker, a miner in a mining camp, and his admiration for Flynn, who has saved his life. Then note the sudden transition as he begins his story. His character must be maintained, and expressed by action through all the many transitions; but in the first clause especially there must be a pause with a long continued att.i.tude of astonishment.

Action is required to present this vivid scene which is suggested by only a few words, the admiration of the speaker for Flynn, who in the depths of the mine, with but a moment to decide, gives his life for another. The hero calls out ”Run for your wife's sake,” the heart of the speaker warms with admiration and the tears come; then the rough Westerner is seen brus.h.i.+ng away his tears and attributing the water in his eyes to the ”dern'd lamp.” Truth in depicting human nature, depth of feeling, action, character, in short, the whole meaning, is dependent upon the decided actions of the body and the inflections of the voice directly a.s.sociated with these.

In ”The Italian in England” (p. 152), the word ”second” not only needs emphasis by the voice, as has been shown, to indicate that the speaker has already given an account of another experience, but he may possibly throw up his hands to indicate something unusual, something beyond words in the experience he is about to relate.

It is especially necessary in the monologue that action should show the discovery, arrival, or initiation of ideas. A change in the direction of attention, a new subject or current of ideas, cannot be indicated wholly by vocal expression. The mental conjectures of Mrs. Caudle, for example, are very p.r.o.nounced, and cannot be fully expressed by the voice without action.

Notice how definitely action, in union with vocal expression, shows whether Mrs. Caudle's new impressions are due to the natural a.s.sociation of ideas in her mind, or to the words or conduct of Caudle. The last mentioned give rise to her explosiveness, withering sarcasm, and anger.

Such discriminations produce the illusion of the scene.

In ”Up at a Villa--Down in the City” (p. 65), notice how necessary it is for the interpreter to show the direction of his attention, whether he is speaking regarding his villa or the city. Note the disgust and att.i.tude of gloom in his face and bearing as he gazes towards his villa.

”Over-smoked behind by the faint gray olive-trees,”

suggests a picture calling for admiration from us, but not from him. To him the tulip is a great ”bubble of blood.” All this receives a definite tone-color, and it must be borne in mind that without action of the body, the quality of the voice will not change. The emotion diffuses itself through the whole organism of the impersonator of the ”person of quality,”

and even hands, feet and face are given a certain att.i.tude by this emotion. Contempt for the villa will depress his whole body and thus color his tone. On the contrary, when the speaker turns to the city, his face lights up. The ”fountain--to splash,” the ”houses in four straight lines,”

the ”fanciful signs which are painted properly,”--all these are apparently contemplated by him with such an expansion and elevation of his body as almost to cause laughter.

This contrast, which is sustained through the whole monologue, can be interpreted or presented only by the actions of the body and their effect on the tone.

Expression of face and body are necessary to suggest the delicate changes in thinking and feeling. Notice in ”A Tale” (p. 163) that the struggle of the woman to remember is shown by action.

The two lines

”Said you found it somewhere, ...

Was it prose or was it rhyme?”

are not so much addressed to the listener as to herself, as she tries to remember, and she would show this by action. Every subtle change in thought and feeling is indicated by a decided expression in the face. In her efforts to remember, she would possibly turn away from him at first with a bewildered look, then she might turn toward him again, as she asked him the question; but if she asked this of herself, her head would remain turned away. When she decides with a bow of the head that it is Greek, note how her face would light up and possibly intimate confidence that she was right. At the close of the poem, notice the tender mischief of her glance when she refers to ”somebody I know” who is ”deserving of a prize.”

The monologue is full of the subtlest variations of point of view and thought, and these variations call for a constant play of feature.

The struggle for an idea must be frankly disclosed. An interruption, a thought broken on account of a sudden leap of the mind, must be interpreted faithfully by the eyes, the face, the walk, or the body, in union with vocal expression.

In the soliloquy of the ”Spanish Cloister” (p. 58), for example, notice how the whole face, head, and body of the speaker recoil at the very start on discovering Brother Lawrence in the garden. Notice, too, the fiendish delight as he sees the accident, ”There his lily snaps!” How sarcastic is his reference to the actions of Brother Lawrence, who, unconscious that any one is looking at him, seems to stop and shake his head in a way that leads the speaker to infer that a ”myrtle-bush wants tr.i.m.m.i.n.g:” but instantly, with a sneer he adds, ”Oh, that rose has prior claims.” Such sarcastic variations occur all through the monologue. ”How go on your flowers?” is given with gleeful expectancy, and he notes with cruel joy the disappointment of Brother Lawrence when looking to find one ”double,”