4

CORNELIA D.J . PEARSALL

The dramatic monologue

E,arly in Augusta \Xle~)stcr's Jr;,_matic monologue, "~n Inventor" ( 187o), the

s aker expresses his frustration over a contraption that he has not yet
;;fecred. "It must<' he insist_s, "perform my thought, it must awake/ this
soulless whirring thing of springs and wheels,/ and be a power among us"
{u )_1 These desperate imperatives ("it must") are followed by a question
9
that might betray a sense of futility were it not also the question of any
i.-mo,·ator: "Aye but how?" The speaker seeks public exhibition or display
of his thought; only then can the object be "a power among us," and so
er:.joy a social and cultural import beyond even its maker. But the phrase
al~ suggests a more pragmatic, less theatrical, and less hierarchical
i=;.perati\'e for the object: it must execute his thought, it must accomplish
or fulfill some action or deed, and it must be effectual.2
The notion of creating a vehicle for the performance of thoughts may
remind us of another nineteenth-century invention: the dramatic mono-
logue itself. This chapter explores the element of performance in the
dramatic monologue, the ways these poems enact or express aspects of
6eir speakers, and the ways in which these varied monologues are
.. dramatic." It will also, however, pursue what we might term the performa-
O\-e element of the dramatic monologue, the methods by which these
discursive forays, these words, accomplish various goals - some apparent,
,_,Jiers subtle and less readily perceptible. 3 Given this genre's interest in the
expl<Jration of character, it may not be surprising that "the first book on the
dr 4
mat1c · monologue," according to A. Dwight Culler, was ·
. by an elocuuon
ln'.>truc.'t<Jr., Samuel Silas Curry.4 Himself president of Boston's School of
E>:prtssi,m, Curry, in his 1908 Browning and the Dramatic Monologue,
!.t~tsst ~ the form 's overtly theatrical elements, the modes in which they
rrught bt 1·
iterally performed. He al!>o suggests in passing that the poems
thtmstJ .
Vt\ are performatjve and seek some effect: "There 1s some purpose
at ~take· th..
co 1.
' .... ~peaKer •
mu!>t •.. cam~e deci~aons •
on some pomt o f issue.
· " ) In
ntra~t, Robert Langhaum, among the leading theorists of the dramati~
 j
C ORNELIA D . J . PEAR SALL
The dramatic monologue
monologue, claims in The Poetry of Experien ( ·
logues are superfluous and unnecessary· he heace .19 57) that tL •c,, and "monodrama." 11 And yet, as Tucker wisely
abundance of expressi. on, more words, • ingenuitrs 1n the
y d se Works,~e1c lli0rii, ast •rnask Iyn '
• monolog ue' 1s. a genenc . term whose practical . usefuJ-
necessary for the purpose ." He adds that the "im an _argument th a bPtr. JraJllarks,
fll ~•vrarnat1 emC to have . . d b h f ·1 ure of literary .
1 been 1mpa1re y t e a1
re
is heightened by the fact that the speakers neverpress,on Of &ratuitan..,.~ '~
ess does notd setaxonomists to ach.1eve consensus m · · d fi · ·
1ts e mt1on." 12
their utterance , and seem to accornp1· h anYthi ~; rians and. . ctions have their clear uses. As Alastair
know from the start h 18 Ousn'II Fowler reminds
. . d h.1m m i•510 d hese ist1n
dee k h . .
Critics have Iong Jome . t h.
. 1s c Iaim,
. the primaryt at the
Y IVill nng "Ii.. , r .d he genre of a wor , t en, our aim 1s to d.
1scover .
1ts
that dramatic mono Iog1sts . . . bl y reveal far more corollary f hich ot."I·
luS,
0
•~o dec1 e t then, might
,, What, be the use o f a genenc . term, and spec1fi- .
mvana h w
· spec111ca
·c 11 y tot he para d1gmat1c
. · monologues of R
O rnean1ng- 13 he umbrella term "dramatic monologue" contribute to our
Referring t an
b theY intend.
· 4
hoW doest
Herbert F. Tucker argues, "What ... speakers say gain en ° Brownin. cailY: of chese poems?
reading he finest descript1.ons of the form remams .
Arthur Henry
what they set out to mean. ,,7 A monoIog1st . such as the Duk s ascendan
. cy ovtr1" J\Jllongt pronouncement, which actually predates the prototypical
"My Last Due hess" ( 1 842. ) " s1mp . Iy gets earned . away," e in Brown·nt,
accord· I-laIIaJll 's 1 8f 3 1
1 che Victorian dramatic monologue produced by Tennyson and
de L. Rya Is, spea k .mg " s1mp . Iy because .. . one utterance ing to qYui:J. examples O on thereafter. In a review of Alfred Tennyson's early work, the
another." 8 · · · engender1 owninghoso would become the
Br .
sub1ect of Tennyso n's great elegy In
Countering Langbaum's perspective on the dramatic monolo ue fneo d w... ( ) wrote, "we contend that it is a new species of poetry, a
discussio n will suggest that a major feature of Memor1a,,, 1850 .
this poetic gengr '. my ft f the lyric on the dramatic , and Mr. Tennyso n deserves the laurel of
assumption of rhetorical efficacy. Speakers desire . to achieve some purJ>Olce IS JU gra_ 0 tor "14 While the dramatic monolog ue was seen even in its time as
looking toward goals that they not only describe in the course of thei; annew invenliterary• form, however, it was not without multiple
precedents.
monologues but also labor steadily to achieve through the medium of the~ ~uller suggests that its origins lie in the classical rhetorical form of
monologues. In reading dramatic monologues, I propose, we must ask prosopopoeia, or impersonation, while Benj~min Fus_on recalJs _us to Ovid's
wh~t each poem seeks to perform, what processes it seeks to set in morion Heroides (a series of verse letters from mythical heroines to their lovers), as
or ends it seeks to attain. 9 well as the long line of precursors within the English literary tradition,
from Geoffrey Chaucer to Felicia Hemans, the early-nineteenth-century
poet. (Heman~ herself often credited with inaugurating the century's use
The transformation of the monologue of this form, in her 1828 collection Records of Woman.15) But it never-
In large measure a Victorian invention, the dramatic monologue is a central theless appears that the dramatic monologue as we now know it derives
genre in a period rich with an extraordinary array of generic experimenta· prominently if not exclusively from the work of Tennyson and Browning,
tion. We identify a genre by its differentiation from other kinds, and pan of and is one of the few literary genres whose first instances we can date. In
the way this genre distinguishes itself is its discursive, even conversational, early November 1833, Tennyson read "St. Simeon Stylites," the first of its
nature. Classical epic and lyric forms (themselves profoundly altered by kind, to a group of friends, while Browning was first in print, publishing
Victorian practitioners) have their origins in song, while the drama_nc "Porphyria's Lover" and "Johannes Agricola in Meditation" in the Monthly
monologue emphatically represents speech (even if presented as an interior Repository in January r 8 3 6. At the time the poets did not know each ocher,
monologue or written letter), sometimes though not always addressed and cannot have known of their concurrent experimentation with what
10 roan
auditoL This discursiveness is part of what allies these poems so Ifs to become a new genre.
assi"d uousIY with drama. But the contexts and modes of these d. urses arc
isco . ~ is instructive to remember, however, that the term "dramatic mono-
so rad.ica II Y vane h
. d that the question ·r .ty has from t e logue"
B . d"d 1 not attam . currency until late in the nineteenth century;
st of generic unuormi ..·
art atten ded this . type of poetry. The significa nt bo d Y Of cnt1c1sm
bl' h
rownmg, the foremost practitioner of the genre, appears never himself to
occ. asione
· d bY the dramatic
monologue has often attempte d esta nre
to 15 htitles
ave emplo
f ye d ~he Phrase, 16 Intermediary terms used by poets, often as
this poeti f , d fi . . b h"ch the ge "D or_ collections, such as "Dramatic Lyrics," "Dramatic Romances,"
c orm
announces it If sS e mng. .characteristics' the signs . .
Y w 1 .
nd intnca
· tclY
"Mramat1c Idyll s, " "D ramanc
ar . .se .' ome critics have debated class1ficat1ons . Studies " "Dramatis Personae " as well as
a. ,, "] rical
gued dist1nct,ons among such terms as "dramatic lyrics, y
onodram ' a" • m. d"1cate their own attempts' to place and even' to formalize
68 69
r I.
1terar

✓CORNELIA D. J. PEARSALL
y production that was for some time unnamable · s·1gnifi
. .

The dramatic monologue

.

✓/
. . uish the dramatic monologue from other genres, and
I work'mgs, " what the form is essentially
best· known title of a collection made up chiefly of dra....
. can11,
,, t~
fo IJ Y d1st1ng•ts own mterna
,.,at1c f!lore f IIY (olloW' I
Browning's Men and Women (I 855), names not the gener' f 0 noJb0&uei
111
IC orlll re 0
. .I. .
ubi·ect matter, identify mg socia mteract1on, and especial! Ut th ' f!l~ng" (78!· . what he considers to be "an effect pecu~arly the genius of
s
tions
)I
· ·ve of t he form. n the aggregate, these y.gend
as constituti I er tela.e ooipistlng . u1sh1ng
.
0
f, h
nologue," Langbaum argues or t e necessary presence in
'
'ndicate significant sh1·t . h
ts m t e . n of the precise tit es seelll t
conceptio t1te drarnat\ ~ he tension between sympathy and moral judgment" (8s).
. h h of cornnature . . of thiso the poer115_0 B;owning's paradigmatic "My Last Duchess," for example, a
Poetic mode. Can it finally be said t at at t e moment
I
·d 'fy' · h the speaker's
was for the majority of V1ctonan . · poets the assumption ofPosition there fncotJJlrenng . ·d d understand'mg an d even 1 entl mg wit
I. d b
d et 'drawn to render mora JU gment a out what the speaker
discernible genre, with clearly established rules? Hovering as it: fixed and reader I·s d1v1
· ·on an ye I Langbaum's f ocus, theref,ore, 1s · ch'1efl yon reception and
s1t1 '
other generic kinds that it resembles but forcefully deviates fro oes among P0 wR~ ' '
. ht to recognize the centrality of the effects of these words on
lyric or drama, the dramatic monologue eluded classification m, such .as appears
makers.
even bY1~ · ngeaders. I shall argue here, however, that these effects of
he 1·s surelY
rs or r broader and still more complex than the dichotomy that he
Jn their desire to define at least some unifying principle cnt1cs .. aud.,ro
, m non These
are effects, moreover, are everywhere bound to the equally
often seem to waver between definitions so restrictive as to discou OSt recep
.. . nt many sugges~r· issue of anticipated production, which we might define as the
dramatic monologues, and defi muons so expansive as to includ
cornPe_ing the monologue is laboring to pedorm or cause. ( Dramatic
number of poems. For example, in summarizing a reigning critical as:u~ny . 1 I f
tion Elisabeth A. Howe observes, "~nl! on_e fe~ture is common [: mono 1 ' . j . .
3lteranon es especially the most vita examp es o the genre, are distin-
. bedoguby their transformauve effects. The genre 1Illght ulnmarely be
dramatic monologues] ... namely, their 1dent1ficat1on of the speaker as
someone other than the poet, whether a mythical figure . . . a historical r;ned Jess by its technical elements th by the processes it initiates and
17 \ olds. My larger claim regarding the dramatic monologue is that a
one . . . or a fictional [one]." This viewpoint would appear to be
supponed by no less an authority tha{ Browning, who in his prefatory ~;eaker seeks a host _of transformations - of_his or her circumstances,_of his
Advenisement to Dramatic Lyrics (1842) provides one of his few formal or her auditor, of his or her self, and possibly all these together - m the
statements regarding the genre, calling the poems, "though for the most course of the monologue, and ultimately attains these, if they can be
pan Lyric in expression, always Dramatic in principle, and so many attained, by way of the monologue.
utterances of so many imaginary persons, not mine."~ And yet even so One of the most expressive examples of this genre's performance of
focused and credible a distinction as Howe's is open to challenge. thoughts is Browning's "The Bishop Orders His Tomb at St. Pra."<ed's
Langbaum warns that if our definition of this genre involves "every lyric in Church" (1845 ), which Fuson calls an example of the form at '"its highest
which the speaker seems to be someone other than the poet," then the technical virtuosity." 2 1 Even the title indicates the monologue's intention to
category can include innumerable epistles, laments, love songs, orations, be efficacious. When first published, the poem was titled simply "The Tomb
soliloquies, and "first person narratives," including such works as Geoffrey at St. Praxed's"; the revised specification of the speaker and his panicular
Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Alan Sinfield defends precisely this line of
19 verbal activity points to the speaker's intention to attain this object, his
"historical continuity," positing that such forms as the complaint and the own monument, by way of his speech. Cenainly, he also "orders" his tomb
epistle are in fact early examples of the dramatic monologue, as are "all m the sense of designing and imaginatively arranging all its components,
first-person poems where the speaker is indicated not to be the poet.
1120
from the building materials to the decorations at its b.,se to its crowning
Nevenheless, Langbaum's resistance to any definitions grounded in "me· effigy of himself. There has always been deoore over whether the sons
chanical resemblance" remains instructive. He urges that instead we "look ~hom he addresses will actually undertake his commission; the Bishop
· 'de the dramat1c · monologue ... [to) consider its effect, its · 111ay of• imself suspects they will not. But I would argue that the question is to
ms1 • .. shape m · the course
1 some extent lffe · the tomb takes detimnve
· Ievant, smce
meaning"; by doing so, we shall see that "the dramatic monologue ;
unprecedented in its effect, that its effect distinguishes it, in spite •
0 othf the monOIogue, bY way of the monologue. As I have argued elsewhere,
·
· the image
, to con1ure ·
of the mistresses · h wh'1ch he
mechanical resemblance, from the monologues of traditional poetry woe terms th·1t ' he uses wit
( 6 ) Th . on its • we mar
. "effect," Langbaum .ms1stS, 11 rew,1rd h'ts sons, ob')t'Cts possessed of "great smooth marblY t·,mb" s
7 -77 · rough focusmg lll
70 71
 CORNELIA D.J. f>EARSALL The dramatic monologue
(RR 7 5), pertain to the alterations that his . reciatively but noted: "It is to be feared however
. ll O~~
monologue progresses. Y under described_,r apPration will hold it to be somewhat too unwhole-
In the cou rse o fh rs. spea k.rng, t he Bishop's bod b . gOes ud .1eflee fl'len of thtS gene• g pubUshed the fi rst d ramattc . monologues tn .
as t~
rb3r rhe,3 When Brownin h ·a's Lover" an d "J o hannes Agnco . Ia tn . Med'1ta-
· · Y eg1ns to eJcp . 3
own form o f transu bstant1at1on, as he stretches h·
. " .
stone can pomt {88) and his vestments and bedcl h
is feet "f er,en
0 rth st . ce it so111e- ,,_ g36 ("PorP yrioder the combined heading "Madhouse Cells." In
1
laps and folds of sculptor's-work" (90). He allude
ot es p . ra 1gh 1
" etrify "Int t<1 JanuMY "e place d rhern . u then the form feature d monologists . whose
. . . s to rna bl ' ogr . ''), ,, . rnanons, ' . . .
(98), referring specifica lly to the Lattn epitaph that h d r es lang lat u00 rliesr ,nca sense their sub1ect, and Browmng's heading marks
.
,r. 5 .ea ,e was I-05orne his reader concerning the centra 11ty to this genre of
. -
. If .
But the monoIogue 1tse 1s composed of this surp - .
e eem 5 aPPropUagc, .
. rts1ngly fl . na~ de~ . ,an rrefl'lPt ro educate "abnormal mental states. ,,24 A theme of transgres-
tongue, and it is this discursive substance that constru Utd lapi,L · htSa faas rerrn5 h . . of the genre
cts a tomb that tak ~ f) r £kbert ness seems to have been c aractet1st1c
shape before our eyes. The dramatic monologue turns t ' . . and becoming .
. . . award th ts
\Vha
. n or 00"' holesorne. •tself constituting part of the mgenmty
marriage between his body and stone, imagined now . e ongoin . .
. o f bot h: "G ntstone,
. 5,o orll, irs .,nee pnon, . . 1of the form. It should be noted that this transgressive
possibIe d1.ssoI ut1on a-crumble!" ( l tn) terrn. 5 of theg frart of n,e " trad1non'/y integral to the monolog1c . form, on Iy t hat this . stram .
16
housing "the corpse ... oozing through " (II7). While re ea' tdnadequately P . r ecessart . b .
· "•nt s
1 no 11 1,·arity transgress1veness or even su vers1veness was
·
his bo dy's 111ert1a · an d· · (h
111capac1ty e ·
reiterates, "As [ lie p te,, ly
he , StreSSing . . . .
re, As he_re I
"" iden ·fiable
of 11 ' hpecucart and' became almost 1mmed1ately conventional. It 1s
lie" I10, 861), the monologue nevertheless keeps his bod i present fromht e hs to' bear in mind that other kinds of poem besides the
comman d111g . ·its own myna · d transformattons.· y n 0101100,
.
imporra nr' r oug ' feature characters who might
logue be termed demented.
In multiple ways, then, the Bishop orders his tomb· the m drama tic mono II a number of dramatic . monologues whose speakers voice .
. _ , ono1ogue is
fully aware that even monumental construction 1s a discursive Th re are as we their authors endorse wholehearted 1y and rat10nally.
. Yet
. art. And _e. hat
indeed most speakers of dramatic monologues hold oven ambitions opinions t the newfound flext'bl e poetic . conventions . of th'ts genre prov1'd ed
1
. . . . t hat
o f soc1et1es
some definite if occasionally indefinabl e result from their speaking.~; frequent1yfor speakers who stram . .
agamst t he restncttons
speaker of Tennyson's "Ulysses" (1842.) seeks escape from his island, the a forum . . h ,
their monologues go fa r in representing. Thus m t ese poems the forms
speaker of Tennyson's "Tithonus" (1860) seeks escape from his painful
distance from convention is expressed on a thematic level as well as a
immortality, the speaker of Browning's "Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister'
(1842.) seeks damnation of a colleague, while the speaker of Browning's ge~0~ric one.
e majority of dramatic monologists are not criminals or charlatans,
'"Chi Ide Roland to the Dark Tower Ca me'" ( 185 5) seeks, of course, the
only searchers after some transformation, whether spiritual, professional,
tower. This list can continue, and include virtually every dramatic mono-
or personal. And yet these speakers display a marked tendency toward
logue by Tennyson or Browning, though in some cases the goals that help
adopting extreme positions, including those not represented in any way as
precipitate or sustain speech are less readily identifiable. This panern in
disturbing or insane. This tendency helps to explain why the genre is so
itself should prompt us to probe more deeply into the ways that dramatic
suited to representing complex moral dilemmas, spanning a notably broad
monologists are all engaged in ordering, in arranging or dictating various
range of religious beliefs and personal opinions, while cutting a wide
aspects of their experience. Each speaker brings a complex of ambitions to
historical and social swathe. From their inception, dramatic monologues
his or her discursive moment. A dramatic monologue works actively to
roamthrough much of the world and myriad historical periods, themselves
accomplish something for its speakers, perhaps the something they are
at once _responding to and propelling the larger Victorian appetite for
overt1Y see k.mg - Ulysses's next voyage, the Dukes , next d hess - but also
uc
· transforma· exploration
h' · · o f other cultures, however distant geogra-
and approprtatton
someth.mg m ·
· fi mtely more subtle, some other kind of drarnanc
tion of a situation or a self. P tea1ly or chronologically. How, then, might one claim generic kinship
h vane
us) A dsuch
among . d poets and poetic styles as the Victorian period offers
· n ow ca
speaker l Th . ~ we yo •
k together such disparate and frequently desper~te
e
Monolooic conversations d d any com s. etr ,
· may partly have its basis in their unfitness 'for
. mterre (at1on
.,. · ere
ln November 1833, when Tennyson read "St. Simeon Styrttes" (coast
ber of his Attendin;umty 0ther than the generic one that they join in forming.
the first Victorian dramatic monologue) to friends, one mem to echoes and affiliations among speakers can help us track
72. 73
 '{ CORNELIA D.J. PEARSALL The dramatic monologue
t criticism of this genre has only begun to explore• ertheless to provide a climate for the potent perfor-
wha . ns nev d' . b . . silent
nversat1ons that engage tI1ese h'igI1ly md1vidu . . . Inaniel
. . furictro 's thoughts. Her 1scurs1ve a sence, amid his
Y, the
of co a , eve rangi bU1 1r f her patron h attainment for the monologist . of a pointed . goal. He
monologists. n aliena 0
..,;nee
,.. . itY, Iea ds to t e to ]eave, to "Jenny's fl attermg . sIeep" (42.). He has
The Victorian workings of this genre present to us an ted
Pfro1,~ as he prepare . . .
5 . . .
. . I . appar how appealing she 1s m repose, and it 1s this visual
. ti.on· namely that tI1ese cnmma s, iconoclasts indi· .d en1 con
d1c re er5, hout .
• , . ' v1 ualis tr,. d throug d prompt the monologue. But this term also refers in
els themselves form what we might term a comm . ts, misc
an d reb . unity F0 '''ts, noresure hat heIpe
r "flattering " her sleep h b
as een to .
him. While . slumbering '
rem Oval from any norm, they collectively . present adh · r all th .
erence e1r peaI
oflle sense, to hoW
f a client hardly appears .
complimentary, in doing so she
I
patterns, constituting a conformation of nonconformists I~ Certain O
5 rhe cornPanY formulate an opinion of himself as different from her
speakers, moreover, can gather into still more focused grou i · d1~id11ai 10 I d htrn to
.· f "f II
community is a loose coa I1t1on o a en women," populated p ngs. On
b SIJch t has enab e and
her cus corners, logue he admits
in the end, as radically altered by this encounter.
. that rooms like hers were more familiar
figures whose sexual history is a governing concern, who eithe Y elllale 01 . the mono
. . farlY ,n I ago" ( 6) but now he needs to see this night as different
of or speak themselves. Prostitution was a predominant social .r are spoken 3 '
,. . ~~ · ro hi!l1 "Not ong thers. He needs, moreover, to have a sense that, for all her
Victorian Br1tam, the sub1ect of numerous debates, sermons . lllrd. fro!l1 all the 0 ( nd her other "double-pillowed" mornings [42.]), this night
articles, and parliamentary bills. Elizabeth Barrett Browning's ; ;enodicaJ
. . 'fi 1· pc orher P.atrons will bea memorable for her also: "Why, Jenny, waking . here alone /
Leigh ( 8 6) gave the sub1ect
1 5 s1gm cant 1terary expression bur thAur0ra.
. IIy smte
. d to t he me d'mm of the monoloetop~ wich hhun you to remem ber [me ]" (42. )•
seems to have been especia
work such as Dante Gabne . I Rossem.,s "Jenny " (1870),
a A
in which gue,
f
t,{ay eI the speaker's assessment of Jenny, which comprises the body of
for a1 · I · d f hi th
. . . f lllan I ue it is her voice ess JU grnent o m at preoccupies . h.1s own
considers a silent, sIeepmg prostitute, unconscious o the implications of rhe rnono · ·11atmg
· con1uncnon
ken og words, ' in their · tit! · · of illicit · sexual'icy and
her life as she is of his commentary, is countered by a number of unsport discursivity. He I "I d hat you ' re thinki'ng of' (p ),
specu ates, won er w
monologues spoken by "fallen women" themselves, including poems by cove · · of him: "If of myself you
Dora Greenwell, Augusta Webster, and Amy Levy, in which speakers assen
nd he is especially curious a bout her esnmat1on ·
;hink at all, / What is the thought?" (3 7). Ultimately, his concern is less
thoroughgoing understanding of their situations.
wirh his "reading" of her ("You know nor what a book you seem," be rells
Rossetti's "Jenny" - originally dtafted in I 848, then revised and pub-
her [J?ll, than hers of him: "What if to her all this were said?" (39). He
lished after he retrieved the manuscript some years later from his wife
imagines that when she wakes she will remember him not only because he
Elizabeth Siddall's exhumed grave - is punctuated by the monologist'ssenS(
left in so timely a manner, but because all he has indulged in is a
of the prostitute's relative states of consciousness. His words are posited on
monologue, one she was not even obliged to hear. And this is of course
the assumption that Jenny is his subject and not his auditor; the poem is an
what he pays her for so handsomely: he has acquired through her the
especially notable example of an "interior monologue," defined by Danid
opportunity to develop this voiceless monologue, with its overt .;bims ot
A. Harris as "unsounded self-questioning" or "silent thought. "25 Jenny is 50
having both marked and caused some transformation in himself, and
far from functioning as an interlocutor or respondent that she is portrayed
initially as a "thoughtless queen / Of kisses" (DGR 36) and later as 3 perhaps in her.
"cipher" (41). Her comprehensive incomprehension is dramatized by rhe Jenny's lack of alertness or comprehension mi~ht h.ive b«n s«n as
fact of her unshakable drowsiness. The speaker repeatedly attemprs 10 enviable hy the speaker of Dora Greenwell's "Christina'' (..:omposni 1 S5 I,
rouse her, urging "handsome Jenny mine, sit up:/ I've filled our glasses, 111 published 1867 ), a dramatic monologue of whi..:h Danre G,1!--riel Rl>..,;setti
may have ht·en .,, • '...
"11·e , sm..:e
· h'1s sister
· 'chnstma
· · Ro. . ..ettl· w:1s J t·nen · J o f the
us sup" (37). Failing to stir her, he concedes, "What, still so rireJI We~
author's
d ... · and •tnten·sted 111 . her work.- ,6 The spe.ikcr, a .
bllt·n woman,
well then, keep/ Your head there, so [long as] you do not sleep" (37), \
I
does seep, as he comes to exclaim ("Why Jenny, you ,re as·Ieep ar la h·
11 hr·.. st•ckin,
Ct'llnbcs . ~ ·1111a~111.1t1ve
· · refuge · the lite
111 · ot· her ch1klhooJ· fnend
·
[39]) , resr.stmg. h'
1s final attempt at arousal: "Jenny, wa ke up .' · · Whty, oih~r11111c'1.1, .111 order " to Iose / l "he h1ttt·r · ~-0111Kiousnt'SS C\t· selt,· to he / 0 ught
there's the dawn!" (41 ). Reflecting on the world outside her wr nJow, driirr fen III th0_111\ht than that what l was" ( 10~- 11 ). ! " So powerful is this
finally grants, "Let her sleep" (42.) hu ~ ··hor a11111h1l·,ltion · . h t at she .
ad1111ts, "l Sl111~ht not de.1th, for that were
· prevents various mod 0 f i11trra•111~ ' 1 1
' ,lll~t' / Of ht' . 1t,. ( 175 -7 t,) hut rather "to ' ~-ease utterly to he" ( 178).
Jenny's wavering
· unconsciousness
es 111
74 75
 \
(ORNFLIA O . J . PEARSALL
.
,, The dramatic monologue
V
Thr p.rnre of thr dramatic monologue, however, is . however, been entirely alone in the course of the
rrquirr~ .111d thrrrfore a fc.mms a speakmg .
self work·ern1ne IY
nt t'
on fulahe. has noather flanked by past and future selves. Angela Leighton
. . . . ' ing al e th
crr.itmn rathrr than destruction of 1dent1ty, irnaginin ways tow at n 1ogue ' .but reaker: "for II h a er c I .
anty o f perception the Castaway
changrs "Of 1.oemg.
• " Th
e spea ker 's sa Ivat1on,
· deriving .g alwa . Ys funhard J110 0
~,ires o f rh1S sp
h eff."29 It may be, t h h
oug , that .
this ' observes too
speaker
. .
from the aptly named Ch ristma and subsequent spiritu Iin rel 1g·10us ter er ,,annot ee ers
5
each of which . ts . potentta . II y seIf-destructive. . Like many of
.
sren to dr.1w also from the very medium of her speaking.a retreat, might . ills
be 's dramatic mon? I_0~1sts,
J11anYselves, · t he _spea ker o f "A Castaway" is well
In Webster's "A Castaway" (1870), the speaker Eula! · , . \"(/ewer h r own self-d1v1s1on; referring to the author of the diary, her
.
re,·iew of her own past 1s prompted by her having dippedie in s W1d
e-ranging wafe of e r she declares: « 1t · seems a 1est · to ta lk of me/ as if I could be
exercise in recording the details of her life, her "Poor little dia t~ a Previous 3
young_ er avata ,
h r" ( 6). In thinking of her f uture self as "Old," she concludes,
we might consi_der a pre~ursor to her present monologue.1
pathos for her 1s largely In its record of her naive efforts and
i~~)~hic,h
diarys
one wirh be nothing
• har's co bl rred
3
e memorial
" on Iy to
' . that 1n
mo d"fyI th"1s m'h·t· . pred"1ction: "or to be at
1 1sttc
. better days/ there was a woman once with
1
"good resolves" (35). But she also calls these by a sharper name "p Iabns, her est I a u e" ( ). The Castaway dens1ve · · Iy m1m1cs · · prevaIent social theory
b
.
"(was there ever life I that could forego that?) to improve my, mind am ,t,on•
A: such a narnd chat43rhere are, as she puts 1t, . " too many women 111 . the world"
know French better and sing harder songs" (36). Ambition has I bend rhal argueAnd yet while she 1s . b"1tterIY mock"mg 111 . her attn'but1on
. of the cause
entirely forsaken; the speaker muses throughout her rnonologu nor en (4S).30 own situanon· to " womans ' super . " (4 8) , the med'mm Of the
fl U1ty
h
e on t e of her ue itself allows her at once to resist . an d entertain the theory of a
potential financial advantages her profession has presented her. And et th
diary's girlish ambition for self-improvement, pitied and mocked hye _e monolog
. . ~~ superfluous self. adopted moniker refers not only to a woman flung aside
The Castaway's
seen as a kmd of lost ideal, one that, because lost, contributed to the chain
of circumstances that has led to her current position as a high-level but also ro one who is herself adept at abandoning other people, including
prostitute. The speaker in "Jenny" refers to his own "cherished work" (J6) what she represents as her various past and potential selves. With her
among his "serried ranks" of books (3 6), while the Castawa y presents a life monologue, she can cast away and yet rescue an identity straining against
in which the possibilities of such work are early blighted. After "teaching itself. Her searching self-examination may help to show that the prostitute
myself out of my borrowed books" (56 ), a strained and inadequate tutelage, whom the speaker of "Jenny" was addressing was far beyond his discursive
Eulalie loses a post as governess because, she regretfully reca lls, "I ... must reach. Before he leaves, Rossetti's monologist arranges gold coins in Jenny's
blurt out/ my great discovery of my ignorance! " (50). Set on her present hair, for visual and presumably psychological effect. What might Jenny say
course because of withheld or castaway education, her monologue is itself when she does finally awaken, amid a shower of coins? We learn from
an exercise in prismatic autodidacticism, in "teaching myself." Greenwell's and Webster's speakers that this community of "fallen women"
Rossetti's speaker imagines Jenny "waking alone," and thinking of him, shares an impulse toward self-annihilation, one that the medium of the
but the speaker in "A Castaway" provides a different, and perhaps dramatic monologue at once indulges and forestalls. But these speakers
surprising, sense of the line of thought that Jenny might pursue in solitude. also express an instinct and indeed hunger for self-possession, one that
Indeed, Eulalie suggests such a woman might not be entirely grateful for uodercuts the most basic premise of their profession. When Jenny the
being left to her own devices; she herself finds solitude abhorrent. ~ "fallen" woman rises she might anticipate the statement that the ruined and
earlier attempt to leave her profession fails because of the enforce. dymg speaker of Amy Levy's "Magdalen" (1884) imagines making to her
seclusion at a refuge: "as if a woman / could bear to sit alone, quiet all day seducer·: "I am free; / [And] you, through all eternity, · / Have ne1t· her part
(45). Her wide-ranging autobiographical review is peppered with exasper- norlot m me" (AL 83-85).
ated variations on the question "Will no one come?" (43), while the paero
ends with the arrival of friend she calls a "cackling goose" who is never;
Monologic ends
b
theless received warmly in the poem's final line: "Most welcome, d~:;:~s
gees so moped alone" (62). Part of what her monologue accomp amat'
e final section of this chapter examines the relation of the form of the
·
by
t hat It
. engages her m
. .
conversanon .
with a range of o th er monologues whetheric monolo
f ·
gue to emottonal ·
and sometimes actua I destruct1on,
·
falien women, thus acknowledging her solitude while bre another person or of the speaking self; these are among the
aking her silence. 0
76 77
 ✓
CO RNELIA D.J. PEARSALL / The dramatic monologue
most exireme examples of the performance of thoughts th of "The Leper" claims that in spite of his beloved's death
Presents to us. The prevalence of so much seemingly ra d at this ge . ease sPeaker. ending demise, . "I sit . st1·tt and hoId / In two cold palm h '
, n om d1S . down ,rnP
would appear to run counter to the work of construction . devastatio nre s er
revision in wh,c.h .
, in one way or anot h er, we see so , rnnovat10. n and ,old feer" (I~eI of
vo htS :z.:z.).porphyria's lover makes faint suggestion that it is only
0 0
monologists engaged. And yet destruction, . even to the many . drarnatic
' r t' . at1og"That moment,, t h at she was "Perfectly pure and good"
(ghe JTlono
annihilation, can be a creative. act, prov,.d.1ng the meansPoint of self. virh hiJTl, hasis rnine). Her "soiled gloves," (12) "vainer ties" (24 ), and
ambitions or effect desired alterations in persons or situatio )t,o advance (3 ~ ., emP "co-nights
1 ' gay feast" (27 ) may pomt, . he h'ints, to other lovers
6 37
this phenomenon in . examples from a few well-known ns. n track·ng
drarnati artendance .at\\Such conjecture atten d s the Duchess in "My Last Duchess,,
1
logues and in two lesser known works, Webster's "Circe" ( ) a c mono. of POrphyna b v.che victim either . of excess fidelity . or imprudent
. '
infidelity. That
1870 nd levy•
"A Minor Poet" (1 88 4), we can witness. t h. .
1s inventive genre's s whO rnaYhesse "liked whate'er / She looked on, and her looks went every-
commitment to varieties of spoliation and ruin. complex rhe D~'(RB r ), and that she "thanked men" (31) rather too profli-
where ay indicate2 24 t h h · her charmmg · or promiscuous;
. . either
.
lf the speaker of "Jenny" is finally preoccupied less with his appreh . at s e was e1t m
of Jenny t han hers of h1m, . then he intersects
. wit. h another comrnuniens1on garely,rhe
rn speaker claims t h at h er .
pass10ns Ied to her removal, not his, The
dramatic speakers with a similar fascination (([he dramatic~n lty of case, 's monologue begins · w1r · h t he quest10n . that he knows any viewer of
. . ~ oogue Du
herkeportrait will have, regard'mg "How sueh a glance came there"; he
from the start, in such foundational works as Browning's ' orphyria's
13
Lover" and "My Last Duchess" concerned itself with female subjectivity assures rhe envoy, "not the first I Are you to tum and ask thus" (12.- ). In
including and perhaps especially the modes of consciousness of wome; a sense, the monologue is an attempt to answer that question, to explain
whom we do not hear speak. The speaker of "Porphyria's Lover" not only rhe glance, the "spot / Of joy" (14-15) on her cheek, the "faint/ Half-
draws his name from his intimate relationship to her but also claims that flush" now perpetually dying "along her throat" (18-19). One might argue,
the actions he describes, including that· of murdering her, are based on his indeed, that the enigmatic and potentially wayward nature of her sub-
apprehension of her desires, her, "one wish" (RB 57). He surmises, jectivity as well as her expression is part of what prompted the Duke to fix
"Porphyria worshipped me" (33); it is this insight that leads him to find "a a single image of her. In these and other dramatic monologues, female
thing to do" (38), to render his houseguest a permanent fixture. He desire (linked, as it is, to complex and perhaps indefinable sexualities) is
represents both her "struggling passion" (23), which prompts her to come viewed as causative, as tending toward some effect. In pursuing a woman
to him, and the corresponding lack of struggle or feeling with which she even unto death, each speaker is himself altered by an elusive female
acceded, or so he believes, to his inspiration t~ strangle her: "No pain felt consciousness, although he often avers that it is her thought that he is
she;/ I am quite sure she felt no pain" (41-42)) . performing.
Porphyria 's lover finds his most immediate confre) e later in the century, I have been arguing that the dramatic monologue seeks to dramatize, as
in Swinburne's "The Leper" (r 866), featuring another mo~ologist who still well as to cause, performative effects. This tendency makes the gerl!e
more ecstatically eroticizes a corpse, in this case that of his leprous love- especially useful in cases where both the speaker and the poet are
object: a highborn woman whose trysts with lovers he had watched attempting to create reactions and larger social transformations in the
surreptitiously. Now diseased and rejected, she is taken in by the speake~ world outside the poem. We noted that one of the Castaway's explana-
who exalts in an obsessive lovemaking that only intensifies with her deatb. ~ons for he~ current position stressed that had her education been stronger
While he reviews his increasing ardor we gain glimpses of her appalled e_r. profesSion might have been different. While this is only one of the
exhaustion and dismay (even he recognizes her "sad wonder" [ACS !• k
cm,ques that t he speaker brings to society's failings and her own, we
12 . thnow that W,ebster was a passionate advocate of womens • educanon,· and
3)), reactions all the more distressing for their confinement wit· h'm his,
1· · c at the . monoIogue obliquely
• but firmly reflects , I · I
mpass10ned account. These monologues serve to elucidate t herr· speakers the poets extema socia
actions, but still more to prolong them to detain these men and their lovedrs mornmitments. perhaps no Victorian poet used the genre of the dramane ·
iorever in · the present tense. Although ' Browning's original hea d.mg "Ma·, Bronologue. to more• powerful polemical effect than Elizabet· h Barrett
ose poem "The Runaway Slave at Pi·1grim . ,s pomt
own10g wh . ,, fir t
house Cells" indicates the solitary incarceration of the Lover, the mu rderers ap '. s
monologue insists in closing, "we sit together now" (58), while the now peared 10 an Amencan . anti-slavery publicatio~· in 1848. The runaway
78 79
 ~I.in-, thr srraker

C OR N ELIA O.J . PEARSALL

I The dramatic monologue
This still air is suffocating to her·
of the dramatic monologue, presents at the end of the
indictment of the system o f sIavery, one in · pan atternptin an app•lii conY"(( 5.)complains, even as she views . .
distant , lightning, "the
air /
her murder of her own c h'fd 1 , o ffspring· o f her rape by heg to accou ng 1110110 nolo".
,,ue, sI,ed monon. Iess around me here" (2.2 )• Le1g . hton, . m one of the
011
dr,imatic monologues, sue h as W,e bster 's "Medea in Athens" r lllast
( er. Otheror oC1lings
0 f11nt • dan d discussions o f t h.1s poem present I y available, notes the
Le,-y's "Medea" (1884 ), probe the dynamics of maternal d 18 70) •0d r: re e.xcen e f this islan d's vo I uptuous st1·11 ness to t h e uIt1mately
. untenable
The spectacle these wor ks contemp Iate 1s . that of a ere estruct'•venes 1
resen [J\ance o by the spea k ers o f ...-
,ennyson ,s "Th e Lotos-Eaters" (l8J2.
1
what she has herself generated and produced, of ator dest_raying1.
destruction r3s· soug1it ) themselves manners • seek'mg respite • from the rigors of'
15
an act of responsive · · ·
innovation. Th ese poems present as spe kconstituting
· 5rc~ .sed . I .84J. , in }-[omer,s O dyssey. 32 And
urneY yet .
Circe herself undergoes a
1
. laying
. waste to their . children aa ers i)'ssess JO•eiice of mu1·
whose profoundest act 1s d rnothers U
up Ie trans formauons, . wroug ht, m . an autoerotic
figured as a form of radical . protest. Barrett Browning's "Runaw • evastat'100 dat·1Y expert b herself upon herself. Lookmg . at her image . she exclaims, "oh,
exhibits the exten ded enactment o f a chI'ld's murder at the ce tay Slave• f•:1sh1on, y
hat cempt / my very se If to k'1sses" (19 ). L'1ke Narc1ssus, . shea ddresses
. . .
poem (possibly an innuence for and certainly a precursorn ertoof the. Jtps t flcction of her own " perfect lovely face" (19) in a still pool, and asks,
Morrison's acclaimed novel Beloved [198 71). She uses the genre's t d1001 the re I be so your lover as I am, / dnn
"should . k'mg an exqu1s1te . . JOY . to watch you
to feature speakers in extremity to powerful dramatic effect seekinen fency thus / In all a hundred c~anges through the_ day?''. (19!· Her most intense
.
multiplicity of transformatio ns to take place not only in the' coursegoforthea pleasure is in her own diurnal transformatmns; m this respect she most
poem but also in the world beyond it. In such works we may trace the resembles Aurora, the goddess of the dawn in Tennyson's dramatic mono-
creative transformation of violence, as destructi ve acts mutate into logue "Tithonus," who daily experiences "mystic change" (AT 55) only
inventive ones through the very medium of the monologue. gaining in beauty with every new morning.
As in these other monologues featuring speakers who seek transforma- This intense experience of self-satisfaction leads paradoxically to the sort
tions of selves and situations through emotional depredation, Web~ter's of self-division we remarked in Webster's "A Castaway"; addressing her
"Circe" especially interests itself in the ruinous effects that one sex can own reflection , Circe declares: "I love you for him till he comes" (19). At a
wreak upon the other. Circe, the woman who holds Ulysses in an number of points in her monologue Circe refers to the man whom she
enervating thrall when we first see him in Homer's Odyssey, is in both knows is destined to wash ashore, one who might drink from her cup and
writers' works an overseer of masculine transfigurations. Hard-laboring stand "unchanged" (19 - 2.0). The arrival of this man (whom we know to be
mariners shipwrecked on the speaker's island are seduced by their sudden Ulysses, not only through Homer but also through Tennyson's "Ulysses," a
luxurious leisure into drinking from her charmed cup, and as a result are dramatic monologue with which this poem is in implicit dialogue) may well
transformed into animals. Webster finds Circe mistress of a menagerie of occur this very night. As she speaks, a storm is rising and she sees a ship,
former men, the only human speaker among a community of grunting now a "shuddering hulk" (19) in the distance, struggling vainly against it;
animals "who wallow in their styes, ... / ... or munch in pens and byres'./ her monologue ends, "It were well / I bade make ready for our guests
or snarl and filch behind their wattled coops" ( 31 to-night" (22). These final lines suggest further transmutations of her guests
1 8). Like other dramanc
monologists who are catalysts for distressing alterations into zoological specimens. But in pointing to the future arrival of Ulysses,
in other people,
however, Circe claims that the modifications she causes could not occur her closing remarks suggest also a kind of violent alteration to be wreaked
were the seeds of change not already dormant m . her v1ctuns.
• • She insists upon herself. Leighton writes that Circe "wants the thrill of change and
33
that drinking from her cup only "revealed them to themselves I and to each e~pe~ie~ce [of the sort enjoyed by Ulysses] for herself." We might extend
other" (2 1). Indeed, she denies, in spite of the howling and barking of
companions, that any alteration occurred: "Change? there was no change,
h~; t h,s_lnSlght still further, however in surveying the modes of change to
w 1ch C'tree desires to submit herself.
'
only disguise gone from them unawares" (21). w 1nl~he course of her monologue, Webster's Circe articulates a longing, I
l For c·irce, the problem with · her domain is that in fact change f any sort• thou argue, to pursue experience less like that of Ulysses than like that of
O
. so unaccustomed; the dilemma that she confronts is whoIesa Ie stagnak
is thee nameless men whom she transforms into creatures onIY more truIY
· A h cohmseIves. A creature of self-division Circe idealizes the revelation of0a
tlon. t t e start of her monologue she calls for a powerful storm to wrac t}
her . I d "I .
is an : et it come and bring ,me change, / breaking the sic . kly swee erent ' if abased, 1dent1ty.
• . Certainly,' she defines herself tn
· the context f
80 81
 V CO RNELIA D . J. PEARSALL The dramatic monologue
being mastered by another person. In response to her cent I . . . "I arn rnyself, as each man is himself" (lr) 1
c t1on- h' k If · t appears
question, "why am I who I am?" (18 ), her answer is, "for :~e : 0 nologic~i se,1-de11flr 1that I.tis precisely 1s een se -awareness that is nowto cu1mmate . '
whom fate will send / one day to be my master utterly" ( ke of hi
hO\veve if annihilation.
l·magines this fatefu I man stan d.mg " unc hanged"in her pres 8)· ""'
1
'"'01·1
e shIll in his.sedrarna., ti'c rnonologue has an Epilogue, in a sense a compamon . or
. . .
for him to "[look] me in the eyes, / abashing me before ence sh
hi :, e Wantse -rh1S ologue, spoken by the Minor Poet's friend Tom Leigh L . h
pen nt rnon d d' h' h . "b
Proves and values this man by his adamant ability to withst rnd (2.2.). She d a n unnarne au 1tor 1s aving urst in" to the poet' . e1g
ribeS to a k "
be a self less mutable than any ot her. Yet even as she disd an .change, to desc f nd him as you now (171-73 ). Le1g . h s room,
enumerates reasons that
transmutation in other individuals, she seeks it for herself. In h aibns _radical •t,.nd 00 ve suggested for the poets ' sute1· "de - h'1s unrequited love for a
desire she comes in . the course o f t he mono Iogue, by way of thear or1ng th·is others hahis poverty, his . despa1r . over " carpmg . critics" (2.o2.) _ but he
to resemble all too closely her feral men wracked by storm W,e rnonologue, wor11 311 '
. If serves judgment: "I .,.. Le1g
, 10m . h, h"1s fr1en
. d / I have no word at all
.. . . can now h1r11se of
that this ambition was announced at the opening of the monolo sec re this" ( 02-03). And yet 1t . seems to me that Leigh has already
2
which she caIIs for a v10 . Ient storm, " t hough it . rend my bowe gue, ,, in to saY. d the chief reason when he o bserves, "There was no written word to
precisely because 1t . . rs (r4) suPPfaI,erewell, / Or make cIear t he deed" (176-77). This . inexpressiveness
.
will shatter every aspect of her existence. Th .' is
sensuous delight in her hospitality changes her guests into (or rather saY . ly what the M.mor poet struggIes wit ·h m· the course of his mono-
eh,r
, ass e precise
logue. As he prepares to swallow _his . phial . of poison,
.
claims, reveals them as) b~asts. For her, too,_self-pleasuring transmutes into ~e looks to his books,
self-abasement and subm1ss1on. A drama tic monologue like "Circe" de- telling them, "you've stood my fnends / ... yet now I II turn/ My back on
monstrates the complexity of the genre's figurations of "men and women" you, even as the world I Turns it o~ me" (7~-81). ~e seems to turn from
(as the title of Browning's well-known collection has it). In a dazzling their serried ranks because the public reception of his works has painfully
display of the possibilities and dangers of gendered transfiguration, the disappointed him. But his next comment indicates that he is still more
speaker desires to become "mastered," like the storm-riven subjugated men hounded by the frustrations inherent in his own conditions of production.
whom she oversees. More than any narcissistic pool, the men whom she He compares himself to another poet who experiences "no silent writhing
derides as inhuman (calling them "these bestial things" I 181), provide the in the dark, / No muttering of mute lips, no straining out / Of a weak
image that she chooses to see herself as reflecting. throat a-choke with pent-up sound, I A-throb with pent-up passion"
We have noted some of the ways that this genre, while founded on the (95-98). His description of what this other poet did not suffer depicts in
primacy of the speaking subject, is drawn to the representation of various vivid detail his own writhing, straining, choking, and throbbing attempts at
forms of self-annihilation. With these examples in mind, it is useful to close speech. Even in this moment of a distress so radical as to require suicide, be
with a poem in which such self-destruction is still more direct, and indeed feels himself unable to articulate his emotions; he says of this other poet:
stands as the premise of the monologue. Levy's " A Minor Poet" intersects "At least, he has a voice to cry out his pain" (94).
with aspects of the dramatic speakers of the two major poets of this genre. While the Minor Poet stresses how "silent" and "mute" he has been, he
Readers have long heard in the speakers of Tennyson's "Ulysses" and nevertheless figures his own failed eloquence in musical terms. He claims
"T.ithonus" an urge toward release from existence, a yearrung · toward early m the monologue that "From very birth" he has been out of place,"A
death. This is a desire sought as intensely by Levy's male speaker. He is also bhlot, a blur" (50). But in continuing this self-canceling line of description,
e calls h1·mseIf someth"mg that at least points . to a potenna . 1Iyncism.
. . . "a
linked to a line of Browning monologists convinced of and yet resiStant t~
the notion of their own failure, including the speakers of "Pictor Ignoruser note I All out of tune in this world's instrument" (50-p). Later be
1 ~~~,lains, "My life was jarring discord from the first," but concedes,
( 845), "Andrea del Sano" (1855), and "Childe Roland to the Dark_Tow e
Came." What Levy's speaker is determined not . here and there brief hints of melody / Of melody unutterable, clove
to fail in, despite a lifen~\
of shoncomings and frustrations is his own suicide. 34 The the hair". (1 5- 7). Yet even this attempt to' salvage some attainment
to . ·
points
~
poem be~ 6 6
Wl
·th the spea ker Iock.mg himself
· -' his rooms· later he notes fbis earlier
mto ab~ mescapability of his failure. With the oxymoronic "melod~ unutter-
bo h 0
re ed attempts, "I wrought before in heat' .. . / . . . scarceIY un ~~e .'1 he conveys that even this hint of music was fleeting and mcboate.
e 1 th d d"
sta wh 1 om Leigh
~din_g; now I know/ What thing I do" (AL 15 8-60). Th~ ~ono~~f (1 finds "no written word" to "make clear e ee
lllaintams, then, a clear sense of deliberation; equally decisive 1s his se 79-80) ' he does find scrawled margmaha
. . . h , boOks as well as
m t e poets '
82. 83
I C0""" D.J. "'"'U The dramatic monologue /
I "k tches on the wall / Done rough in charcoal" and "L
s e arge sch
forurn for a range of voices; The monologic speakers in Richard
undone work. Poems half-writ / Wild drafts of symphonies• . ernes of relevat'~,s Untitled Subjects (1969) are the Victorians themselves, while
f gues" {r8 3-8 4). These abortive works themselves co '. 6ig Plans of r1 waf d ss's The Fuhrer Bunker (199 5) features monologues of Hitler
u . . . . . nstitute
account of his mot1vat1on for su1c1de; the speaker believes th h' a lucid
0
'if/.D· .sno. de.
gra The panoply o f speakers m . Anna Deavere Smith's Fires in the
can find no performance, can nett. her be VOICed .
by him norath is th0 ughts and his cir ) and Twilight: Los Angeles 1992 (1994) intensively explore
public. On the one hand, the monologue is itself the complete~a rd by any }I 1r. ror (1993 t of racia I v,o
. Ience and c1v1c
. . h c aos. The Victorians' relentless
I
Pain and the poem fu II y voice · d , the "b'1g pIan " accomplished. Work h , the recent~~stly shifting focus on the vanables . of human longm·g and
hand he now remains forever mute, s111ce . h'1s monologue's 0 nteoth
only d' er but ,onstan. continues Ill . such recent works as Eve Ensler's The Vagina
' . 1ts
. own h au I es {r s), a senes
self engaged 111 overthrow. In t e course of destroying hi Itor isa rustrauon
fMono ogtt
. of voca1·1zat10ns
. concerning that female body
. d. . . 99 Ensler draws her .
has produced another oxymoromc 1scurs1ve situation, one akitnself' he .k Srnith v01ces from numerous . mtemews. and
"melody unutterable" that he only faintly discerned; he has perf 11 to the Part · Lrforrns
' e the' rnonologues on stage. The linked monologues ,
that make
unspeakable monologue. orrned an she pe of these . h
late-twent1et -century co II .
ect10ns are all involved in
The absolute annihilation of Levy's monologist up eac hation with one another, m . some ways more direct . than in Victorian
is unusual _ thou h h'
' f ' d ' I1e concurrence of creativity ~~ rs . .
is a genre that 1s o ten 111tereste 111 t g t IS examples '
we have c~ns1der~d'. and m others s_nll more oblique. The
d
destruction, the simultaneous representat10n . an d termination of a speaking u audience frequently gams a d1sttnct sense of how httle speakers are willing
self. Unlike the Minor Poet, however, the speaker of Webster's "An to listen to each other, and therefore how difficult any transformation,
Inventor" - the dramatic monologue with which this essay began - resolves whether of a self or of a society, might be. These speakers appear strikingly
"I'll not die with my work unfulfilled" (13). He notes, as do so man; different frorn their Victorian forebears, and yet they might be seen as
dramatic speakers, that for some people the path to accomplishment is engaging in conversation with these previous monologic performances, and
easy, for others hard: "each of his kind; / but can you change your kind/" therefore viewed less as deviating from than extending the tradition. The
(65-66). None of the speakers we have considered - however dire, form of the dramatic monologue from the start dealt in transformations
disturbing, frustrating, or comical their situations are - would change their involving myriad sexualities, controversial contemporary and historical
kinds. The Bishop perpetually ordering his tomb, the prostitutes and their figures, and tangled affiliations and prejudices. Attending to so vast an
clients, the lovers and their doomed beloveds, the poets and the inventors: array of speakers, we might hear these works finally build less to a
many of these speakers might desire to change their situations but never, conversation than an orchestration; they announce how much the dramatic
finally, the selves they may even consider extinguishing. So aware is he of monologue still has to say to us.
the complexity of identifying, let alone changing, one's kind that the
Inventor goes on to ask: "who would pray {say such a prayer could serve) I
NOTES
'Let me be some other, not myself'?" (72-73). Prayer is of course also a
Quotations from Augusta Webster's poetry are taken from Webster, Portraits
kind of discourse through which an individual may seek transformative 1
(London: Macmillan, 1870); page references appear in parentheses. 0
effects, clearly a more sanctified mode of address but one perhaps allied to Accor~ing to the Oxford English Dictionary, the word "performance derives
1
aspects of the dramatic monologue. The form of the dramatic monologue from parfournir," an Old French word signih-ing "to complete" or "to carry
. If represents speech seeking to be efficacious, to cause a vane· t of
1tse Y out thoroughly." ·
transformations. The act of the dramatic monologue, its performance of ~orothy Mermin has explored the genre's emph,1sis on communication, obser-
3
~mg at a "dramatic monologue with or without an auditor is a performance:
thoughts, simultaneously creates a self and alters that self, and may perhaps th
tt requires an audience." But she does not reJd the performative element as also
ultimately destroy the self it held so dear. . cnusntive• ,seek'mg transfonm1ttons.
, •
In her view, the " mono1ogue 1a~·ks the
\The works of Tennyson, Browning, Barrett Browning, Dante Gabr1el resources to develop the temnor,1I dimension, the notion of life as a continuing
R · swm
ossettt, · burne, Webster, Levy, and other Victorian poets demon_str•'11ef (N °
Ptll\:ess f growth anJ ch,mge":
•· The Audienft in the Poem: Five
· y·rctorian
. Poets
th th
at e dramatic monologue has long wrestled with the intricae1es 0d
4
A e; B_rnnswkk, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1983), II, io.
· wight Culk•r, "Monodrnma and the Dramatic Monologue; PMLA 9°
desire, sexual or otherwise. While Modernist poets such as T.S. Eliot and )
( 19 7s), 368,
Ezra Pou nd put the form to rich use, it continues to provide a viral an
85
84