Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB
[merged small][merged small][merged small][ocr errors][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]

ARTHUR SYMONS

MR. ARTHUR SYMONS has ranged far and wide through many provinces of literature in search of "emotions and sensations; " but the form of his poetical utterances has been mainly shaped by two influences: the early and transitory influence of Browning, and the later and abiding influence of Verlaine. Mr. Symons himself, I imagine, must look back with wonder, and perhaps not without a smile, to the days of his Days and Nights (1889), when he used to Browningise at large in dramatic fragments, monologues, and character-portraits, such as Red Bredbury's End, A Brother of the Battuti, and A Village Mariana. A curious essay might be written on the invention and development of the dramatic monologue. This is not the place for it, nor can I now undertake the slight effort of research, the comparison of dates and so forth, which it would involve. For my present purpose it is sufficient to point out that, as an instrument for serious poetry, the form appears to be practically extinct. Both the great poets of the mid-century used it to noble ends; but it has the inherent disadvantage of lending itself with fatal facility, not only to parody (that would matter less), but to stolid vulgarisation. It has become the favourite instrument of the writers of "poems for recitation"; it brings with it associations of the penny reading and even the music-hall; "most can grow the flower now, for all have got the seed."

But ten years can do much to complete a process of vulgarisation, and it must be remembered that, when Mr. Symons cultivated it, the form, though senescent, was not yet decrepit. In order to judge his dramatic monologues fairly, we should have to strip them of luxuriant accretions of evil association, for which Mr. Symons himself is in no way responsible.

Unfortunately, this is well-nigh impossible. It is easier to go back a century in spirit than a decade. The form has become hopelessly discounted, except in the case of those masterpieces which had once for all taken hold of us before the process of degradation set in. Who can pretend to estimate fairly poems which begin like this:

"Joe," the old man maundered, as he lay his length in the bed, "Joe, God bless you, my son, but your dad's no better than dead.

Eh, I'm a powerful sinner, and I thank the Lord for the

[blocks in formation]

But, Joe, I'm dying, I tell you! Joe, Joe, and I can't die game."

Or this (the opening of another poem; it reads like the second stanza of the same):

Yes, I'm dying by inches; the Devil has got his way:

I fought him fourscore years, but he's gripped me hard to-day.

No, not God, not a word of God! For I let Him be.

The Devil is waiting, I tell you, but God has forgotten me.

Or this, again :

Esther, my lass, come hither; stand there; I've a thing to say. Lord, but your cheeks are white! So be it, Esther Bray. Stand you there in the light o' the fire. Now answer me: When the babe that's yours is born, whose wife'll his mother

[merged small][merged small][ocr errors][merged small][merged small][merged small][merged small]
[graphic][ocr errors][ocr errors][subsumed]
« AnteriorContinuar »