The unity of time on account of the momentary character of a monologue needs no discussion. And yet we find in one otherwise strong monologue, "Before Sedan," by Austin Dobson, a strange violation of the principle of time.
Here, in this leafy place, Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; 'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said.
Carry his body hence,-- Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves: So this man's eye is dim;-- Throw the earth over him.
What was the white you touched, There, at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died;-- Message or wish, maybe;-- Smooth the folds out and see.
Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled:-- Only the tremulous Words of a child;-- Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops.
Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His--her dead father's--kiss; Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet, That is all. "Marguerite."
Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain! If the grief died;--but no;-- Death will not have it so.
The title of this monologue suggests something of the situation, and from the first sentence we gather that it is spoken by one searching for the dead in remote nooks of the battle-field. From the remarks against war, the speaker seems to be one of the citizens searching their farms for any who, wounded, have crawled away for water, or have died in an obscure corner.
A body is found, and something white, a paper, in the soldier's hand, is discovered; the leader, who is the speaker, asks another to smooth out the folds, as it may express some dying wish. It is found to be a letter from his child, which the dying man has taken out and kissed. All this is in the true spirit of the monologue. But now we come to a blemish,--"could have smiled." So far, all has been in the present tense, dramatically discovered and represented as a living, passing scene; but here there is a relapse into mere narration, and the speaker appears to be telling the story long afterwards.
We never have such a blemish in a production of Browning's. In his hands the monologue is always a present, living, moving thing. It is not a narrative of some past action.