Robert Browning's Dramatic Monologue

On the ground of its unique narrative qualities, the form of poetry that has recently appealed to me most is a form called dramatic monologue. It was invented and practiced principally by Robert Browning, and it is fundamentally characterized by having an explicit - often unreliable - speaker and an implied auditor. Glenn Everett describes Browninesque dramatic monologue as having the following three basic characteristics: (1) the reader acting as a silent listener, (2) the speaker's argumentative tone, (3) the completing of the dramatic scene by the actual reader from within, by means of using conjecture and imagination [adapted from Glenn Everett, "'You'll Not Let Me Speak': Engagement and Detachment in Browning's Monologues". Victorian Literature and Culture 19 ( 1991): 123-142]. One of the best examples of an unreliable narrator in Browning's poetry features in a poem entitled Porphyria's Lover. (For a case study of the ambiguities in dramatic monologues, see "Porphyria's Lover" by George P. Landow.)

Porphyria's Lover

The rain set early in tonight,

The sullen wind was soon awake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight

She shut the cold out and the storm,

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sat down by my side

And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me — she

Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,

To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me forever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,

Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:

So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last l knew

Porphyria worshiped me: surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string l wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And l untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word!