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333
feuillages d'ombres; le soir plus doux, et une joie d'etre quelqu'un, d'aller; les
rues et les multitudes, et, dans l'air tres lointainement etendu, le ciel; Paris a
l'entour chante, et, dans la brume des formes apersues, mollement il encadre
l'idee.
In the first of these examples, it would not occur to Prince that he need
remind himself that Chavainne is his friend or that he has already told
Chavainne about his love-affair. In the second example, it is likewise
unnatural for Prince to think, "He asks me; I shall tell him," and "We
walk along, side by side." Prince would normally be aware of these
facts, but his mind would not formulate these ideas into soliloquy. As
we walk down the street and pass a house, we are aware that we are
walking and we are aware that we see the house, but we do not bother
to say silently to ourselves, "I am walking down the street; there is a
house; I am passing the house." This type of awareness we do not nor-
mally express to ourselves in language form, and any attempt on the
part of a writer to make a character lift such phenomena to the same
level of consciousness as ordinary interior monologue seems cumbersome
and formal. A large part of Les Lauriers is of this type of writing.
In attempting to draw a distinction between his technique in Les
Lauriers and the method used by his predecessors, Dujardin cites a
monologue from Dostoevsky's "An Unpleasant Predicament." The fol-
lowing excerpt from this monologue, along with Dostoevsky's prefatory
comment, will help us to evaluate the grounds on which Dujardin makes
his distinction:
It is well known that whole trains of thought sometimes pass through our brains
instantaneously as though they were sensations without being translated into
human speech, still less into literary language. But we will try to translate these
sensations of our hero's, and present to the reader at least the kernel of
them, so to say, what was most essential and nearest to reality in them. For
many of our sensations when translated into ordinary language seem absolutely
unreal. That is why they never find expression, though every one has them. Of
course Ivan Ilyitch's sensations and thoughts were a little incoherent. But you
know the reason.
"Why," flashed through his mind, "here we all talk and talk, but when it
comes to action-it all ends in nothing. Here, for instance, take this Pseldoni-
mov: he has just come from his wedding full of hope and excitement, looking
forward to his wedding feast.... This is one of the most blissful days of his life.
... Now he is busy with his guests, is giving a banquet, a modest one, poor,
but gay and full of genuine gladness.... What if he knew that at this very
moment I, I, his superior, his chief, am standing by his house listening to the
music? Yes, really how would he feel? No, what would he feel if I suddenly
walked in? ...
"... I shall jest a little again with the bride; h'm! ... I may even hint that
shall come again in just nine months to stand godfather, he-he! And she wil
sure to be brought to bed by then. They multiply, you know, like rabbits. A
they will all roar with laughter and the bride will blush; I shall kiss her feelin
on the forehead, even give her my blessing ...."5
The unbiased critic will see no essential difference between this passage
and the best examples of interior monologue, in Les Lauriers. In fa
Ivan Ilyitch's reverie in the last paragraph is quite similar to Danie
Prince's reverie quoted above as the best of Dujardin's efforts in th
direction. Dujardin attempts to disqualify the Ilyitch passage, howev
5 An Honest Thief and Other Stories, tr. Constance Garnett.
on the ground that it is a translation on the part of the author and not a
direct copy of the character's exact thoughts. In support of his argument,
Dujardin cites Dostoevsky's prefatory paragraph, particularly the
sentence in which Dostoevsky says, "We will try to translate these
sensations of our hero's." In conclusion, Dujardin remarks: "Dostoiew-
sky, on le voit, apres s'etre excuse de ce manque de logique, announce
qu'il 'essaie d'interpreter,' ce qui est, & proprement parler, le contraire
du monologue interieur."6 Dujardin makes a serious blunder here, for he
has completely misunderstood Dostoevsky's meaning in the first para-
graph. What Dostoevsky is really saying is this: a vast amount of what
normally passes through our minds and which we ordinarily refer to as
thoughts is really a series of sensations (and images) which our minds
never translate into language; if we try to translate these sensations
and images into the language of ordinary speech, our translations sound
stiff and strange; if we try to translate them into literary language, the
result sounds even less convincing; since we cannot make a character
think all his consciousness into language, let us present only that part
of Ivan Ilyitch's mental activity which is nearest to the reality of human
speech, that part which may be reasonably and convincingly rendered
in the form of interior monologue. In this apology for the limitations of
an author, Dostoevsky reveals that he is aware of an important fact
which Dujardin seems to overlook, both in his definition in Le Mono-
logue interieur and in his practice in Les Lauriers sont coupes: that the
whole of the consciousness cannot be presented as interior monologue.
Analyzing the soliloquy itself, we find that it is a translation only
in the sense that all fiction is a "translation" on the part of the author.
It is possible to find other interior monologues which are more flexible
and realistic than Ivan Ilyitch's. Likewise, we can find conversations in
some novels which are more flexible and realistic than those in other
novels. To say that Ivan Ilyitch's soliloquy is not interior monologue,
because it is not ultra-realistic, would be like saying that the speeches
in some novels are not speeches, because they do not conform to the
literary standards of a later or an earlier period. The fact is that the
Dostoevsky soliloquy is less formal and more convincing than most of
the soliloquies in Les Lauriers, and it will stand comparison with those
in such recent works as Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls, in
which interior monologue is used intermittently; Faulkner's The Sound
and the Fury, in which it is employed extensively;7 and Virginia Woolf'
The Waves, a novel rendered exclusively in the form of interior mono-
logues. Here, for example, is a typical excerpt from the mind of one of
the six characters in The Waves (1931):
"Now Miss Hudson," said Rhoda, "has shut the book. Now the terror is be-
ginning. Now taking her lump of chalk she draws figures, six, seven, eight, and
then a cross and then a line on the blackboard. What is the ahswer? The others
look; they look with understanding. Louise writes; Susan writes; Jinny writes;
even Bernard has now begun to write. But I cannot write." [p. 20]
There is nothing in this passage or in the whole section which may not
reasonably be classed as legitimate interior monologue. That is to say,
the section contains no mental activity other than that which appears as
silent soliloquy and the character is not forced by the author to solil-
oquize into language any phenomena which seem awkward or out of
place on the language level of consciousness. As stated in Dujardin's
definition, syntax is at a minimum; the content is the character's most
intimate thoughts, nearest the unconscious (at least, as near as mono-
logue approaches the unconscious); and there is no intervention or ex-
planation on the part of the author. This passage is the most realistic
example of interior monologue we have considered, but the difference
between it and the Dostoevsky monologue is a matter of degree and not
of kind. It will be observed, for example, that even Joyce does not at-
tempt to present the whole of the consciousness as interior monologue
but restricts himself, as Dostoevsky does, to what is most essential and
nearest to the reality of ordinary human speech.
In one respect, however, Dujardin is nearer than Dostoevsky to
Joyce's use of interior monologue. Dostoevsky, like most of his pred-
ecessors and many modern writers, presents only intermittent excerpts
from a character's mind. Dujardin, like Joyce and certain other twentieth-
century novelists, focuses primary attention upon the meanderings of
the mind, not as a means to an end, but as an important end in itself.
The twentieth-century novelist most frequently referred to as the
typical writer of stream of consciousness fiction-and held by some to
have invented this method-is Dorothy Richardson. In the introduction
to Pointed Roofs (1919), May Sinclair comments as follows upon Miss
Richardson's technique: "Obviously, she [the author] must not inter-
fere; she must not analyze or comment or explain.... And there are
some things she must not be. She must not be the wise, all-knowing
author. She must be Miriam Henderson. She must not know or divine
anything that Miriam does not know or divine." Speaking of Miss
Richardson's Honeycomb, Joseph Warren Beach quotes Miss Sinclair's
comment and agrees with it: "It is not as if the author were there to
interpret for us. The fundamental assumption of Miss Richardson's
method is that the author should not be there.... The narrative is
simply the stream of consciousness of the heroine."9
With these comments, let us compare a few examples of Miss Richard-
son's writing. In the following passage, a man with whom Miriam is
talking makes a remark which excites her mind into a soliloquy:
"The vagaries of the Fair, dear girl," he said presently, in a soft blurred tone.
9 The Twentieth Century Novel: Studies in Technique (1932), pp. 388, 392.
This is good interior monologue and agrees perfectly with the above
quoted remarks. The following excerpt, although it is not monologue,
also conforms to Miss Sinclair's and Professor Beach's comments. As
Miriam goes out West End street, these are the sights and sounds which
impress themselves upon her consciousness.
grey buildings rising on either side, feeling away into the approaching distance-
angles sharp against the sky . . . softened angles of buildings against other
buildings... high moulded angles soft as crumb, with deep undershadows...
creepers fraying from balconies ... strips of window blossoms across the build-
ings, scarlet, yellow, high up; a confusion of lavender and white pouching out
along a dipping sill... a wash of green creeper up a white painted house front
... patches of shadow and bright light.... Sounds of visible near things
streaked and scored with broken light as they moved, led off into untraced
distant sounds ... chiming together. [Ibid., p. 125]
is taking place inside the character. Internal analysis and the stream of
consciousness technique are fundamentally different: the one summarizes,
the other dramatizes; the one is abstract, the other is concrete.
In stating that Dorothy Richardson is not "the wise, all-knowing
author," that she does "not know or divine anything that Miriam does
not know or divine," Miss Sinclair is thinking of the author's tendency
to follow closely the experiences of the heroine and to present things in
the order in which they reveal themselves to that character; but Miss
Richardson does not always adhere to this practice, as is illustrated by
her comment in the following sentence from Honeycomb (p. 138):
"Responding to her companion's elaborate apologetic petition for per-
mission to smoke it did not occur to Miriam to confess that she herself
occasionally smoked." In this sentence, the author reveals herself as
being aware of something which "did not occur to Miriam." Although
Miss Richardson usually identifies herself with her main character-and
this is one of this author's distinguishing characteristics-she does not
restrict herself completely to this point of view.
Commenting upon the stream of consciousness technique, Elizabeth
Drew defines it as "the method of creating character and interpreting
life invented by Dorothy Richardson, that method by which we never
pass out of the realm of one person's immediate experience, and one
person's consciousness is the standard of reference for the whole exist-
ence." As pointed out in the preceding paragraph, this type of statement
applies fairly well to Miss Richardson's method; but it does not cor-
rectly describes the stream of consciousness technique. Elsewhere, Miss
Drew remarks of Miss Richardson's method: "she is entirely occupied
with the reporting of the impressions made upon her conscious and un-
conscious mind by the experiences of life." This time, Miss Drew quotes
a representative passage from Interim to illustrate the method of which
she is speaking:
The hushed happiness that had begun in the dining room half an hour ago seized
her again suddenly, sending her forward almost on tiptoe. It was securely there;
the vista it opened growing in beauty as she walked ... bearing within her in
secret unfathomable abundance the gift of old-English rose and white gracious
adorable womanhood . . .
"The recording of all these phenomena is, "says Miss Drew, "a new ex-
periment in literature."'0 The question is, does the passage quoted from
Interim bear out or refute Miss Drew's remarks? She says the passage
is a "reporting of the impressions," "the recording of all these phenome-
na." But is it correct to say of this passage that it is a report or a
10 The Modern Novel, pp. 256, 84, 88.
recording? These terms imply an exact copy. What the author gives us
in this passage is not an exact copy, not a direct quotation, but an in-
direct statement. Miss Richardson's customary method may be called
the stream of consciousness technique only in the sense that she leads
us along the bank of the stream and describes for us in her own words
what she sees; only occasionally does she bring us to a vantage point
from which we can behold the stream itself. In making this distinction,
we are not questioning in any way the literary quality of either type of
writing but merely insisting that between the technique employed in the
last three passages considered from Miss Richardson's work and that
exemplified in the first two passages there is a fundamental difference
and that, if confusion is to be avoided, the two methods must not be
called by the same name.
On the basis of the foregoing discussion, the stream of consciousness
technique may be defined as that narrative method by which the
author attempts to give a direct quotation of the mind-not merely of the
language area but of the whole consciousness. Like the kind of direct
quotation which is applied to the spoken word, the stream of conscious-
ness technique may be applied exclusively throughout a whole book or
section of a book, or intermittently in short fragments. The only cri-
terion is that it introduce us directly into the interior life of the char-
acter, without any intervention by way of comment or explanation on
the part of the author. If the author limits his direct quotation to that
area of consciousness in which the mind formulates its thoughts and feel-
ings into language, the method may still be called by the comprehensive
term the stream of consciousness technique, but in this case it would be
more exact to apply the more restricted term interior monologue. If,
however, the author intervenes in any way between the reader and the
character's consciousness in order to analyze, comment, or interpret,
then he is employing not the stream of consciousness technique but a
fundamentally different method which may correctly be designated in-
ternal analysis. The latter is an indirect statement in the words of the
author; the former is a direct quotation of the character's consciousness.
BRISTOL, TENNESSEE