Monologue: 'Tones and Graces'

 Dulcie Langley introduces her monologue, written in the voice of a nineteenth-century middle-class, unmarried woman. It was inspired by the ideas explored in 'Cassandra' by Florence Nightingale. 

It was on a crisp, clear day in April that I realised it would be better to die.  London was its usual self that morning, nostalgia and modernity meeting in its aspect - the wide avenues and the backstreets, the upright business men and the hunched beggars, the chimes of Big Ben and the cries of the orphan. The city had so many faces, and until you had encountered every one of them, you could not claim to know her at all.

As Mother and Father rambled absent-mindedly about scheduled events, I wondered whether it ever bothered them that they only knew one face of mine. The cultivated, mastered face, the one I presented to the self-righteous governesses that would chide me for my tones and graces, to the potential suitors that would laud me for my tones and graces, to every stranger that I dined with so they might assess my tones and graces. Tones and graces - that was my only facet of consequence. The value of every ambition, passion and principle condensed into my mind could be deduced solely by the pitch of my voice, the manner of my walking, and the angle of my dress. For, in my own beautiful tragedy, I was a woman, and nothing more.

Womanhood. That domineering and destructive device, condemning every victim to a course of substandardness and subservience, whereby every action or decision will be judged in the context of femininity first and soul second. Womanhood reduces every casualty to a mere skeleton. A vacant vessel, devoid of the pulsating heart that grants it life. Perhaps most wickedly though, it taunts its subjects with an almost unfathomable duplexity. For in every moment that I am yearning for but a scrap of stimulation to satiate my starving brain, I am also overwhelmed by the abundance of the utterly unattainable expectations I must meet. I ask you, how can a role be so bitterly all-consuming and yet entirely uncaptivating? As I embroider and drink tea and converse with people I detest, I find myself convincing my mind not to drag itself into the pits of insanity from sheer boredom, whilst simultaneously praying it will not collapse under the pressure of performing so many preposterous tasks. Why, consider any formal gathering! My stance should be unobtrusive and unassertive, but at the same time dazzle the room. I should appear cordial and content, but not spirited enough to suggest that I have any interests. Attractive enough to appeal to a husband, but never insinuating an appetite for love. Demure enough to reject all semblance of flirtation, but acutely understanding that marriage underpins my very worth. They insist that I haven’t the capacity for the work of a man, and yet emulating a divine angel is within my capability.

And what of this marriage then? For of course it is marriage I must seek, not romance. Romance is an entirely different entity. An ideal I readily retreat to in novels, not a threat from my Mother. It compels with or without society’s scrutiny, shakes the very fibres of one’s being, and makes two people feel as though they are at the centre of the universe. Romance is to love and be loved, to collide in perspective, to immerse yourself in the offerings of another and yet remain firmly rooted in your sense of self. There is no contract or erasure, no censorship or suppression. The strings of two souls intertwine while free to unravel at their own will. The threads unite for enhanced security, without altering their pre-existing strength. This is not marriage. Marriage is a Gordian knot. 

Marriage is but a simple Presence. A token of wordless knowing and senseless touching, with no form, no face, no scent. The figure has no name, and yet single-handedly defines my very purpose on this planet. It is my ticket to all the answers, ostensibly providing me with the ultimate relief I have been taught to thirst for. Marriage is the moment I may exit centre stage, withdrawing to the cover of the wings to make way for the new lead. The final accomplishment that I can adorn myself with, before I fade into the shadows for good.

As much as it pained me, I knew that my parents did not care to know the other faces of my character. And why should they? What use is female intellect, moral activity or aspiration in a society where none of these three can be exercised? What is the purpose of debating what may or may not be contained in a woman’s mind, if men and women can continue to suffer in their separate spheres regardless? What truly is the point, if every person participating in this pompous, pretentious society still refuses to break from the lie they are consciously creating?  

I look to my Father at his desk, muttering to himself in madness and misery. I look to my Mother at the breakfast table, fixing the hem of her skirt in forced and fiendish idleness. And, as I looked to my knitting, I realised that I could not die. For I, in all my years upon this earth, would never be permitted to live.