The Rudolf Steiner Archive

I have attempted to indicate from various perspectives how we can base curriculum and teaching goals upon human development. I have particularly tried to show that we can characterize the period that begins around the age of six or seven with the change of teeth, and continues until puberty, about age fourteen or fifteen, as one stage of life. I also attempted to show that there is a shorter stage within the earlier stage that lasts until approximately the age of nine. There is another important change around the age of twelve. We should view these three times, that is, about the age of nine, then about twelve, and then again around fourteen or fifteen, which is approximately when the students leave school, as important when we create the whole curriculum and teaching goals. You can easily see the importance of comprehending the development of the human being when you realize that what is important in education is that we completely develop those forces that lie buried in human nature. If we look at things in the proper way, we have to admit that we need to use all our teaching material and education to reveal those forces. It is not nearly so important to use the forces within children to teach them one detail or another. What is important is that we use the material the children are to learn in such a way that the effects of what they learn develop the natural forces within them. That is something we fail to do if we do not take into account how different the child’s physical and soul nature is before the age of nine, and then again before the age of twelve, and so forth. We must be aware that the power to differentiate through reason, which enables human beings to reason independently, in essence occurs only at puberty and that we should slowly prepare for it beginning at the age of twelve. We can therefore say that until the age of nine children want to develop under authority, but their desire to imitate is still present as well. At nine, the desire to imitate disappears, but the desire for authority remains. At about the age of twelve, while still under the guidance of authority, another important desire, namely, to reason independently, begins to develop. If we use independent reasoning too much before the age of twelve, we will actually ruin the child’s soul and bodily forces. In a certain sense, we deaden human experiencing with reason.

To anyone not completely devoid of feeling, it is not insignificant that we say yes or no to something through making a judgment. Depending upon whether we need to say yes or no, we have feelings of liking or disliking, joy or sorrow. As much as modern people tend to have egotistical feelings of liking or disliking those things that they judge, they have hardly any feelings, whether of joy or sorrow, about the world and life as a whole. That is precisely why people miss so much today. Aside from that, their incapacity to experience the world influences social desires as a whole. That is why our teaching should not only emphasize the development of proper concepts, but it should also develop a proper feeling for the world, a proper feeling for a person’s place in the world.

Today people have one overriding judgment in regard to social issues. They say to themselves that we must make the world into an earthly paradise for all human beings. In the end, what do the extremists, the radical socialists of Eastern Europe, want other than to develop a kind of earthly paradise out of some theories, even though the paradise that results is a hell? But that is something else again. Where does this come from? We need only replace that judgment with another, and we will immediately see the problem in wanting to create an earthly paradise through enforced socialization.

I don’t really want to discuss Nietzsche here, but I do want to mention the following in order to explain something else.1 Nietzsche’s first work was entitled The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music. Among the many thoughtful ideas contained in that work (even though you could argue against them), Nietzsche suggests that the Greek people were not the eternally happy, laughing folk many people say they were, but instead the life of the Greeks was rooted in tragedy, in a kind of sadness. The Greeks felt that our life here upon earth between birth and death could not always be one of great happiness, and that the task of human beings lay beyond this earthly life. Nietzsche thought the Greeks had a particularly strong feeling of this and needed a strong solace for the disharmonies of earthly life, which they found in art. Nietzsche’s view of the rise of art was that art, particularly Greek art, was a solace for earthly disharmonies. Nietzsche sees music in particular as something that leads people beyond earthly disharmonies. There is certainly a contrast between what we experience in our dry, calculating thinking and what we experience through music, but these contrasts relate to one another in a quite peculiar way. Consider that we can compute tones and the relationships of tones in terms of numbers; the result is musical physics, or acoustics. However, those who give themselves over to the musical world of tones leave what we can compute completely behind. They leave the intellectual aspects of music aside. What is intellectual sleeps in music. Nietzsche had a particular feeling for what he called the tragedy of music. The tragedy of music is that people can feel in music what they should otherwise feel throughout the world. Now Nietzsche was a man who could feel throughout his body what the materialism of the nineteenth century had brought to humanity. He was the kind of a teacher who dreamed of educational institutions based upon ideas such as I just described, which could have been the source of a genuine solace for life. Someone like Nietzsche revealed through his own life what was needed by the nineteenth century. The problem is, he collapsed under the experiences of those disharmonies. If we read between the lines, we will see that fate in a way determined that this man could deeply experience things that others of his century passed through in a more or less sleepy state of soul. We can also see that he always points to those things that were missing in his own education, specifically the education he had to go through in school. In Nietzsche youhave the feeling that the forces within him remained deeply buried, that they were never developed. Surely such an insightful person as he felt the tragedy of that much more strongly than others. You could easily say that here and there he had some awareness of the three main stages of childhood, particularly the stage between the ages of six or seven and fourteen or fifteen, but he never brought that understanding into the service of education. That is something that must happen now.

At the age of nine, the child experiences a truly complete transformation of her being that indicates an important transformation of her soul life as well as her physical experience. At that time, the human being begins to feel separated from her surroundings and learns to differentiate between the world and herself. If we can observe accurately, we have to admit that until that transformation, the world and the I are more or less conjoined in human consciousness. Beginning at the age of nine (of course I mean this only approximately), human beings can differentiate between themselves and the world. We must take that into consideration in what and how we teach children starting at the age of nine. Until then, it is best not to confuse them with descriptions and characterizations of things that are separate from the human being, or that we should consider separate from the human being. When we tell a child a story or a fairy tale, we describe the animals and perhaps the plants in the way we would speak about people. In a certain sense, we personify plants and animals. We can justifiably personify them because the child cannot yet differentiate between herself and the world. That is why we should show the child the world in a way similar to the way he or she experiences it. You should be clear that what I am suggesting does not diminish childhood before the age of nine, but enriches it.

My last statement may seem quite paradoxical to you. But much of what people say about the child’s life is said in such a way that the child’s life does not actually become richer but rather poorer. Think for a moment of what modern people often say when a child injures himself on the corner of a table and hits the table in rage. Today people say that children’s souls have something called animism. In a certain sense, the child makes the table alive by pushing his or her soul into the table. This is an impossible theory. Why? Because children do not directly perceive themselves as something living, something that can put itself into the table and personify it. Rather, children do not think of themselves as any more alive than the table. Children look at the table and experience no more of themselves than they do of the table. It is not that the child personifies the table but, if I can express it this way, the child “tables” his or her own personality. Children do not make their personality anything more than the table. When you tell a child a fairy tale or story, you speak only of what the child can comprehend of the external world. That is what must occur until the age of nine. After that, you can count upon children’s ability to differentiate themselves from the world. At that time, we can begin to speak about plants and animals from the perspective of nature. I have put a lot of effort into studying the effects upon children of teaching about nature too early. Teaching about nature too early really does make children dry; so dry, in fact, that a well-trained observer can see in the changes of someone’s skin that that person was taught about the concepts of nature at too early an age.

When they are nine we may begin to teach children the concepts of nature, but only through living thoughts. Wherever possible, we should avoid teaching them about minerals, about dead things. What is living, what lives outside the human being, exists in two areas, that of animals and that of plants. However, if we attempt to present the popular descriptions of animals, their scientific characteristics and the scientific descriptions of plants, we will not really be able to teach children about them. You can see in nearly every natural history book that the content is nothing more than a somewhat simplified academic natural science—that is horrible. Of course, people have also attempted to create an illustrative teaching of nature. There are numerous books about that method too, but they suffer from the opposite mistake. They contain a great deal of triviality. In that case, the teacher attempts to discuss nothing with the children, nothing more than what they already know. As people say, the teacher tries to create a picture of nature solely out of the nature of the children themselves. We easily fall into triviality that way. We can only throw our hands up in frustration about so many of those method books because they are so terribly trivial. We may feel that if schools use such things, only triviality will be implanted in children. This triviality will come to expression later as many other things I have already mentioned, as a kind of aridness in later life, or at any rate it will make it impossible for people to look back upon their childhood with joy.

That is, however, precisely what human beings need. Throughout life, we need to be able to look back upon our childhood as something like a paradise. It is not just that we had only happy experiences then; it is really not so important that as children we had only happy experiences. Many people may have gone hungry during their childhood or have been beaten by their teachers out of a lack of understanding or were treated unkindly. Of course, nothing other than an intent to fight against all such things in the best possible way should ever form the basis of education. Nevertheless such things can occur, and even so thinking back upon childhood can still be a source of enlivening when, in one way or another, we gained a relationship to the world during childhood. As children, we need to develop that relationship by being taught about nature in the proper way. It is of no help whatsoever when we describe the various classes of animals or types of plants and so forth to children and then, in order not to be too dry, we go on a walk with the children to show them the plants outdoors. That is not at all useful. Of course, through certain instinctive tendencies, one teacher will be able to accomplish more and another less. A teacher can, through his or her own love of nature, enliven a great deal for children. However, what spiritual science can give to people’s feeling is something really quite different, something that gives people a feeling for the connections living between the human being and the remainder of the world.

In the first third of the nineteenth century, many people still felt that the entire animal world was an extended human being. In this model, we have different groups of animals. One group is one-sidedly developed in one direction, another in another direction. We can create an overview of the various groups and kinds of animals for ourselves. The human being contains all those forces, all the inner forms that are distributed among the animals. That was, for example, the view of nature that someone like Oken took. At that time people looked for the lower animals in nature. Today’s materialistic natural science says that these lower animals existed in very early times and that they slowly developed and become more complete. The result was today’s human being, a completely developed physical being. We do not need to go into all the details today, since our concern is not with conventional science, but with education. However, can’t we see that the human head, which is a bony structure outside with the softer parts inside, looks similar to that of certain lower animals? Look at a snail or a mussel and see how similar they are to the human head. If you look at our more or less developed birds, you would have to admit that they have adjusted to the air, they have adjusted their entire life to something that corresponds to the inner form of the lungs and such things in human beings. If you remove from your thoughts all those aspects of the human being contained in the limbs and imagine the entire human inner organization as adjusted to living in air, the result will be the form and function of a bird. You could also compare the organic form of a lion or a cat with that of a bovine.

Everywhere you will see that in one group of animals, one part of its form is more developed and in another group, a different part. Each group of animals is particularly well-developed in one direction or another. We can say a snail is almost entirely head. It has nothing other than the head aspect, only it is a simple and primitive head. The human head is more complicated. Of a bird we can say that it is, in a certain sense, entirely a lung developed in a particular way because all other aspects are rudimentary. Of a lion we can say that it is, in a certain sense, primarily the blood circulation and the heart. We could say cattle are entirely stomachs. Thus in external nature we can characterize the various groups of animals by looking toward individual human organs. What I have just said can be said very simply, in a primitive way. If we look at the world of animals and look at the great diversity there, then compare that with the human organism and see how in the human being everything is well-rounded—how no part of the human being is one-sidedly developed, but each part complements the other—then we can see that in animals the various organs are adapted to the external world, whereas in human beings the organs do not adapt to the external world, but rather one organ complements another.

The human being is a closed totality.

Now imagine that we used everything available to us, the nature exhibits in the school, each walk with the children, everything the children have experienced, to show in a living way how the human being is, in a certain sense, a summary of the animal world. Imagine showing children that everything in the human being is formed harmoniously, is well-rounded, and that the animals represent one-sided developments and, for that reason, are not fully blessed. We can also show that the human being represents an adaptation of one system of organs to the other and for that reason has a possibility of complete being. If we are completely convinced of this relationship of the human being to the world of animals, if it fully permeates us spiritually, we can describe that relationship in a lively way so that the description is quite objective, but at the same time children can feel their relationship to the world.

Think how valuable it is for modern people to be able to say, in our materialistic times, that they are the crown of earthly creation. People do not really understand it—they look at themselves, and they look at individual animals. However, they do not look at each individual animal and try to understand how one system of organs is one-sidedly developed in one animal and another in another animal. They also do not consider how that all comes together in the human being. If we do that, our knowledge will directly become a feeling, a perception of our position relative to the world. We will then stop experiencing ourselves only egotistically, and our feelings will go out into the universe.

You need only attempt to teach in that sense once, and you will see what value such teaching has for the feelings of the child. Such knowledge is transformed completely into feeling, and people slowly become more modest under the influence of such knowledge. In that way, the material to be taught becomes a genuine means of education. What is the use of saying we should not teach in a dry way, we should not teach the children only facts, if we have no possibility of transforming the material to be taught so that it becomes a direct means of education? Sometimes when people stress that teaching children too many facts hinders their proper development, we want to ask, “Why don’t you throw out all the material you teach if it is of no use?” We cannot do that, of course. We must make the material we teach into educational material. Teaching about nature, particularly in connection with the animal world, can become educational material when we shape it in the way I described, and when we do not teach it to children before the age of nine.

With the plant world, we cannot take the individual plants or kinds of plants, present them one-sidedly, summarize everything we find there, and expect to see it again in the human being. The approach that is so fruitful with animals and gives us such a good basis for an artistic and living presentation of the nature of animals fails with plants. We cannot consider them in the same way; it does not work. With plants, we need to use a very different approach. We need to consider the entire nature of plants in relationship to the earth as something that enlivens the entire earth.

Materialism has brought us to the point where we consider the earth only as a ball made of stones and minerals in which plants are simply placed. We cannot use the same principle with, for instance, the human head and hair. We need to consider the growth of hair as something connected with the human head. In the same way, we must consider plants as belonging to the organism of the earth. We create an abstract picture if we only think of the earth as a stone, which can at most call gravity its own. We speak of the real earth when we think of the earth as an organism with plants that belong to it just as the hair on our heads belongs to us. When we consider it that way, our picture of the earth grows together with our picture of plants, and we get the proper feeling for how to think of the earth in connection with the plant world. We can do that when we look at the earth in the course of the year. If we are to really teach children about plants, we should not compare one class or group of plants with another. Instead we need to use all the fresh plants we have, the nature exhibits in the school, walks, everything the children remember, and everything we can bring into the classroom as fresh plants. Then we can show the children how spring magically draws the plants out of the earth. We can show them how plants are magically drawn out, then go on to May, when the earth becomes somewhat different. We then continue on into summer, and the earth looks different again.

We try to consider flowers and plants in the same way children understand the development of the earth throughout the course of the year. We tell the children how, in the fall, the plant seeds return to the earth and the cycle begins anew. We consider the earth an organism and follow the sprouting and dying back of the plants. We call everything by its proper name (which of course is only convention) only after we have taught the child by saying, “Look, here is a plant (under a tree or perhaps somewhere else). We have this little plant because this kind of plant grows so well in May. It has five little petals. Remember, these plants with five little yellow petals are part of the life of the whole earth in May. It is a buttercup.” You can go on in that way and show them how the world of plants is connected with the yearly cycle of the earth. You can then go on further to more hidden things, how, for example, some plants bloom at Christmastime, and some plants can live through winter and others much longer. You go from the life of one plant that decorates the earth for one year and leaves, to others, such as the growth of a tree and so forth. You would never consider simply comparing one plant with another; you always relate the earth to its plant growth and how the growth of plants arises out of the living earth.

You now have two wonderful points in the life of nature. Everywhere in the animal realm you find things that point to the human being. People can feel how they are a synthesis of all the one-sided aspects of the animal realm. We do not take up any species of animals without indicating which aspect of the human being that animal species has developed one-sidedly. The animal kingdom becomes, therefore, a picture of the human being spread out before us—the human being unfolded like a fan. As I said, modern people laugh about such things, but during the first third of the nineteenth century that sometimes took on grotesque forms. People such as Oken have said such grotesque things as “the tongue is a squid,” and I certainly do not want to defend them. Oken had the right principle in mind. He looked at the human tongue and then sought something among the animals which he then compared with that human organ. He found the greatest similarity to the human tongue in the squid; thus the tongue is a squid. He went on to say that the stomach is a cow. All that is, as I said, an extreme presentation. We certainly do not need to go that far. At that time, people were really unable to find the proper things. Today, however, we can certainly present the entire animal world as a spread-out human being and the human being as a synthesis of the entire animal world. We thus connect everything the children observe in the animals with the human being. We therefore have a possibility of placing all the aspects of a human being in front of the child’s eyes by directing the child’s eyes outward.

In the plant world we have just the opposite. There we completely forget the human being and consider the world of plants as entirely growing out of the earth itself, out of the planet upon which we wander. In the one case we bring the animal world into a close relationship to the human being, and in the other case we bring the plant world into the same close relationship to something that exists outside the human being. In other words, on the one hand we bring forth a feeling understanding of the world of animals and the human being by observing the animal world itself. On the other hand, we teach children to objectively consider the earth as an organism upon which we run about and from which we live, and where we see in the growth of plants, in the life cycle of plants, particularly in how plants live from year to year, something that is separate from ourselves. Through these two ways of looking at things, we can bring a tremendous amount of balance between the intellect and feeling into the human soul. We will leave mere intellectualism, which is so boring and arid, behind.

Once people comprehend annual plants, green plants that grow out of the earth with their roots in the earth, leaves, and stems above it, and the green leaves that then go on to form the flower and seed; once people perceive a living connection with the earth and have enlivened that through their experiences of the yearly cycle; once they have experienced how the blossom comes forth when sunlight has connected itself in love with what pours forth out of the earth; once that is felt throughout people’s entire being as a felt knowledge; once people have felt the growth from the root through the leaf to the flower and finally to the seed from spring until fall; once people have felt all that, then they will realize something else. Here is the earth, here is a plant, an annual. This plant that lives only one year is rooted in the earth. Now let us look at a tree. Here it is wood. Here are the branches. What appears on the tree during the course of one year appears similar to an annual plant and sits on the tree in a way similar to an annual plant sitting in the earth. In a certain sense the earth and the part of the tree that is wood are the same. Through that we can create a picture that will have an enormously strong effect upon us. In the same way a tree grows into wood, the earth is built upon what lies under the surface. Where no trees, but only annual plants grow, the forces that are otherwise in the trunk of the tree is in the earth itself. We can achieve a living feeling about how to seek the flowing of the sap in the tree trunk under the surface of the earth. Just as the sap that flows within a tree brings forth the blossoming of the year, the sap flowing beneath us, which we can see is identical to the sap flowing in the tree, brings forth annual plants. What I want to say is that we can intimately connect what we see in trees with our view of the earth. We therefore gain an understanding of what is living.

Through such a living characterization of the earth, plants, animals, and human beings, you can directly enliven something in the children that they would otherwise feel as only dead, specifically, in the period from about the age of nine until twelve. During the time when children are particularly interested in gradually differentiating themselves from the world and unconsciously want to learn about the relationship between the human being and the world of animals, on the one hand and, on the other hand, the earth and earthly life separate from the human being, something will grow within children that gives them the proper relationship to the historical life of humanity on Earth. In this way the appropriate feelings develop that allow children to learn about history properly. Before the age of ten or eleven, we have told children about history only in the form of stories or biographies. At about the age of ten or eleven, we include history within the teaching of natural history, so that everywhere a feeling develops in the child through the teaching of natural history that is, in a certain sense, also held in all the concepts and ideas and feelings that can enliven the teaching of history. Only at the age of twelve can we begin to go on to actual reasoning. We will speak more of that tomorrow.

For centuries, no one has been educated in a way appropriate to human nature, which makes it quite impossible to accurately look at human life and compare it with the life of the earth. People express themselves through their view of the world. Quite understandably, people say, for example, that spring is the morning of the year, summer the day, fall the evening, and winter the night. But in reality it is quite different. When we are sleeping, everything that differentiates us from plants slips out of our human form. When we are sleeping, we are not at all justified in looking as we do. Actually, we look the way we do only because we are shaped in accord with our soul and spirit. While sleeping, we are actually more at the level of plants. At that time, as individual human beings, we are no different from the earth with its plant growth. But to which season does our sleep correspond? When we are sleeping, that corresponds to summer, that is, to that period of the year in which the plants are here. To which season does our wakefulness correspond? That is like winter, when plant life ceases and, in a sense, recedes deep within the earth. In the same way, plant life recedes into the human being and is replaced by something else during the period of awakening until falling asleep again. If we do not follow some vague analogy but follow reality, we would have to say that we need to compare human sleep with summer, and the period of human wakefulness with the earth’s winter. Thus the reality of the situation is actually just the opposite of some vague analogy.

At this point I need to say something rather unusual. I have attempted to determine if anyone working in conventional science has even the slightest idea of what I have spoken of as a result of spiritual-scientific research, namely, that the earth is actually awake in winter and asleep in summer. The only small hint I have found which, if properly developed, would lead to what I have just described, I found in the Basel school program developed in the 1840s or ’50s. In that school program there is a discussion about human sleep that is treated in a manner contradictory to normal considerations. I think it is important to make mention of that school program in Basel. At the moment, I have forgotten the name of the person who created it, but I hope I will remember it by tomorrow.

If we look again at the three most important phases of elementary school, then we see that they are: first, from entering elementary school at about the age of six or seven until the age of nine; then second, from the age of nine until about the age of twelve; and finally from twelve until puberty. The capacity to reason independently only begins to occur when people have reached sexual maturity, even though a kind of preparation for this capacity begins around the age of twelve. For this reason, the third phase of elementary school begins about the age of twelve.

Every time a new phase occurs in the course of human life, something is born out of human nature. I have previously noted how the same forces—which become apparent as the capacity to remember, the capacity to have memories, and so forth—that appear at about the age of seven have previously worked upon the human organism up until that age. The most obvious expression of that working is the appearance of the second set of teeth. In a certain sense, forces are active in the organism that later become important during elementary school as the capacity to form thoughts. They are active but hidden. Later they are freed and become independent. The forces that become independent we call the forces of the etheric body.

Once again at puberty other forces become independent which guide us into the external world in numerous ways. Hidden within that system of forces is also the capacity for independent reasoning. We can therefore say that the actual medium of the human capacity for reason, the forces within the human being that give rise to reasoning, are basically born only at the time of puberty, and have slowly been prepared for that birth beginning at the age of twelve.

When we know this and can properly honor it, then we also become aware of the responsibility we take upon ourselves if we accustom people to forming independent judgments too soon. The most damaging prejudices in this regard prevail at the present time. People want to accustom children to forming independent judgments as early as possible.

I previously said that we should relate to children until puberty in such a way that they recognize us as an authority, that they accept something because someone standing next to them who is visibly an authority requests it and wants it. If we accustom children to accepting the truth simply because we as authorities present it to them, we will prepare them properly for having free and independent reasoning later in life. If we do not want to serve as an authority figure for the child and instead try to disappear so that everything has to develop out of the child’s own nature, we are demanding a capacity for reason too early, before what we call the astral body becomes free and independent at puberty. We would be working with the astral body by allowing it to act upon the physical nature of the child. In that way we will impress upon the child’s physical body what we should actually only provide for his soul. We are preparing something that will continue to have a damaging effect throughout the child’s life.

There is quite a difference between maturing to free judgment at the age of fourteen or fifteen—when the astral body, which is the carrier of reasoning, has become free after a solid preparation—than if we have been trained in so-called independent judgment at too early an age. In the latter case, it is not our astral aspect, that is, our soul, which is brought into independent reasoning, but our physical body instead. The physical body is drawn in with all its natural characteristics, with its temperament, its blood characteristics, and everything that gives rise to sympathy and antipathy within it, with everything that provides it with no objectivity. In other words, if a child between the ages of seven and fourteen is supposed to reason independently, the child reasons out of that part of human nature which we later can no longer rid ourselves of if we are not careful to see that it is cared for in a natural way, namely, through authority, during the elementary school period. If we allow children to reason too early, it will be the physical body that reasons throughout life. We then remain unsteady in our reasoning, as it depends upon our temperament and all kinds of other things in the physical body. If we are prepared in a way appropriate to the physical body and in a way that the nature of the physical body requires—that is, if we are brought up during the proper time under the influence of authority—then the part of us that should reason becomes free in the proper way and later in life we will be able to achieve objective judgment. Therefore the best way to prepare someone to become a free and independent human being is to avoid guiding the child toward freedom at too early an age.

This can cause a great deal of harm if it is not used properly in education. In our time it is very difficult to become sufficiently aware of this. If you talk about this subject with people today who are totally unprepared and who have no good will in this regard, you will find yourself simply preaching to deaf ears. Today we live much more than we believe in a period of materialism, and it is this age of materialism that needs to be precisely recognized by teachers. They need to be very aware of how much materialism is boiling up within modern culture and modern attitudes.

I would now like to describe this matter from a very different perspective. Something remarkable happened in European civilization around 1850, although it was barely noticed: a direct and basic feeling for rhythm was to a very large extent lost. Hence we now have people a few generations later who have entirely lost this feeling for rhythm. Such people are completely unaware of what this lack of rhythm means in raising children. In order to understand this, we need to consider the following.

In life people alternate between sleeping and being awake. People think they understand the state called wakefulness because they are aware of themselves. During this time, through sense impressions they gain an awareness of the external world. But they do not know the state between falling asleep and awakening. In modern life, people have no awareness of themselves then. They have few, if any, direct conscious perceptions of the external world. This is therefore a state in which life moves into something like a state of unconsciousness.

We can easily gain a picture of the inner connections between these two states only when we recognize two polar opposites in human life that have great significance for education. I am referring here to drawing and music, two opposites I have already mentioned and which I would like to consider from a special point of view again today.

Let us first look at drawing, in which I also include painting and sculpting. While doing so, let us recall everything in regard to drawing that we consider to be important to the child from the beginning of elementary school. Drawing shows us that, out of his or her own nature, the human being creates a form we find reflected in the external world. I have already mentioned that it is not so important to hold ourselves strictly to the model. Instead we need to find a feeling for form within our own nature. In the end, we will recognize that we exist in an element that surrounds us during our state of wakefulness in the external world, in everything that we do forming spatially. We draw lines. We paint colors. We sculpt shapes. Lines present themselves to us, although they do not exist in nature as such. Nevertheless they present themselves to us through nature, and the same is true of colors and forms.

Let us look at the other element, which we can call musical, that also permeates speech. Here we must admit that in what is musical we have an expression of the human soul. Like sculpting and drawing, everything that is expressed through music has a very rudimentary analogy to external nature. It is not possible to simply imitate with music that which occurs naturally in the external world, just as it is not possible, in a time where a feeling for sculpting or drawing is so weak, to simply imitate the external world. We must ask ourselves then if music has no content. Music does have its own content. The content of music is primarily its melodic element. Melodies need to come to us. When many people today place little value upon the melodic element, it is nothing more than a characteristic of our materialistic age. Melodies simply do not come to people often enough. We can well compare the melodic element with the sculptural element. It is certainly true that the sculptural element is related to space. In the same way the melodic element is related to time. Those who have a lively feeling for this relationship will realize that the melodic element contains a kind of sculpting. In a certain way, the melodic element corresponds to what sculpting is in the external world.

Let us now look at something else. You are all acquainted with that flighty element in the life of our souls that becomes apparent in dreams. If we concern ourselves objectively with that element of dreaming, we slowly achieve a different view of dreams than the ordinary one. The common view of dreams focuses upon the content of the dream, which is what commonly interests most people. But as soon as we concern ourselves objectively with this wonderful and mysterious world of dreams, the situation becomes different. Someone might talk about the following dream.

I climbed up a mountain, but just before I came to the peak there was an obstacle that I was unable to overcome. I was therefore unable to reach the peak. As I attempted to overcome that obstacle, I was met by evil, unfriendly animals, beings with demonic forms.

Another person might describe the following:

I was walking along a path and came to a cave. I went into the cave and it grew suddenly dark so I could go no further. I then encountered all kinds of obstacles, but I could go no further and could not reach my goal.

A third or a fourth person could tell still other stories. The pictures are quite different. One person dreams about climbing a mountain, another about going into a cave, and a third about still something else. It is not the pictures that are important. The pictures are simply woven into the dream. What is important is that the person experiences a kind of tension into which they fall when they are unable to solve something that can first be solved upon awakening. It is this moving into a state of tension, the occurrence of the tension, of becoming tense that is expressed in the various pictures.

What is important is that human beings in dreams experience increasing and decreasing tension, resolution, expectations, and disappointments, in short, that they experience inner states of the soul that are then expressed in widely differing pictures. The pictures are similar in their qualities of increase and decrease. It is the state of the soul that is important, since these experiences are connected to the general state of the soul. It is totally irrelevant whether a person experiences one picture or another during the night. It is not unimportant, however, whether one experiences a tension and then its resolution or first an expectation and then a disappointment, since the person’s state of mind on the next day depends upon it. It is also possible to experience a dream that reflects the person’s state of soul that has resulted from a stroke of fate or from many other things. In my opinion, it is the ups and downs that are important. That which appears, that forms the picture at the edge of awakening, is only a cloak into which the dream weaves itself.

When we look more closely at the world of dreams, and when we ask ourselves what a human being experiences until awakening, we will admit that until we awaken, these ups and downs of feeling clothe themselves in pictures just at the moment of awakening. Of course, we can perceive this in characteristic dreams such as this one:

A student stands at the door of a lecture room. He dreams about how another student comes up to him and says such nasty things that it is obvious that this is a challenge to duel. The student dreams that the seconds are chosen, that they go out into the forest, and that everything is prepared. First shot. The student hears this sound and awakens to find that he has knocked over a chair standing next to his bed: that was the shot. That was the only external event.

Thus the entire picture of the dream flashed through his head at that moment. However, what was clothed in those pictures is a lasting state of his soul.

Now you need to seriously compare what lies at the basis of these dreams—the welling up and subsiding of feelings, the tension and its resolution or perhaps the tendency toward something which then leads to some calamity and so forth. Compare that seriously with what lies at the basis of the musical element and you will find in those dream pictures only something that is irregular (not rhythmic). In music, you find something that is very similar to this welling up and subsiding and so forth. If you then continue to follow this path, you will find that sculpture and drawing imitate the form in which we find ourselves during ordinary life from awakening until falling asleep. Melodies, which are connected to music, give us the experiences of an apparently unconscious state, and they occur as reminiscences of such in our daily lives. People know so little about the actual origins of musical themes because they experience what lives in musical themes only during the period from falling asleep till awakening. This exists for human beings today as a still-unconscious element, though revealed through forming pictures in dreams. However, we need to take up this unconscious element that prevails in dreams and which also prevails as melody in music in our teaching, so that we rise above materialism.

If you understand the spirit of what I have just presented, you will recognize how everywhere there has been an attempt to work with this unconscious element. I have done that first by showing how the artistic element is necessary right from the very beginning of elementary school. I have insisted that we should use the dialect that the children speak to reveal the content of grammar, that is, we should take the children’s language as such and accept it as something complete and then use it as the basis for presenting grammar. Think for a moment about what you do in such a case. In what period of life is speech actually formed? Attempt to think back as far as you can in the course of your life, and you will see that you can remember nothing from the period in which you could not speak. Human beings learn language in a period when they are still sleeping through life. If you then compare the dreamy world of the child’s soul with dreams and with how melodies are interwoven in music, you will see that they are similar. Like dreaming, learning to speak occurs through the unconscious, and is something like an awakening at dawn. Melodies simply exist and we do not know where they come from. In reality, they arise out of this sleep element of the human being. We experience a sculpting with time from the time we fall asleep until we awaken. At their present stage of development human beings are not capable of experiencing this sculpting with time. You can read about how we experience that in my book How to Know Higher Worlds. That is something that does not belong to education as such. From that description, you will see how necessary it is to take into account that unconscious element which has its effect during the time the child sleeps. It is certainly taken into account in our teaching of music, particularly in teaching musical themes, so that we must attempt to exactly analyze the musical element to the extent that it is present in children in just the same way as we analyze language as presented in sentences. In other words, we attempt to guide children at an early age to recognize themes in music, to actually feel the melodic element like a sentence. Here it begins and here it stops; here there is a connection and here begins something new. In this regard, we can have a wonderful effect upon the child’s development by bringing an understanding of the not-yet-real content of music. In this way, the child is guided back to something that exists in human nature but is almost never seen.

Nearly everyone knows what a melody is and what a sentence is. But a sentence that consists of a subject, a predicate, and an object and which is in reality unconsciously a melody is something that only a few people know. Just as we experience the rising and subsiding of feelings as a rhythm in sleeping, which we then become conscious of and surround with a picture, we also, in the depths of our nature, experience a sentence as music. By conforming to the outer world, we surround what we perceive as music with something that is a picture. The child writes the essay—subject, predicate, object. A triplet is felt at the deepest core of the human being. That triplet is used through projecting the first tone in a certain way upon the child, the second upon writing, and the third upon the essay. Just as these three are felt and then surrounded with pictures (which, however, correspond to reality and are not felt as they are in dreams), the sentence lives in our higher consciousness; whereas in our deepest unconsciousness, something musical, a melody, lives. When we are aware that, at the moment we move from the sense-perceptible to the supersensible, we must rid ourselves of the sense-perceptible content, and in its place experience what eludes us in music—the theme whose real form we can experience in sleep—only then can we consider the human being as a whole. Only then do we become genuinely aware of what it means to teach language to children in such a living way that the child perceives a trace of melody in a sentence. This means we do not simply speak in a dry way, but instead in a way that gives the full tone, that presents the inner melody and subsides through the rhythmic element.

Around 1850 European people lost that deeper feeling for rhythm. Before that, there was still a certain relationship to what I just described. If you look at some treatises that appeared around that time about music or about the musical themes from Beethoven and others, then you will see how at about that time those who were referred to as authorities in music often cut up and destroyed in the most unimaginable ways what lived in music. You will see how that period represents the low point of experiencing rhythm.

As educators, we need to be aware of that, because we need to guide sentences themselves back to rhythm in the school. If we keep that in mind, over a longer period of time we will begin to recognize the artistic element of teaching. We would not allow the artistic element to disappear so quickly if we were required to bring it more into the content.

All this is connected with a question that was presented to me yesterday and which I can more thoroughly discuss in this connection. The question was, “Why is it not possible to teach proper handwriting to those children who have such a difficult time writing properly?” Those who might study Goethe’s handwriting or that of other famous people will get the odd impression that famous people often have very strange handwriting. In education, we certainly cannot allow a child to have sloppy handwriting on the grounds that the child will probably someday be a famous person and we should not disturb him. We must not allow that to influence us. But what is actually present when a child writes in such a sloppy manner? If you make some comparisons, you will notice that sloppy handwriting generally arises from the fact that such children have a rather unmusical ear, or if not that, then a reason that is closely related to it. Children write in a sloppy way because they have not learned to hear precisely: they have not learned to hear a word in its full form.

There may be different reasons why children do not hear words correctly. The child may be growing up in a family or environment where people speak unclearly. In such a case, the child does not learn to hear properly and will thus not be able to write properly, or at least not very easily. In another case, a child may tend to have little perception for what he or she hears. In that case, we need to draw the child’s attention to listening properly. In other situations it is the teacher who is responsible for the child’s poor handwriting. Teachers should pay attention to speaking clearly and also to using very descriptive language. They do not have to speak like actors, making sure to enunciate the ending syllable. But they must accustom themselves to living into each syllable, so that the syllables are clearly spoken and children will be more likely to repeat the syllables in a clear way. When you speak in a clear and complete way, you will be able to achieve a great deal with regard to proper handwriting for some children. All this is connected with the unconscious, with the dream and sleep element, since the sleep element is simply the unconscious element. It is not something we should teach to children in an artificial way.

What is the basis of listening? That is normally not discussed in psychology. In the evening we fall asleep and in the morning we awake; that is all we know. We can think about it afterward by saying to ourselves that we are not conscious during that period. Conventional, nonspiritual science is unaware of what occurs to us from the time we fall asleep until we awaken. However, the inner state of our soul is no different when we are listening than when we are sleeping. The only difference is that there is a continual movement from being within ourselves to being outside ourselves. It is extremely important that we become aware of this undulation in the life of our souls. When I listen, my attention is turned toward the outer world. However, while listening, there are moments where I actually awaken within myself. If I did not have those moments, listening would be of absolutely no use. While we are listening or looking at something, there is a continual awakening and falling asleep, even though we are awake. It is a continual undulation—waking, falling asleep, waking, falling asleep. In the final analysis, our entire relationship to the external world is based upon this capacity to move into the other world, which could be expressed paradoxically as “being able to fall asleep.” What else could it mean to listen to a conversation than to fall asleep into the content of the conversation? Understanding is awakening out of the conversation, nothing more. What that means, however, is that we should not attempt to reach what should actually be developed out of the unconsciousness, out of the sleeping or dreaming of the human being in a conscious way.

For that reason, we should not attempt to teach children proper handwriting in an artificial way. Instead we should teach them by properly speaking our words and then having the child repeat the words. Thus we will slowly develop the child’s hearing and therefore writing. We need to assume that if a child writes in a sloppy way, she does not hear properly. Our task is to support proper hearing in the child and not to do something that is directed more toward full consciousness than hearing is.

As I mentioned yesterday, we should also take such things into account when teaching music. We must not allow artificial methods to enter into the school where, for instance, the consciousness is mistreated by such means as artificial breathing. The children should learn to breathe through grasping the melody. The children should learn to follow the melody through hearing and then adjust themselves to it. That should be an unconscious process. It must occur as a matter of course. As I mentioned, we should have the music teachers hold off on such things until the children are older, when they will be less influenced by them. Children should be taught about the melodic element in an unconscious way through a discussion of the themes. The artificial methods I mentioned have just as bad an effect as it would have to teach children drawing by showing them how to hold their arms instead of giving them a feeling for line. It would be like saying to a child, “You will be able to draw an acanthus leaf if you only learn to hold your arm in such and such a way and to move it in such and such a way.” Through this and similar methods, we do nothing more than to simply consider the human organism from a materialistic standpoint, as a machine that needs to be adjusted so it does one thing properly. If we begin from a spiritual standpoint, we will always make the detour through the soul and allow the organism to adjust itself to what is properly felt in the soul.

We can therefore say that if we support the child in the drawing element, we give the child a relationship to its environment, and if we support the child in the musical element, then we give the child a relationship to something that is not in our normal environment, but in the environment we exist in from the time of falling asleep until awakening. These two polarities are then combined when we teach grammar, for instance. Here we need to interweave a feeling for the structure of a sentence with an understanding of how to form sentences.

We need to know such things if we are to properly understand how beginning at approximately the age of twelve, we slowly prepare the intellectual aspect of understanding, namely, free will. Before the age of twelve, we need to protect the child from independent judgments. We attempt to base judgment upon authority so that authority has a certain unconscious effect upon the child. Through such methods we can have an effect unbeknownst to the child. Through this kind of relationship to the child, we already have an element that is very similar to the musical dreamlike element.

Around the age of twelve, we can begin to move from the botanical or zoological perspective toward the mineral or physical perspective. We can also move from the historical to the geographical perspective. It is not that such things should only begin at the age of twelve, but rather before then they should be handled in such a way that we use judgment less and feeling more. In a certain sense, before the age of twelve we should teach children history by presenting complete and rounded pictures and by creating a feeling of tension that is then resolved. Thus, before the age of twelve, we will primarily take into account how we can reach the child’s feeling and imagination through what we teach about history. Only at about the age of twelve is the child mature enough to hear about causality in history and to learn about geography.

If you now look at what we should teach children, you will feel the question of how we are to bring the religious element into all this so that the child gains a fully rounded picture of the world as well as a sense of the supersensible. People today are in a very difficult position in that regard. In the Waldorf School, pure externalities have kept us from following the proper pedagogical perspective in this area. Today we are unable to use all of what spiritual science can provide for education in our teaching other than to apply the consequences of it in how we teach. One of the important aspects of spiritual science is that it contains certain artistic impulses that are absorbed by human beings so that they not only simply know things, but they can do things. To put it in a more extreme way, people therefore become more adept; they can better take up life and thus can also exercise the art of education in a better way.

At the present time, however, we must refrain from bringing more of what we can learn from spiritual science into education than education can absorb. We were not able to form a school based upon a particular worldview at the Waldorf School. Instead from the very beginning I stipulated that Protestant teachers would teach the Protestant religion. Religion is taught separately, and we have nothing to do with it. The Protestant teacher comes and teaches the Protestant religion, just as the Catholic religion is taught by the Catholic priest or whomever the Catholic Church designates, the rabbi teaches the Jews, and so forth. At the present time we have been unable to bring more of spiritual science in other than to provide understanding for our teaching. The Waldorf School is not a parochial school.

Nevertheless the strangest things have occurred. A number of people have said that because they are not religious, they will not send their children to the Protestant, Catholic, or Jewish religion teachers. They have said that if we do not provide a religion teacher who teaches religion based solely upon a general understanding, they will not send their children to religion class at all. Thus those parents who wanted an anthroposophically oriented religion class to a certain extent forced us to provide one. This class is given, but not because we have a desire to propagate anthroposophy as a worldview. It is quite different to teach anthroposophy as a worldview than it is to use what spiritual science can provide in order to make education more fruitful.

We do not attempt to provide the content. What we do attempt to provide is a capacity to do. A number of strange things then occurred. For example, a rather large number of children left the other religion classes in order to join ours. That is something we cannot prohibit. It was very uncomfortable for me, at least from the perspective of retaining a good relationship to the external world. It was also quite dangerous, but that is the way it is. From the same group of parents we hear that the teaching of other religions will soon cease anyway. That is not at all our intent, as the Waldorf School is not intended as a parochial school. Today nowhere in the civilized world is it possible to genuinely teach out of the whole. That will be possible only when through the threefold social organism cultural life becomes independent. So long as that is not the case, we will not be able to provide the same religious instruction for everybody. Thus what we have attempted to do is to make education more fruitful through spiritual science.

I have often stressed that eurythmy is drawn from the nature of the human organization, from the possibilities of movement prefigured in the human organism. The human organism on the one hand contains the musical element, which in fact is built into it, and on the other hand (as should be especially mentioned in connection with tone eurythmy) it contains music translated into movement. It will doubtless be obvious to you that the musical element is situated, so to speak, in the human chest structure, above the chest. If we put the question: ‘How are we to find in the actual human organization the transition from singing, and from the inner musical organization upon which the human being is founded, to the “organism of movement” of eurythmy?’—then (as is immediately apparent) we must turn to the limbs attached to the chest structure, which reveal themselves as limbs of movement out of the chest organism. [42]

Now in regard to the whole human organization, the hands and arms are the most wonderful human ‘organs’. And you need only exert your intuitive vision a little to recognize that that which is latent in the human singing apparatus through the palate, jaw, and so on appears as limbs. In a certain respect it is like arms and hands which have become solidified and brought to rest. Try the following: Bring your arms and hands into movement before you by means of an interlocking of the fingers (folded hands), and now compare this with what happens when the lower and upper jaws are interlocked, as may be observed in the skeleton. If you take into account the muscles stretched across this, you will easily begin to discern the process of metamorphosis from a mobile state to a state of rest.

Now we see how that which serves the musical element in singing is continued below. That which is connected to voice production and to initiating the sound is actually surrounded by the muscles and bones which end in the arms and hands. And because movement depends upon making use of these muscles and bones, it is consequently a question of learning to feel how the muscles and bones have to be used in order to do eurythmy in the musical sense.

In voice production, the singer seeks the point of departure for initiating the sound. Can we too find a point of departure in eurythmy, where we make use of those most expressive ‘organs’, the arms and hands?

The human being possesses a singular ‘organ’ which may be said to form the anatomical, physiological starting point between the chest and the arms. This is the collar-bone. It is S-shaped—truly a most wonderful bone. At one end it is connected with the human middle system, and at the other end (after making the S-form) it goes out towards the periphery, towards directing the movements of the arms and hands. Now I must ask you to consider the following. Animals which make use of their fore-legs and their fore-paws for dexterous climbing (the bat, for instance, or the monkey) have quite an ingeniously formed collar-bone. Beasts of prey, animals such as cats or lions, which do not exactly climb but make use of their fore-paws when tearing their spoil to pieces, possess a less well-formed collar-bone, but they do have one. The horse, which only makes use of its fore-legs for the purpose of running, has developed no skill in their use, and their formation permits no mobility in itself; the horse has no collar-bone. Now, it is in the collar-bone that we may feel the starting point from which tone eurythmy originates. It is located there. And when you become conscious that a force goes out from your collar-bone with its muscles into the arms and hands, then vitality will be brought into your tone eurythmy. Then you have the point of departure. It really has to do with livingly feeling your limbs so that they can be used for such movements as we have done. Anyone who is unable to feel at a specific place will never discover the right point of departure.

The most necessary preparation for tone eurythmy, therefore, is a concentration of your consciousness to the left and the right sides of the collar-bone. And when starting to do tone eurythmy, with the first step, [42] transfer your consciousness to the left and right of the collar-bone. Feel that all the subtle possibilities of movement which you pour into your arms and hands really proceed from your collar-bone, just as the voice proceeds from its starting point. [43]

Then feel that you pour this feeling, which you consciously stimulate in the collar-bone, first into the socket of the upper arm. And feel too when you express the keynote with the legs, with the step, the following:

Already while unfolding the arm, the force which causes the arm to be unfolded goes to the keynote from up here, proceeding from the point of departure of the arm. Feel as if the whole forearm (and indeed the upper arm too) together with the hand and fingers were quite light, as if they had no weight, as if they really were not there, as if you were dealing with them quite usually. But here, at the point of departure, feel a strong unfolding of force; then you have held fast the keynote in the arm.

And now feel a raising or turning of the upper arm, in connection with the movement I have already shown for the second. Feel the second itself, by holding the hand in a certain way so that the force enabling you to retain this position of the hand starts in the upper arm. Then you have the right unfolding of the second; then it really is a second.

The stream flowing out from the collar-bone passes by way of the upper arm and on into the forearm; and only then does the flowing into the forearm become the third. And here something extremely remarkable makes its appearance. In order to form the third, you unfold the movement as I described it in the first lecture. For this, you need the forearm, both hands [probably Austrian dialect for ‘arms’. Translator's note], and the right or left hand [arm], depending on where you will form the third. When you allow the feeling which you have already made use of in the upper arm to stream on further, it will pass over the elbow and flow into the back part of the forearm. This is possible. When you go by way of the elbow, you come to the starting point for the third. Now you can ask yourself: ‘Can I also allow the feeling to stream hither (along the inside of the arm towards the hand)?’ Here, if your feeling is sound, you will say: ‘This is not possible. I can let the feeling stream forth up to the back part of the hand. But if I try to let it flow down the inner part of the arm, this is not possible. I have to imagine it as coming towards me, from below upwards. I have to imagine to myself as though I were laying hold somewhere with my hand, as though the feeling were flowing over along this side.’ And so we have two possibilities. If the beginning of the upper arm is here (see Fig. 18), the feeling streams in this direction (downwards). We pass from the second to the third. We can also unfold the feeling that comes towards us, and here we have to think of it as flowing from the hand inwards (direction of the arrow).

Now, you see, isn't this something wonderful! The human arm possesses one bone in the upper arm, for [the interval of] the second, and it possesses two bones in the forearm (radius and ulna) because there are two thirds. The bone at the back of the forearm [ulna] presents the major third, and the inner bone of the forearm [radius] the minor third. The way the scale is active in the bones and muscles of the arm is simply marvellous. When you now reach the place where the hand begins (where the small bones are) you still feel exactly as if you were inside yourself.

It is only when coming to the hand itself that you go out of yourself. The fourth is still within. It is here at the place where the hand begins. Here you have to feel the movement that gives you the fourth. The fifth is here on the hand itself. Feel the sixth here in the base of the fingers [proximal phalanges], and the seventh (as I showed you) you can produce in particular with the ends of the fingers [distal phalanges]. You must send your feeling into the ends of the fingers.

Fig. 18

You see, it is not a mere figure of speech to say that eurythmy has been drawn out of the organization of the human being. So strongly is this the case that you can keep completely to the structure of the human form. There are the two bones in the forearm for the major and minor thirds, and here too you have to develop the feeling corresponding to a major key and a minor key. The major key is felt in the feeling flowing downward, passing by way of the elbow into the ulna and from there into the back of the hand. [44] When you feel this stream as flowing down into the back of the hand, the feeling is of the major mood.

When, however, you feel a slight current of air or a feeling coming towards you, passing through the palm of the hand and here at the lower arm into the inner bones, then you have the feeling of the minor mood. If you acquire a sensitivity for this transference of feeling in the human organism you will find yourself becoming inwardly musical, for you yourself are really living the scale.

Take some opportunity of observing two people engaged in eurythmy, of whom one makes the movements as if they were being carried out by an artificial, papier mache, mechanical person, whereas the other really feels the origin in the collar-bone, feels the keynote at the point of departure of the upper arm, the second proceeding from here (upper arm), the third in the forearm, and further out in the hand itself the fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh. We have to get out of ourselves in the hands. We are out of ourselves the most at the ends of the fingers. It is here that the seventh arises. The goal in eurythmy is not to invent worked-out movements, but rather to draw out the possibilities of movement that are inherent in the human form itself. This is where eurythmy differs from every other modern attempt to develop an art of movement. In none of these attempts do we find in what is practised the movements drawn out in this way from the human being himself. For it is necessary, in the first place, to know that the human arm with the human hand, from the point of departure through the collar-bone, is precisely the scale itself.

If you look at a horse, you will feel that it actually could not do eurythmy. A horse engaged in eurythmy would be an appalling sight! A kitten would make a more charming impression, and a little monkey better still. The eurythmy of a little monkey might be quite pleasing. Why? Because the horse has no collar-bone. A kitten has a collar-bone, even if less perfectly formed than that of a monkey, which possesses the most perfect collar-bone [of the three]. The eurythmic movements of an animal, if you could imagine them, would be pleasing in proportion to the development of its collar-bone.

Everything arising from the appendage of lungs, larynx, and so on, when metamorphosed and correspondingly projected outwards, is represented in the conglomeration of collar-bone (the shoulder blade serves as a completion) collar-bone, shoulder-blades, upper arm, forearm, and the bones of the fingers.

Now when the first four notes of the scale are played, or shown in eurythmy, you will undoubtedly feel them as a progression. Play the scale up to the fourth: prime, second, third, fourth; it is a progression. With the fifth you feel that something is changing. And with the sixth and seventh you will distinctly notice at the same time a spreading out; the whole scale expands. Even this is reproduced in the hand. If you consider the simple structure of the upper arm and the two bones of the forearm, you find there the entire musical image of the first stages of the scale. When the scale widens out (from the fourth onwards), everything is indeed situated in the hand itself; and here there are twenty-seven bones designed for inner mobility. Thus, when you ascend to the upper notes of the scale, you can develop considerable powers of expression, especially in the use of the hands.

You know, however, that from the anatomical point of view there is much similarity between the arm and the hand, and the leg and the foot even if such points of departure are not present. And it is possible to transfer the movements (which we have used to express the notes) to the legs and feet, harder though they are to carry out, and necessarily remaining as an indication. When you transfer the gestures for the notes to the legs and feet, the effect will be less beautiful, but you have here a different means of expression for the legs and feet from dancing, as we have already tried in the most various ways in speech eurythmy and the like. Now you will easily gather that in the case of legs and feet, the beginning of the thigh-bone, the whole thigh-bone, corresponds to the keynote, when you flex the muscles. When you try to produce a movement in which the lower part of the leg hangs, to a certain extent, while strong movements are made by the upper part of the leg, then you are in the sphere of the keynote and the second. Passing over the lower part of the leg to the fibula and tibia (shin-bone and splint-bone), you again find the major and minor thirds—the major third in the tibia and the minor third in the fibula. In this way the thirds may be expressed once again by means of the leg. But essentially such movements will be differentiated very strongly from those most expressive movements the human being is capable of (the movements, that is to say, of the arms and hands), just as the double-bass differs from the violin.

When, with two people, a piece of music is so carried out that the notes down to the C two octaves below middle C are strongly articulated with the arms, while the bass notes beyond the C two octaves below middle C are correspondingly expressed by the legs (either by the same or another person) you will find this renders a remarkably expressive possibility.

Thus it is really possible today that all the musical elements may be included in eurythmy. It is, of course, impossible to work out the actual exercises during these lectures; you will, however, understand how matters lie, and in the future it will be a question of thoroughly practising all the things which I am putting before you. It is only through practising that you really get into it. Then you will see that this is precisely the method of tone eurythmy.

Now if a person wishes to show the lower notes (the notes two octaves or more below middle C) by emphasizing them as strongly as can be done with feet and legs, at the same time only slightly indicating the same notes with the arms, the effect will certainly be fine, too. This is one possibility.

Another possibility is this. While carrying out the movements with feet and legs, the arms may in a certain way retain confirming movements enveloping the whole thing, varying according to the degree of liveliness in movement that you wish to express (a) (see Fig. 19), or, when stronger and more lively, a movement of this sort (b), or, when specially lively in mood, a movement of this sort (c). You see, it is quite possible to say to yourself: ‘Yes, there are different possibilities of expressing the notes.’ For this is the case. Eurythmy will never lead anyone into pedantry.

If you have thoroughly practised the things we are here discussing, many different variations and possibilities of expression will be revealed—but only if you base your work on the realization that everything does actually depend upon being conscious of the point of departure, of developing the consciousness: seconds are in the upper arm, thirds are in the forearm. With your awareness correspondingly transferred to the upper arm or forearm, you will create aesthetically beautiful movements. Then your soul is brought into play.

Fig. 19

Just imagine one of you carrying out the movements of eurythmy. Eurythmy is a singing through movement; it is singing. It is not dancing; it is not mime; it is singing. This is why you cannot sing and do eurythmy at the same time. Instrumental music can be expressed in tone eurythmy, but not singing. Anyone who imagines that this is possible has not yet grasped what eurythmy is. He is not looking upon it as an autonomous art, but is making use of it in order to illustrate what is being sung. In such a case eurythmy would only be an art of illustration, and this, of course, is a complete misunderstanding. A better understanding may perhaps be furthered by mentioning something in this connection. Imagine that one person is expressing in eurythmy something that another person is singing, both exactly the same thing. Anyone possessing spiritual vision would see in the etheric body of the singer precisely the same movements; it would be as though a spirit were perched on the singer's shoulders, making the very movements that are being made by the eurythmist. Singing is nothing other than a carrying out with the etheric body of the same movements resonating in the vocal organs, which you permit the physical organism to perform in eurythmy. That is why it is difficult to bear the sight of anyone doing eurythmy whilst singing to it at the same time. For then you are aware of the same thing duplicated; you perceive with the physical eyes, and then you see another, etheric being, with his legs dangling on the shoulders doing these movements up there, doing the very same thing! [45]

Should you ever have the opportunity of examining a collar-bone (perhaps managing to acquire some knowledge of the surrounding muscles, and especially studying the direction they take) then you will notice something very remarkable about this S-shaped collar-bone. The form of that part of the collar-bone which tends outwards will give you the feeling that it is receiving something, that it allows things from outside to approach it. In that part which goes out from the middle you will feel an out-streaming tendency. In the collar-bone (see diagram) you really have an out-streaming and an in-streaming. The outward stream passes through the back part of the arm, via the ulna, down into the back of the hand. The inward stream passes through the palm of the hand, up the radius and back again here [to the collar-bone]. Here two streams continually exist, the one flowing upwards this way, and the other outwards (see arrow). The one gives something out, the other is receptive. Following this, you arrive directly at a real understanding of the major (Dur) and minor (Moll) moods.

Fig. 20

The things that are said about major and minor and which are found in books on music are actually appalling. [46] Many such theories with regard to major and minor have been put forward in recent times. If people, in such a case, did not listen in a sounder way than they think, the fate of music would be the same as the fate that would undoubtedly overtake the art of eating if the numerous physiological theories had to be followed instead of the instincts. It is a mercy that in music (and consequently in eurythmy) we can, up to a point, follow the instincts; for the real secret of the difference between major and minor lies in the fact that everything of the nature of major streams out from the will, that is, a streaming out from the fullness of the human being. Everything that is major is related to action (Tat). Thus a certain activity must be introduced into all motifs in the major mood. All phrases in the minor mood are receptive. They possess something of recognition, of acceptance, of laying hold of something. All phrases in the minor mood are related to feeling. When passing over from a phrase in the major mood to a phrase in the minor mood, we must definitely show that this is a transference of activity from the outer structure of muscle and bone to the manipulation of the inner structure of muscle and bone in the arm and hand of the eurythmist. It is from feeling and experience of the impulse towards action that all eurythmy has to proceed.

It is a fact that anything based on the musical element may be expressed in tone eurythmy. To be convinced of this, you need but to remind yourselves, for instance, not only of how this or that occurs in the musical phrase, but also in the musical element that which brings about a close for musical feeling as such (where the progression of a phrase leads in a certain direction, resulting in a feeling of being checked). In the cadence we have something (the expression is somewhat crude, but I think it is applicable) which dams up the flow of the music.

When you experience the cadence and the whole progression towards the cadence, you will find the following to be quite obvious. As an example, let us take the cadence in the major mood (see Fig. 21).

How would you express this in eurythmy? In the fashioning of your movement you have to bring it to a conclusion, and you will certainly feel a tendency to lead the movement over towards the right, stopping it.

This gives the effect of a close. Thus a cadence in the major mood leads you to move in a turning from left to right; the eurythmic movement is made in this way, towards the right side.

Fig. 21

If, instead of this, we have a cadence in the minor mood, the process is reversed; the stopping movement would then proceed from right to left, for now the element of feeling has to be present. It is only the ignorance of our civilization which gives rise to the wish to teach children to write with both right and left hands. This differentiation in the human organism is fundamental. For there is a great difference, is there not, whether the heart is situated on the right side or the left. (Cases are known in which the heart lies on the right side, but they are exceedingly rare; in such a case the person in question would differ from all his fellow-men.) Now, this fundamental difference does indeed exist. It is based upon the inner organization of the human being. And so, when approaching a close it is necessary that you feel: cadence in the major mood (towards the right side), cadence in the minor mood (towards the left side). And when, in the progression of the music, at the moment when you reach a close in the music itself (where you cannot imagine continuing), then at this point you have to introduce something into your movement whereby this movement is inwardly brought to a conclusion. You will feel the necessity of expressing the cadence in eurythmy in just this way.

You see, in this course of lectures it has been my full intention to direct your attention precisely to those things relating to the inner feeling of the movement. For I have been struck by the slight attention paid by eurythmists to that aspect of the eurythmy figures designated as ‘character’. [47] I have always emphasized that a real attempt has to be made to concentrate the feeling and to stimulate a strong muscular tension at those parts of the eurythmy figures where the ‘character’ is applied. This makes quite a different impression upon the audience from that which is created when (if you will pardon the expression) the matter is carried out phlegmatically to the utmost. Eurythmy is fundamentally based on the possibility that these things can be used.

Now, because speech eurythmy is more bound up with the sense of the words, it will not be quite so noticeable if feeling does not accompany the activity. But if the movements of tone eurythmy are not permeated through and through with feeling the whole thing becomes utterly meaningless. If your feelings are not incorporated just as I have indicated today for the scale, the audience will feel the movements as arbitrary and disjointed. Everything depends upon your feeling: Here the upper arm begins, and you form the keynote—or whether you feel: A humanly-felt impulse is situated here in the upper arm, and you fashion the second in the way I told you yesterday. These feelings determine whether the movements which you carry out for any progression of notes appear filled with human motivation or whether they appear unmotivated. For in everything artistic, nothing is as important as motivation.

From this, however, you see (and this is a point I would like to touch on at the end of this lecture) that eurythmy has to develop gradually in such a way that auxiliary subjects are studied, just as in other forms of art. [48] The painter and sculptor are obliged to acquaint themselves with sculptors' and painters' anatomy. They cannot get on without it. The eurythmist should endeavour to acquire a thorough knowledge of the human being, and should study such things as the physiology of the collar-bone, and so on, as an auxiliary study (or whatever you'd like to call it).

When you now consider this intimate connection between eurythmy and the whole organization of the human being, it will no longer seem strange to you that in the case of tone eurythmy too (although perhaps with occasional variations) we are able to speak of a eurythmy therapy. Only think of all that lies behind what I have discussed today! We have realized that there is both an inner and outer organization in the formation of arms and hands (see Fig. 22). They fit each other as does the nut to the nutshell; they are built up out of the same forces. Consequently, if we have to treat a diseased lung, it is possible to work back on this lung by encouraging the patient to do tone eurythmy in a certain way, as eurythmy therapy.

Fig. 22

It is in afflictions of the throat, however, that tone eurythmy can work with particularly far-reaching results. For the whole muscular and bony structure of hand and arm is in reality nothing but an outer, concave image of what exists in inner, convex form in the lungs, and proceeding further, in the heart-organization and in everything concerned with speaking and singing right out as far as the lips.

And so, a really practical awakening of the eurythmy that is within you, will enable you to gain deep insight into the human organization; indeed, I would like to say, the study of eurythmy may lead over into the esoteric realm if a practice is made of transferring the inner impulse of feeling from collar-bone to upper arm, radius, ulna, and so on, or correspondingly in the legs and feet.

Tomorrow, then, at the same time, we shall begin by adding what is still lacking, and in retrospect complement our studies.

The musical element

When speaking of the arts, Rudolf Steiner (1861–1925) emphasizes that the musical element increasingly belongs to the future of humanity.¹ In the following words he points to the mission of music:

Fundamentally speaking, music is the human being, and indeed it is from music that we rightly learn how to free ourselves from matter. For if music were to become materialistic, it would actually be false: it is not ‘there’! Every other form of matter is present in the world and is insistent. But musical sounds are not to be found in the material world in their original form. We have to devise a means of producing them; they must first be made. The soul element that lives in the human being lies between the notes. But today, because the world has become so unmusical, people are scarcely aware of it.²

This passage also witnesses to Steiner's own particular mission at the beginning of the twentieth century: to sow seeds in the cultural life which could enable humanity to find its way from estrangement to cooperation with the world of spirit. This concept is of immense practical importance in a century which has allowed the forces of technology and finance to encroach into the realm rightly belonging to the free human spirit. About the time of these lectures, Steiner was responding to requests from many professional quarters for advice which would provide creative stimuli. Lecture courses were given to experts seeking renewal in their particular fields: science, medicine, agriculture, religion, the arts, education and therapeutic education. ‘The development of anthroposophical activity into the realm of art resulted out of the nature of anthroposophy.’ The art of eurythmy, however, occupies a unique position as the newly-born daughter of anthroposophy itself.³

For Steiner, it is not only music; all the arts are to become more musical. Steiner is concerned with living, creative activity. He communicated this vision most succinctly in a far-reaching lecture in Torquay. (See Note 1) Like J. M. Hauer (1883–1959), whose theoretical writings were known to him, Steiner uses the Greek Melos (‘tune’) for pure pitch (Melodie—‘melody’, of course, includes rhythm and beat. See also Steiner's own lecture notes, p. 10). Both Hauer and Steiner use Melos to indicate the actual creative principle in music. ‘Melos is the musical element,’ Steiner claims (Lecture 4). In this translation I have retained Melos where it is employed.

In speech, Melos only ‘peeps through’. But it ‘poured into’ oriental architecture, which ‘really did transpose music into movement’. ‘Oriental architecture has within it a great deal of eurythmy,’ we read in Lecture 5. The word ‘rhythm’ comes from the Greek rhuthmos (measured motion, time rhythm), from rhe-ein (to flow). The word ‘eurhythmy’ is an architectural term: ‘beautiful proportion, hence beautiful, harmonious movement’ (Oxford English Dictionary). Laurens van der Post mentions the ‘eurhythmic grace’ of certain beautiful animal movements in his African writings. ‘Eurythmy’ and Melos, accordingly, have existed and do still exist both in nature and in human culture. Both worlds unite in the art of eurythmy, which cultivates Melos, and was brought to birth through Rudolf Steiner. (Otto Fränkl-Lundborg claims the spelling of ‘eurythmy’ without the ‘h’ is philologically correct; rho as suffix loses its aspirate. See Das Goetheanum, 49. Jg., Nr. 30, 26.7.70, p. 246).

Steiner, like Hauer, uses the expression das Musikalische (‘the musical’) more often than die Musik (‘music’), and in this way emphasizes the inner activity before the technicalities of the craft come into consideration. This is a supremely important detail. In English we have to extend this to phrases like ‘the musical element’, or ‘the realm of music’, which may be clumsy, but they are accurate. What Steiner has in mind and continuously refers to is the musical essence. This is not only the concern of musicians but it is the underlying creative, transforming force of life itself, present in all vital human expression. Moreover, it bears a direct relationship to the path of mankind's inner development. This development can be prepared and assisted by the inner activity of individuals on the path of initiation, which is described by Steiner as a process of development through God's grace, involving Imagination, Inspiration and Intuition (spiritual vision, inner hearing and a higher life).⁴

Long, long before the human being enters consciously into the stages of initiation, he is able to express these individual experiences in images, and this is done through music! In the last analysis genuine music is essentially a developing drama of life taking its course in musical sounds, which are an external picture of what the soul consciously experiences in the life of initiation.⁵

We may sense that Steiner channelled his own musicality into his work as a teacher of humanity, and this he confirmed more than once:

It gave me particular pleasure to be told one day by one of our artistically-gifted friends that some of the lecture cycles I have given could be transcribed into symphonies purely on the basis of their inner structure. Some of the courses are indeed based in their structure on something very like this. Take for instance the lecture course given in Vienna on life between death and a new birth: you will see that you could make a symphony of it.⁶

The art of eurythmy has been given to us as a gift from the future. Its evolution depends upon each individual eurythmist, musician and speaker developing an inner listening with his or her artistic feeling. This must be developed, not in an ecstatic way, but as a spiritual path the individual undertakes while within the body. This inner activity, Steiner insists (in answer to Hauer), can be revealed in art by raising sensory experience.⁷ The present lecture course may prove to be the best companion on such a path, which is akin to the practising of a musician. This is a demanding exercise, but however small the progress, it forms the substance of true art, and can be offered as nourishment to a world in need.⁸

One of the questions today concerns recorded sound (see Appendix 6). After following the arguments concerning recordings, it can be refreshing to return to the present course of lectures. Though modestly described as ‘only a beginning’, Steiner begins where many of the great musicians of his time, and the ensuing decades, leave off.⁹

Music's turning point

Steiner characterizes music as the art which ‘contains the laws of our ego’.¹⁰ If we could consciously dive down into our astral body, the musician in us, we could perceive the cosmic music that has formed us: ‘... with the help of the astral body, the cosmos is playing our own being ... The ancients felt that earthly music could only be a mirroring of the heavenly music which began with the creation of mankind.’ Modern humanity has been led into the muddy, materialistic swamp of darkness and desire, which obscures this music. But there is a path of purification leading to perception of the music of the spheres once again. When we hear a symphony we dive with soul and spirit into the will, which is usually asleep in daytime consciousness. Art—‘even the nature of major and minor melodies’ - can bring life to the connection between man and cosmos (in other words, anthroposophy); to what might appear as dead form. Steiner warns ‘that these things are not a skeleton of ideas!’ hinting that his Theosophy was written musically, not schematically.

The present lectures on eurythmy represent Steiner's greatest contribution to musical studies. When he gave them in 1924, he advised the eurythmists to study Hauer's theoretical writings. Hauer was a musician who discovered atonal melody, or twelve-note music, at the same time (or even just before) as Schönberg did by a different route. Both composers endeavoured to get beyond the materialistic swamp through spiritual striving.¹¹ By 1924 Hauer had published his own attempt at a Goethean theory of music,¹² and his Deutung des Melos (Interpretation of Melos, questions to the artists and thinkers of our time) includes an appreciation of Goethe's Theory of Colour.¹³ In these eurythmy lectures, Steiner appears to agree with Hauer's diagnosis of the modern situation as ‘noise’; Wagner's music, for example, is ‘unmusical music’, though it has its justification. Steiner seems to agree with Hauer's spiritual principle of Melos, ‘the actual musical element’ (to Hauer ‘movement itself’, or the ‘TAO’, the interpretation of which is ‘the only true spiritual science’). He reproduces Hauer's correspondence of vowels and intervals, writing in his notebook Hauer's list of examples (Notebook, p. 10), and he retells the story of the Arab listening to a contrapuntal piece, who asks for it to be played ‘one tune at a time’. But Steiner certainly does not agree with Hauer's answer to the challenge of materialism. ‘Those who deride materialism are bad artists, bad scientists,’ Steiner declares.¹⁴ Instead of criticism, he offers help.

In his profound study on Bach, Erich Schwebsch suggests that eurythmy arrived just at the right time in the evolution of mankind.¹⁵ His justification of music eurythmy is unlikely to be supplanted. With the founding of music eurythmy, a new beginning opens up for the art of music too. This thought was also expressed by the musician and eurythmist Ralph Kux.¹⁶ It remains for me to draw attention to the counter-phenomenon accompanying this new beginning.

The counter-tendency, so strongly marked in Hauer's thought and life, artificially separates itself from the human roots of music. Steiner's answer to Hauer's dissatisfaction with western culture was to give a further impetus to music eurythmy (already born but still in its infancy) by tracing the origin of music back to the human being. Through a conscious ‘turning inside out’ within the organism, at the point of departure in the collar-bone, the cosmic music that formed us (flowing in between the shoulder-blades) is released and made available for artistic ends.¹⁷ Music today, he implies, is not a purely spiritual, meditative affair, leading (as later in Hauer's career) a reclusive life. The music of the spheres sought along the old paths ‘out there’ in the cosmos leads to an abstract caricature today. The living connection is to be found on earth, in the human being.¹⁸ Steiner was in all things concerned with living, creative activity. The arts are the means whereby inner activity and experience become outer expression: ‘to present the soul and spirit in fullest concentration ... is basically the highest ideal of all art.’¹⁹ The arts remind us of the meaning in our earthly destiny. Steiner's meditative verse, written for Marie Steiner at Christmas 1922, begins: ‘The stars once spake to man’—but what leads to the future is ‘what man speaks to the stars’.²⁰

Albert Steffen expresses it clearly: there is a splitting of the way ‘concerning the life or death of music as such ... The whole of humanity stands before this alternative. There is no way back. Every individual has to go through it or come to grief.’²¹ In one of his most inspired articles, H. Pfrogner (a musicologist and authority on twentieth-century developments) characterizes the one path of experience as the way of ‘universal concord’, and the other as ‘ego concord’.²² The former path leads to universal spirituality, to a dissolving of the self. The latter path leads to a maturing of the self. Pfrogner accociates the former spirituality with the impulse emanating from the conspiracy of Gondishapur (seventh century AD - further details can be found in Ruland).²³ which echoes on in Islamic culture; the maturing spirituality he associates with the Christian west. All inclination to ‘dissolve the ego’, whose new richness of content was brought by Christ, spiritually subscribes to Arabism, whereas all steps toward strengthened responsibility follow the latter path. But this latter path leads to an extension of the diatonic system, ‘that resounding image of the human being pure and simple’ (Pfrogner).

The path to overcome materialism, further elucidated by Pfrogner,²⁴ will not be reached by avoiding the swamp of man's egotism and hastily ‘reaching for the stars’ (the arrangement of twelve) to the exclusion of the diatonic system (based on the number seven). Lurking in such a counter-reaction to romanticism (which, like Viennese classicism, arose in the age of materialism as a protest) is an implied denial of the Christ-event. ‘Christ Jesus inaugurated an evolution in human nature, based on the retention of the ego's full consciousness. He inaugurated the initiation of the ego,’ Steiner explains.²⁵ ‘With Christ,’ F. Rittelmeyer reminds us in his last book, ‘the whole orientation of humanity is changed. And from now on we no longer look back with longing to the past, to a "golden age" of the primal beginning, but look forward toward fulfilment, creating the future ...’²⁶ There is a path through the swamp which has been trodden by composers such as Bartok, Hindemith, Messiaen, Martinu, Sibelius, Vaughan Williams, Shostakovich, Britten, Tippett, Hartmann, Henze, Schnittke, Gubaidulina, Pärt and many others (following in their own ways the example of the modern ‘Prometheus’, Beethoven).²⁷

Musical art of the future

On more than one occasion, Steiner, speaking of the future of music, pointed to ‘finding a melody in the single note’.²⁸ In the eurythmy lectures he points out that this does not mean listening to the acoustic ‘chord of overtones’ in a single note—on which Hauer and Hindemith base their theoretical work. It is a supersensible experience. One of the climaxes of the investigations of Pfrogner and H. Ruland (one of the former's successors), is the working out of Steiner's hints of a development of our tonal system.²⁹

Here mention should be made of two other pioneers in musical studies whose work is acknowledged by Ruland in his Expanding Tonal Awareness. Ernst Bindel developed the relationship between mathematics and music.³⁰ (Without some mathematics there can be no responsible step towards a musical future.) The other pioneer is H. E. Lauer,³¹ whose account of the evolution of tonal systems has subsequently been considerably developed by Ruland.

We conclude with a suggestion regarding ‘artistic longing’, made by Steiner some months before the lectures translated here:

‘If someone feels that here on earth he does not fulfil what lies in his archetype, with its abode in the heavens, there arises in him an artistic longing for some outer image of that archetype. Whereupon he can gain the power to become an instrument for expressing the true relation of man to the world by becoming a eurythmist. The eurythmist says: All the movements which I ordinarily carry out here on earth do less than justice to the mobile archetype of man. To present the ideal human archetype I must begin by finding a way to unite with its movements.’ These movements, through which the human being endeavours to imitate in space the movements of his heavenly archetype, constitute eurythmy.³²

Steiner wrote in his Notebook (see p. 131 below) for the present eurythmy course:

In the musical element the spatial human being is transformed into the non-spatial human being—the spiritual human being is the inner origin of the musical element.

Artistic people often think more naturally in evocative images, rather than with philosophical or technical concepts about ‘the spiritual human being’ or ‘the heavenly archetype’. And ultimately the inner life cannot express itself other than in images. Artistic readers looking for direction to surmount materialism may be able to grasp the necessity for decisive action more directly in the form of a picture. It may be appropriate to recall a passage from one of Selma Lagerlöf's novels to show the precision of Steiner's statement. An image of the Christ-child is kept in a basilica run by Franciscan monks. An Englishwoman plans to steal this image and replace it with a cheap imitation.

When the copy was ready she took a needle and scratched into the crown: ‘My kingdom is only of this world.’ It was as if she was afraid that she herself would not be able to distinguish one image from the other. And it was as if she wished to appease her own conscience. ‘I have not wished to make a false Christ-image. I have written in his crown: “My kingdom is only of this world”.’³³

Stourbridge, Michaelmas 1993
Alan Stott

• 1. R. Steiner, True and False Paths in Spiritual Investigation, GA243, (RSP 1975). An accurate translation of the section on music (last part of the final lecture of 24.8.22) appears in Lea van der Pals, op. cit., p. 71ff. Compare: ‘The basic mood of the new world-conception [since the Mystery of Golgotha] is musical, whereas the basic mood of the old world was sculptural. The basic mood of the new age is really musical, and the world will become ever more musical. In order to continue rightly on the path of human evolution, we must know the importance of striving towards a musical element and not repeating the old sculptural one’ (R. Steiner, Der Baum des Lebens and der Baum der Erkenntnis des Guten and Bosen [‘The tree of life and the tree of knowledge of good and evil’], lecture Dornach 31.7.15, GA162 [translation A. S.]; see also Appendix 4, ‘R. Steiner, Torquay, 22.8.24’, in Vol. 2).
• 2. R. Steiner, Eurythmy as Visible Singing, GA278, Lecture 3.
• 3. The name ‘anthroposophy’ (‘wisdom of the human being’) is not used in any of Steiner's basic books. It appeared before the world for the first time one year after the founding of the Anthroposophical Society (1913), in the final chapter of R. Steiner, Riddles of Philosophy [original edition 1914, English translation AP 1973], ‘A brief outline of an approach to anthroposophy’. In this chapter, reference is made to the author's Truth and Science (1882), The Philosphy of Freedom (1894), and the lecture ‘The psychological foundations and epistemological position of spiritual science’, delivered before the Philosophical Congress, Bologna, 18.4.11.
  
  ‘Eurythmy has grown out of the soil of the anthroposophical movement, [originating] like a gift of destiny’ (R. Steiner, ‘Eurythmy, what it is and how it originated’, lecture Penmaenmawr 26.8.23 in Eurythmy as Visible Song [London and New York 1932], p. 1). ‘The artistic element will be an elixir of life of the anthroposophical movement’ (R. Steiner, introduction to a eurythmy performance on the occasion of the founding of the General Anthroposophical Society, Dornach 5.1.24, in GA277, p. 423). See also R. Steiner, Das Goetheanum in seinen zehn Jahren’ (‘The Goetheanum, ten years in retrospect’), essay of 14.1.24 in GA36, and Tb635 p. 131. For a detailed account, see R. Steiner, Die Entstehung and Entwicklung der Eurythmie (‘The origin and development of eurythmy’, translation in progress) GA277a (Dornach 1965), and R. Steiner, Eurythmie—die Offenbarung der Sprechende Seele (‘Eurythmy—revelation of the speaking soul’) GA277 (Dornach 1972), a collection of introductions to performances, and so on; a paperback mainly consisting of selections is published: Eurythmie, Tb642 (Dornach 1986). Some introductions are translated in R. Steiner, Eurythmy, an Introduction (AP 1984); the lecture 14.2.20 is translated in The Inner Nature of Music, op. cit.
• 4. Rational thinking is not jettisoned in favour of ‘mysticism’ or something else. The spiritual activity within thinking itself can be strengthened for investigating and creating within the realm of the spirit. The spiritual activity of pure thinking, the higher union of science and religion demonstrated by Steiner, was prophesied, for example, by Emerson: ‘No man ever prayed heartily without learning something. But when a faithful thinker, resolute to detach every object from personal relations and see it in the light of thought, shall, at the same time, kindle science with the fire of the holiest affections, then will God go forth anew into the creation’ (R. W. Emerson, tract on ‘Nature’, Chapter VIII, [1836]. See also a recent study on Emerson, Richard G. Geldard, The Esoteric Emerson [The Lindisfarne Press, West Stockbridge, Mass., 1993]).
• 5. R. Steiner, Art as seen in the Light of Mystery Wisdom, GA275, Lecture 30.12.14 (RSP 1984).
• 6. R. Steiner, Practical Advice to Teachers (RSP 1976), GA294. The lecture course referred to is R. Steiner, The Inner Nature of Man and the Life Between Death and a New Birth, Vienna 9-14.4.14, GA153 (RSP 1959). Steiner aimed at a marriage of form and content in his work, which is the lofty artistic ideal. After the Christmas Foundation of 1923/4, he reached a new level in this respect. In connection with the subject matter of GA153, compare: ‘Contrary to the works of architects, sculptors and painters, musical works must be repeatedly generated anew; they flow onwards in the surge and swell of their melodies, a picture of the soul, which in its incarnations always has to experience itself afresh in the progressive stream of time. The soul flows down from its spiritual homeland and returns thither—likewise its shadow-images: notes and harmonies. Hence the intimate effect of music on the soul’ (R. Steiner, lecture Berlin 12.11.06, The Inner Nature of Music [AP 1983]).
  
  Steiner confirmed that: ‘For anyone who would read my Occult Science as today one would read a novel or any other book, passively giving oneself to it, it is really only a thicket of words—and so are my other books. It is only someone who knows in every moment of reading that he must create out of his own soul's depths, and through his most intimate will—which the books should stimulate—only this person is able to regard these books as musical scores from which he can experience the true music. This active experience of the individual soul, moreover, is what we need’ (R. Steiner, Heilfaktoren fir den sozialen Organismus, lecture Dornach 2.7.20, GA198). See also R. Steiner, The Gospel of St John, Lecture XI, Hamburg 30.5.08, GA103 (RSP 1978); GA278, Lecture 6, Endnote 39 in Vol. 2.
  
  The implications for the musician are discussed by Erich Schwebsch in his pioneer study on anthroposophy and music. He concludes: ‘The cosmology of Occult Science contains in its thoughts the best exercises for a meditative musician who is searching for new forms today’ (E. Schwebsch, J. S. Bach and Die Kunst der Fuge [Stuttgart 1988], Chapter 4 ‘Musik als Offenbarung des Geistes. Aphoristische Betrachtungen’, p. 193 [J. S. Bach and ‘The Art of Fugue’; translation of Chapter 4 in manuscript, ‘Music as revelation of the spirit. Aphoristic observations’]).
• 7. In his first lecture, before the Goethe Society, Vienna 1888, Steiner said: ‘Beauty is not the divine in a cloak of physical reality; no, it is physical reality in a cloak that is divine. The artist does not bring the divine on to the earth by letting it flow into the world; he raises the world into the sphere of the divine’ (R. Steiner, Goethe as Founder ofa new Science of Aesthetics [Rudolf Steiner Pub., Co., London c.1927]). Steiner claims that this lecture, already in 1888, contains ‘a sound foundation for anthroposophy and the anthroposophical way of thinking’ (Preface to the second edition, 1919). The lecture suggests an acid test for what is truly new. Movements exist today which bear the adjective ‘spiritual’ but do not attempt any transformation. Indeed, it is often stated that ‘no musical knowledge is necessary’! Is not the call for courage against despondency and inadequacy met right here with every individual?
• 8. See Schwebsch, Endnote 6. Pfrogner, in the chapter ‘und was nun? (‘and what now?’) in his extensive study on The living world of music’, presents a clear vision of tasks for the future: ‘No longer l'art pour l'art, but simply and solely: l’art pour l’homme will be the saying of the hour. This “art for human beings”, however, will have to be an art totally “from human beings”, an art in the above-mentioned sense “raised” from the human being, if it should be true “nourishment for life” ’ (H. Pfrogner, Lebendige Tonwelt [Langen Müller, München/Wien 1981], p. 474, trans. A.S.).
• 9. For example: Bruno Walter, Theme and Variations (Hamish Hamilton, London 1947), and On Music and Music-Making (Faber, London 1957); W. Furtwängler, Concerning Music (Boosey and Hawkes, London 1953); Artur Schnabel, My Life and Music (C. Smythe, New York and Gerrards Cross 1988), and Music and the Line of Most Resistance (Princeton 1942); Edwin Fischer, Reflections on Music (Williams & Norgate, London 1951); R. Vaughan Williams, National Music and other Essays (OUP 1987); J. Ma. Corredor, Conversations with Casals (Duddon, New York 1956).
• 10. R. Steiner, Art as seen in the Light of Mystery Wisdom, lecture 29.12.24, GA275 (RSP 1984).
• 11. For the best introduction to this perspective, see H. Pfrogner Zwölfordnung der Töne (Zürich/Leipzig/Wien 1953), reprinted in H. Pfrogner, Zeitwende der Musik (Langen Müller, München/Wien 1986), translation in manuscript, ‘Music's turning point of time’.
• 12. J. M. Hauer, Vom Wesen des Musikalischen (1920, later editions Robert Lienau, Berlin-Lichterfelde), translation in progress, ‘The essence of music’.
• 13. J. M. Hauer, Deutung des Melos (Tal & Co. Verlag, Leipzig/Wien/Zürich 1923), translation in manuscript ‘The interpretation of Melds’.
• 14. R. Steiner, The Arts and Their Mission, lecture Oslo, 18.5.23, GA276 (AP 1964), p. 111.
• 15. Schwebsch presented his eloquent conclusion already in 1930: ‘But all inner experience of the soul when it is ripe to that end, wishes to become visible, perceptible. The soul world desires to become objective. The first beginning for this becoming visible of vitally filled musical movement, from the All rising up behind the Nothing [an echo from Goethe's Faust, Part 2, 6256. Translator's note.] of the vanishing past, at the exact nadir of time, is the art of music eurythmy: visible singing, newly created by Rudolf Steiner’ (E. Schwebsch, op. cit., p. 211). Chapter 4 is more than the title suggests. It is an anthroposophical musician's ‘credo’, which applies to Steffen's essay (see Endnote 21 below), too.
• 16. R. Kux and W. Kux, Erinnerungen an Rudolf Steiner and R. Kux, Eurythmie and Musik (Mellinger Verlag, Stuttgart 1976), translation in manuscript ‘Recollections of R. Steiner, and eurythmy and music’.
• 17. See R. Steiner, The Essentials of Education, lecture 10.4.24 a.m. (RSP 1982), p. 58. The physiology is explained in A. Husemann, The Harmony of the Human Body (Floris Books, Edinburgh 1994; German edition, Der musikalische Bau des Menschen [Verlag Freies Geistesleben, Stuttgart 1989]). Note, for example, with what careful scholarship Dr Husemann explores what ‘beim Aufireten’ (‘by stepping’, or ‘with the first step’) from Lecture 7 must mean (Section 31, p. 189ff.). See also Endnote 43 on Ansatz, in Vol. 2.
• 18. Compare Steiner: ‘Since the Mystery of Golgotha we cannot speak of the music of the spheres as did Pythagoras, but we can speak of it in another way. An initiate might even today speak as Pythagoras did, but the ordinary inhabitant of the earth in his physical body can speak of the music of the spheres and of the cosmic life only when he experiences in his soul, "Not I, but Christ in me", for the Christ within him has lived in the music of the spheres and in the cosmic life. But we must go through this experience in ourselves; we really must receive Christ into our souls’ (R. Steiner, lecture Norrköping, 16.7.14, in Christ and the Human Soul GA155 [RSP 1984], pp. 69-70). The harmony of the spheres is heard ‘in deep sleep’ by the initiate ‘as if they were the notes of trumpets and the rolling of thunder’ (R. Steiner, An Esoteric Cosmology GA93a [St George Publications, Spring Valley, New York 1978], lecture Paris 30.5.1906, reported by E. Schure, p. 45. Steiner's proclamation of Christ rests on knowledge. By the turn of the century, he could say: ‘The unfolding of my soul rested upon the fact that I had stood in spirit before the Mystery of Golgotha in most inward, most earnest solemnity of knowledge’ (R. Steiner, The Course of my Life [New York, 1951], closing sentence of Chapter XXVI, p. 276). ‘Spiritual science is concerned not merely to talk about the Christ, but to declare what the Christ wishes to say to people in our time, through the medium of human thoughts.’ R. Steiner, lecture Zürich 4.2.19., in The Inner Aspect of the Social Question GA193, (RSP 1950), p. 16.
  
  Steiner indicates what amounts to 84 (= 7 x 12) meditations for musicians: ‘You have in the fixed stars a wonderful cosmic instrument, and the players of this instrument of the zodiac and fixed stars are the gods of the planets beyond’ (lecture Dornach, 2.12.22, in The Inner Nature of Music GA283 [AP 1983], pp. 42-3); see also R. Steiner, The Gospel of St Matthew (especially lectures Berne, 3,4, 10 and 12.10.10), GAl23 (RSP 1965); R. Steiner, Universe, Earth and Man, lecture Stuttgart 12.8.08 [RSP 1987], p. 118ff. See also Appendices 3 and 5 in Vol. 2.
• 19. R. Steiner, GA277, op. cit., p. 320.
• 20. R. Steiner, Verses and Meditations (RSP 1961), pp. 96-97 In this connection, compare Beckh's definition of ‘cosmic’: ‘the revelation of the spirit within the earthly realm’ (H. Beckh, Die Sprache der Tonart [Urachhaus, Stuttgart 1977], p. 20, English translation ‘The language of tonality’, in manuscript).
• 21. Albert Steffen, ‘Musik’ in Der Künstler and die Erfiillung der Mysterien (Dornach 1964), translation in the British Newsletter, forthcoming. An artist could base his life on this astonishing essay. 21
• 22. H. Pfrogner, Chapter 17 in Zeitwende..., op. cit.
• 23. Compare: ‘Absolute objectivity ultimately demands the sacrifice of the personality’ (Hauer, Vom Wesen des Musikalischen [Leipzig/Wien 1922], p. 40), with: ‘When the human being became a personality, God also had to become a personality in order to save him, to give him the possibility of rising again’ (R. Steiner, Egyptian Myths and Mysteries [AP 1971], p. 139). Another twentieth- century scientist, comparing his life to that of Goethe's, declared that his goal was ‘to penetrate into the secret of the personality’; the ‘central concept’ of his psychology is ‘the principle of individuation’ (C. G. Jung, Memories, Dreams and Reflections [Fontana, London 1967], pp. 232 and 235, italics original). Sir Julian Huxley summarizes Teilhard de Chardin, the scientist-seer: ‘persons are individuals who transcend their merely organic individuality in conscious participation’ (Introduction to Teilhard, The Phenomenon of Man [Collins 1959/Fontana 1965], p. 20/21). A vague pantheism is avoided: ‘Union differentiates’, and ‘the more "other" [grains of consciousness] become in conjunction, the more they find themselves as "self" as they make for the ‘Omega point’ of evolution (op. cit., p. 261/288). See Endnote 20 in Vol. 2.
• 24. See H. Pfrogner, Zeitwende..., op. cit., and Lebendige Tonwelt, op. cit., for informed views on musical development right up to the twentieth century.
• 25. R. Steiner, The Gospel of St Matthew, lecture Berne 9.10.10 (RSP 1965). Steiner explains the meaning of the atonement: ‘The One sufferred for all, so that through the world-historic initiation a substitute has been created for the old form of initiation ... Through inner vision, through true mysticism, community with Christ is possible’ (R. Steiner, Foundations of Esotericism, lecture Berlin, 27.9.05 [RSP 1983], p. 14)
• 26. F. Rittelmeyer, Christus (Urachhaus, Stuttgart 1936), p. 38 (translation in MS). Rittelmeyer's mature relationship to John's Gospel, with its hidden music, informs his major works. For Rittelmeyer on music, see A. Stott: ‘Friedrich Rittelmeyer and the "Song of the earth's perfecting"’ in The Threshing Floor, May/June 1988 (Floris Books, Edinburgh). Another study on the Christ- Impulse is C. E. Raven, Jesus and the Gospel of Love (Hodder & Stoughton, London 1931/49), see especially Chapter XV, ‘Christ in the Twentieth Century’.
• 27. The following reference to Beethoven's entelechy is the only one that has come to my notice: ‘I was deeply impressed when a while ago I heard from a famous musician that in a personal conversation Rudolf Steiner said "Beethoven is Prometheus"’ (E. Kolisko, ‘Beethoven’, from a series of articles under the title ‘Reincarnation’ in The Modern Mystic, September 1938).
• 28. See Endnote 17 in Vol. 2.
• 29. See H. Ruland, Expanding Tonal Awareness (RSP 1992).
• 30. Ernst Bindel, Die Zahlgrundlagen der Musik im Wandel der Zeiten (Stuttgart 1985); translation in progress ‘The numerical basis of music in its development’.
• 31. H. E. Lauer, ‘The Evolution of Music through Changes in Tone-Systems’ in Cosmic Music, edited by J. Godwin (Inner Traditions, Rochester, Vermont 1989). Lauer also wrote Musik and Musiker (Selbstverlag, undated).
• 32. R. Steiner, The Arts and Their Mission, lecture Dornach 27.5.23, GA276 (AP 1964).
• 33. Selma Lagerlöf, The Miracles of Antichrist (Gay & Bird, London 1899), p. 14.

The Inner Nature of Colour

My Dear Friends,

Yesterday we concerned ourselves with various moods and eludes of feeling and with the way in which these can be expressed by means of eurhythmic gesture. To-day, to begin with, we will continue along somewhat similar lines. Taking our start from the point at which we left off yesterday, we will first consider the mood of Devotion or Piety (Andacht). It is very necessary, when trying to experience some such mood of soul, to realize that eurhythmy does not attempt to interpret by means of ordinary mime. On the contrary, as we saw when studying the vowels and consonants, eurhythmy seeks to draw the plastic form corresponding to such a feeling and mood from out of the whole human being, the whole human organization. We know that, in the case of the vowels and consonants, the movements are formed in such a way that they actually imitate and make visible what really exists as a kind of air form when the human being speaks. When we speak we make certain forms in the air. If by any means we were able to retain these forms and to hold them fast, we should have the original forms of the gestures which we use to express the sounds.

If, however, we wish to express some definite mood of soul, then we naturally approach much more closely to the arbitrary gesture, to the gesture which arises in ordinary, everyday life when we ourselves are experiencing the mood in question.

It is undeniable that to-day many people avoid the use of gesture, because, apparently, they have an idea that gesture is not the thing. On the other hand, however, the more the human being loses himself in feeling, the more he develops a mood of soul transcending the ordinary life of everyday, so much the more does the use of gesture become necessary. And such a mood of soul is that of Devotion.

In this devotional mood man has always felt the need for making a certain gesture. And the eurhythmic gesture for Devotion is one which, in its very nature, corresponds to the instinctive attitude adopted when this mood arises in the soul. For this reason the eurhythmic gesture for Devotion approximates more nearly to the natural position than is the case with most of the other movements. To express this mood of Devote the arms are held downwards close to the body, and then bent upwards from the elbow, the hands and fingers taking up a position corresponding to one of the vowels, u for instance, or a. Thus according to the shade of feeling which one wishes to introduce into the mood of Devotion, any one of these postures may be adopted.

It is important that the gesture expressing this mood should be carried out in such a way that it is separated right off from, the movements otherwise occurring in the course of the poem. So that in order to get the best effect it is as well in such a cash to make use of the gesture at the beginning and again at the end of the poem. If, however, a devotional mood runs continuously through the whole of the poem, the movement can be made at the beginning and at the end of every verse.

Will you now make use of this gesture when I say the following words:

‘O Holy Spirit,
Hearken to the cry of my soul!’

Oh, göttlicher Geist, erhöre
meines Herzens Ruf!

The gesture should here be made both before and after the sentence. It would also be especially good if the onlooker were actually to see how the upper arms are drawn downwards, pressed against the sides. This should precede the actual gesture for Devotion. (See diagram.)

An intensification of the mood of Devotion is the mood of Solemnity, of Ceremonial (Feierlichkeit). This mood of Solemnity is in a way not unlike the mood of Knowledge, of Wisdom, only in the latter case the movement is reversed. Thus to express Knowledge we make use of the same movement towards the right as we use towards the left when expressing Solemnity. This can only be experienced when there is an absolutely clear realization of the relation existing between these two moods of feeling.

Knowledge entails the taking into ourselves of something outside, something which we wish to unite with our own being. If man had no knowledge he could not be said to be man at all. It is through the capacity for absorbing knowledge that he first becomes truly human. So that knowledge, wisdom, should be looked upon as something which adds to the dignity of man, but which, on the other hand, contains within it a certain activity of soul. Activity is always expressed in eurhythmy by turning towards the right. If we take the mood of Knowledge and change it, making it more passive, more devotional, we get the feeling of Solemnity.

But wherever the passive element enters in, wherever there is little feeling of activity, then we turn towards the left and make our movements towards the left. And it is in this way that we express the mood of Solemnity. We make a movement similar to that of Knowledge, but in this case towards the left. Let us take an example in which we can make use of this gesture.

‘Over the destiny of man
Shine the inviolable stars....’

‘Über menschlichen Schicksalen
glänzen heil’ge Sterne

Here you should make the gesture both at the beginning and at the end. Begin by indicating the gesture for Knowledge and then carry it over into that of Solemnity.

In eurhythmy we have chiefly to do with the expression and revelation of certain qualities of soul; and we shall see that the whole content of the soul life may be divided into three categories, into Thinking, Feeling and Willing. Now it is important, when interpreting a poem, really to express its fundamental character and when this character changes in the course of a poem,—when for example, thinking passes over into feeling, or feeling into will,—it is then very important that this should be shown in the whole bearing and in the character of the movements.

Let us take to begin with the two polar opposites, thinking and willing. They are indeed the most contrasted activities of the human soul. When the human being thinks,—I am speaking here in the widest sense of the word,—this is a process which, depends upon the head as it rests quietly on the shoulders. By means of external sense-perception we cannot see the process of thought. It takes place in the quietly resting head. The activity of will is the extreme opposite of this. When the activity of will does not make its appearance in the external world in, some form or another, then it remains intention only. Real activity of will makes its appearance in the external world; such activity can be seen, But in so far as the inward experience of, the human being is concerned, this will-activity remains dark, just as what takes place within the human being during the night remains dark to him. The human being knows nothing of his experiences as these take place during the night; he is just as little conscious of the relation between his soul, his muscles and his bones, when some movement arises which is the expression of will-activity.

When you have a straight line you have something before you which is absolutely definite. You need only have a small portion of a straight line and its direction as a whole is absolutely determined. The straight line is something about which there can be no doubt whatever.

The curved line, on the other hand, is something which impels us to follow it, but we do not know exactly where it is going to lead us.

There are, it is true, regularly formed curved lines but even in this case one experiences such regularity differently from the way in which one experiences the straight line. For this reason in eurhythmy the straight line is used to denote thought and the curved line to denote will. You must, therefore, try to introduce straight lines into your form when you wish to express the element of thought and curved lines when you wish to express Will-activity.

Now here, of course, much depends upon the eurhythmist’s conception of a poem. One might say: In this particular poem I intend to express the element of will. Another says, perhaps I shall express thought, the imparting of something by means of thought. Two quite different conceptions! So in cases where the matter is not absolutely obvious the choice of interpretation lies in the hands of the individual eurhythmist. This makes it necessary, when you begin to work out a poem, to put yourselves the following question: What, in my opinion, is the fundamental character of this poem? Does it lean more towards, thought? Does it impart something? Let us take, for example, the following :—

Zu Aachen in seiner Kaiserpracht,
Im altertümlichen Saale,
Sass König Rudolfs heilige Macht
Beim festlichen Krönungsmahle.
Die Speisen trug der Pfalzgraf des Rheins,
Es schenkte der Böhme des perlenden Weins,
Und alle die Wähler, die sieben,
Wie der Sterne Chor um die Sonne sich stellt,
Umstanden geschäftigt den Herrscher der Welt,
Die Würde des Amtes zu üben.

In this poem there is a succession of thoughts, as is usually the case with the pure epic. But if, at any point, the thought element were to pass over into the element of will, we should have to show this also in the eurhythmic form. The particular verse I have just quoted, however, would best be expressed by moving as far as possible in straight lines.

Now it is, of course, also possible to combine straight lines in such a way that various figures are formed, so that you can introduce other characteristics besides thought by moving in a triangle, a square, or a pentagram as the case may be.

On the other hand, if the thought is of a more complicated nature, you might perhaps make use of such a form as this:

Every conceivable curved line serves to express the element of will.

Feeling is shown by making use of some sort of combination of straight and curved lines. Here you have opportunity for a wide play of fancy.

Now it will be necessary to work out eurhythmy forms along these lines. All of you will be able to make such forms for yourselves, and by trying to do so you will create an inner relationship between the eurythmy and the poem. Then the question naturally arises: What is the connection between such forms as these, and those forms which have been given as standard forms, as forms which have been worked out in such a way as to bring out the special character of the poem? You will discover, however, that these guiding lines really underlie;: all such forms. You will invariably find this to be the case.

On the other hand, you will also find, when working out such forms, that care has been taken to show where called for, the more intimate character of a poem. What does this mean? The fact of the matter is that by far the greater number of so-called poems are in reality not poetry at all. For a true poet must be able to enter into the essential nature of language, so that what he has to say is not merely prose content more or less crudely clothed in verse, but is expressed through the way in, which he handles the language itself. To express wonder in a poem by making use of some such phrase as: O how wonderful!—cannot be said to be artistic. A truly artistic sense will lead one to introduce as many a-sounds as possible into a poem at the moment when one most wishes to express this feeling of wonder. In the same way it would be good to make use of the u-sound when dealing with the past, when looking back into the past. On the other hand, when there is the wish to express the gathering together of inner forces as a result of some external contact, it would be well to introduce the sound e.

Thus, when a true poet wishes to express the element of thought he will make special use of the e-sound. I am speaking now in quite an idealistic sense, for it will rarely be possible to carry out all the demands of art. If this were done very, very few poems would be written—for which one might indeed be thankful—for the poet would not quickly acquire the necessary intuition. If a poet makes use of many e or i sounds, you may be sure that he is a poet who chiefly tends to express the element of thought. He tends to the epic in poetry. Whereas you will find that a poet who is continually making use of the vowel sounds a, o and u, tends more to express feeling in his poems. A poet who makes little use of vowels and much use of con-sonants is one who is developing the will side of his nature. Therefore, you must follow closely the character of the poet when building up a eurhythmic form.

When, therefore, you observe that a poem arises more out of the intellect,—and this is, of course, perfectly justifiable—you will make use of straight lines in the form. When you observe that feeling is more in evidence you will combine both straight and curved lines. When, however, the element of will comes most strongly to expression in a poem, even though coloured by feeling, then you must make use of curved lines only.

If now, bearing this in mind, you proceed to examine the various forms which have been given from time to time, you will discover, and only then can you discover, how the more intimate structure of a poem must be built up and followed in the form.

It will perhaps be interesting to see,—paying at first no attention to its content,—what sort of result is obtained when a poem is interpreted, in the first place, according to the indications which have been given for Thinking, Feeling and Willing. One can think of poems which lend themselves to all three methods, each of which has its own particular beauty. Let us take for example the well known poem:

Let us in the first place interpret the poem in such a way that we bring out the story, that we emphasize the thought-element. Try, therefore, to improvise a form consisting of straight lines, avoiding as far as possible all rounded movements.

When the poem is expressed in this way we are left with the impression that something has been related, that we have been told something.

And now try to make a form consisting of curved lines:

Ich ging im Walde ...

In this case you see that the story-telling element falls completely away, and there is also nothing to represent the feeling-life.

There is, however, a strong element of feeling in this poem, when, for example, the flower says: Soll ich zum Welken gebrochen sein?—or again when the poet says: Wie Sterne leuchtend, wie Auglein schön.—This poem, then, contains the three elements of thinking, willing and feeling. Now try to make a form consisting of straight and curved lines.

Ich ging im Walde...

By so doing you give the impression that the poem is being inwardly experienced. Straight and curved lines together indicate that the eurhythmist who is interpreting the poem continually withdraws into himself: in the case of straight lines the interpretation becomes more abstract, less apparent. And by this means the whole thing retains its inward character.

Much more is manifested outwardly when one passes over into curved lines.

Now to-day I want to speak about the significance of the colours which are to be seen on the eurhythmy figures, because the study of colour in this connection will do much to deepen our whole attitude towards eurhythmy.¹

Here, for instance, you have in this figure an indication of the colours corresponding to the sound a.

Of course it is obviously impossible in our eurhythmy to show the colours of all the different sounds as this has been done in the case of the eurhythmy figures; for if one were to do so, one would have, for instance, when an a and an o occurred in the same line, to change, while this line was being recited, from one costume into the other. That is altogether beyond us. (We already know by experience the difficulties which arise when the costumes have to be changed between two consecutive poems. But if in the course of a poem of four verses, let us say, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-eight changes had to be effected, there would be no coping with the situation.)

Nevertheless the colours as represented here in these figures are fundamentally true. And it is a fact that one is only able to enter right into the nature of the different sounds when one is able to express them also as colour.

Let us consider once again the sound a, the sound expressing wonder, astonishment. Fundamentally speaking, colour may be said to be the external expression of our feeling-life. Our feeling-life is objectified in the outer world as colour. The reason why there is so much disagreement as to the nature of colour is that people do not observe that colour is really the external counterpart of the life of the soul.

Now to return to the feeling of amazement, of wonder. You will experience this feeling in the gesture for a. And you must ask yourselves: What colours are called up in me by this gesture?—Here your feelings will lead you to the colour-combination seen on this figure, blue-violet,—that is to say a combination of the so-called dark colours.

Let us, on the other hand take o. The mood lying behind o is that of embracing something. Here you need brighter colours such as shown in the eurhythmy figure for the o-sound.

For the reason already given it is not always possible to use these colours as they are represented here in the eurhythmy figures; it will, however, be of the very greatest assistance to you if, when practising, you call up in yourselves the feeling of colour in sound, the colours for instance, of a, o or i, or again of u, which is, as we know, the expression of fear. In this way you enter by degrees into a more intimate relationship with the nature of the different movements. Thus when practising it is a good exercise to dress oneself in imagination in accordance with the colours of the eurhythmy figures. This is very much to be recommended.

Picture now the colours for the sound e, the pale yellow combined with a certain amount of green. One feels how red and blue lose themselves in green. While with blue and violet one has the feeling of yielding oneself up, as in the case of a and u, one has, in the mood of self-assertion or of taking some-thing into one’s own being, the feeling of the lighter colours. In the e-sound we have the expression of being affected by something and of standing up against it. This is expressed in the green colour. Green is obtained by mixing together yellow and blue; thus by a combination of a light and a dark colour. And it is through this combination that you have the direct expression for the sound e. You grow into the feeling of this gesture when you associate it with this colour.

It is quite impossible to enter into these things with the understanding; they can only be felt and experienced inwardly. For our purposes, however, we will assume that we have absorbed all this, and have come so far as to recognize that the mood of any particular sound is really represented by the corresponding eurhythmy figure. Let us take the mood of the e-sound. One will gradually discover for oneself that whole poems are really permeated throughout with the e-mood. How-ever many other vowels were to occur in such a poem, it might, nevertheless, have the e-mood running right through it. Take, for example, a poem or any text which is to be expressed in eurhythmy, in which, let us say, there continually occurs the feeling of being unpleasantly affected by something, but at the same time a certain resistance against what is affecting one in this way. When a poem has such a mood running through ’it, we shall do well to choose these colours (e-figure) for the dress and veil. The important thing is to learn to associate definite colours with each particular sound; then we shall gradually reach the point at which we are able to select dresses and veils suitable to a poem as a whole.

I mention all this for a very good reason, and that is to prevent the delusion arising that when a eurhythmist has learned the movements for a, e, i, o, etc. there is nothing more to be done. Certainly the eurhythmist may be able to do it all, but this by itself is no proof that he can convey it to others. You must not forget that the impression created by the eurhythmic gestures is very powerful; very powerful forces are at work, although we may not be .conscious of them. There is all the difference in the world between those who, in their desire to master eurhythmy very rapidly, would be liable to believe for instance, that the sound i has been made when the arm is simply held out in the right direction, and those who make the i in such a way that the stretched movement is clearly visible. There is a great difference whether I make the movement in this way... or in this way, whether I merely extend the arms or whether I bring the stretched feeling to visible expression.

In order to acquire free artistic movements while actually carrying out any gesture, it is necessary to be conscious of the feeling and mood contained in the sound in question. This, however, can only come about when one really studies the individual sounds. And an important feature of this study is the clothing of oneself in imagination in the corresponding colours. All this should be taken into account in the teaching of eurhythmy, both as an art and as a means of education. Eurhythmists must accustom themselves to live in the world of colour.

This experience of colour was natural to humanity in the days of the old clairvoyance, but has since been lost. It appeared again in a somewhat distorted form at the end of the Kali-Yuga in certain more or less pathological cases. And at that time one met such people who maintained that Vienna was the colour of dark lilac, Czernowitz yellow, Prague yellowish-orange. Berlin a combination of yellow and grey, Paris a shimmering of rose-colour and blue, etc., etc. At that time people were to be found who talked in this sort of fashion; and anyone possessing a feeling for such things could up to a point understand what it was that they were trying to express.,

In the same way every human being has his own particular colour. This colour is of course closely connected with the astral body, which, as we know, changes with every varying emotion. Nevertheless, each individual human being may be said to possess his own fundamental colour. Thus, to the question: You were at such and such a place; what sort of people did you meet there?—one might answer: The colour of the man I saw was blue,—and another: The colour of the man I saw was red.—Such a point of view is quite justifiable. It is possible to feel things in this way; for in reality it is the same impression as that which arises in the case of ordinary physical colour.

It is therefore a good exercise to call up in one’s mind the connection existing between any special movement and its underlying character and colour ... (see eurhythmy figures). Here it will be of assistance to practise the sound in some such way as this. You might, for instance, take the vowel-sounds a, u, e, o, i, and allow the following colours to stream through the movements: blue-violet; blue-green; greenish-yellow; reddish-yellow; red-yellow-orange. You must experience the colour and make the movements simultaneously, thus working at the same time in the realm of colour and of sound. By this means: the movements will become noticeably flowing and supple, and you will soon see that a certain ‘style’ is being developed.

This brings us to the end of to-day’s lecture, and tomorrow, we shall continue the study of the characteristics underlying the various aspects of the soul life.

• 1. It was found that the eurhythmic gestures could best be portrayed by means of figures cut out from a flat surface of wood, each one being painted with three harmonizing colours. They were carried out according to directions given by Dr. Steiner at the Goetheanum, Dornach, where they may be obtained.

My dear Friends,

The possibilities inherent in eurhythmy will only be realized when the eurhythmist is able to create the movements, in all their detail, out of the nature of speech itself. In eurhythmy it is almost as important to have an intimate understanding of the sounds of speech as it is to have a knowledge of the actual eurhythmic movements. For this reason I will show you to-day the way in which the plastic formation of speech can definitely influence eurhythmy. Now the plastic, formative element is in the ordinary way not fully manifested, for it passes over into sound. It is the task of eurhythmy to bring the plastic element to visible expression.

When we direct our attention to the plastic element in the sounds of speech, – and here we naturally take the consonants, for they lend themselves more particularly to plastic interpretation, imitating as they do the things and processes of the external world, – we find that the sounds divide up into four types. First we have the sounds which are quite definitely built up after the pattern of f or s; then we have the sounds of the type of b, p, d, or t. When you compare the sounds of these two groups you will find that they are completely different from one another. The s and f-sounds are formed by allowing the breath stream to be blown freely outwards. With the other sounds, d, t, b, p, the breath stream is first inwardly controlled, and it is released much more consciously; it is not blown out in this case, but thrust out. Thus we must distinguish between the ‘blowing’ or breath sounds, and the ‘thrusting’ sounds, or sounds of force.

The nature of these two types is therefore completely different. The breath sounds yield up, as it were, the inner being of man more or less passively to the outer world. They make use of the outgoing stream of the breath in order to release the inbreathed air from the body. So that these out-breathing sounds entirely depend upon the fact that the air passes outwards.

Now this breath stream always takes to itself the form, the shape of the body. 'It does not, however, assert itself in the outer world, but scatters itself abroad, so that the breath sounds, always have the characteristic of yielding themselves up to the world outside. It is essential to grasp the character of the breath sounds and to realize that they yield themselves up to the outer world. Man allows this outer world to do as it will with him not, naturally, as regards his physical body, but as regards the form which he has transmitted to the out-going breath stream.

In the case of the consonants of force this is quite otherwise. Here we master the form given to the breath. We permeate: it, as it were, with our ego; we do not permit the sound to scatter itself immediately, but compel it to retain its form for a time in the outer world. Thus in the consonants of force man appears as master in his relation to the outer world, so that here, one cannot speak of a yielding oneself up to the outer world, but, of an assertion of one’s own inner being.

These two types of sound comprise the great proportion of the consonants. In reality the breath sounds express sympathy with the outer world and sounds of force sympathy with oneself. The breath sounds are free from egoism; the sounds of force are egotistical. We shall always find that when we make use of the consonants of force we do so in order to express what needs, to be expressed in sharp outlines.

You know already that there is a strong plastic element in the German language. And now, bearing this in mired, let us take a word beginning with a consonant of force: Baum, b. You will invariably notice that a consonant of force produces the effect of sharp outlines. The breath sounds, on the other hand, will never produce such outlines; they describe the reverse of everything clear-cut and definite. For instance s in the word: sei is a breath sound.

One must of course keep strictly to essentials when dealing with such matters. You will naturally be able to find any number of words which seem as though they should be expressed by means of sharp outlines, and which, nevertheless, contain breath sounds. You will, however, usually discover in such a case, that you must try to introduce a more indefinite element into the movement, in spite of the necessity for sharp outlines which may also be present.

Now the breath sounds are: h, ch, j, sch, s, w, v. The sounds of force are: d, t, b, p, g, k, m, and n. These latter are all consonants of force, sounds which express the more egotistical attitude of soul, the assertion of one’s own individual being, which one wishes to safeguard in the world outside.

Then we have a sound which lends itself particularly well to the imitation of something which is turning, which is revolving. This is the r-sound, which is produced by a vibration in, the outgoing breath-stream. R is the vibrating sound.

Then we have another sound in which, when articulated rightly, the tongue must imitate a storm-tossed sea: l. We must make undulating movements with the tongue. L is the wave-sound.

Why do we need these two sounds? We need them when we wish to express, not merely the merging with the outer world, nor the strengthening of the self, but something which has movement actually inherent within it. Movement and form are, of course, expressed both in the breath sounds and the sounds of force, but these sounds are not to the same degree an embodiment of self-contained movement as such.

When we understand the true nature of the r-sound, we find that it contains something which lies midway between the yielding up of oneself and self-assertion. The r expresses a certain reserve; it calls up a feeling of reserve in the spiritual and soul nature of man. For this reason we express with the r-sound everything which we are able to grasp and take hold of as we take hold of our own being, when forming a resolution, when making a resolve (raten). Resolve (Rat) is a word which illustrates particularly well the special characteristic of the sound r. When we make a resolution we turn something over and form a judgment. This feeling of turning something over in order to make a resolution is always to be found when we enter into the nature of r; so that we express with words containing the sound r those things in the outer world which have a certain similarity to this mood of turning something over and thereby forming a judgment. Thus the r-sound has an egotistical quality. It does not yield up what it has created to the outer world, but retains it for itself and in itself.

And the l is the sound which expresses reaction, but reflection mingled with a certain yielding tendency. One would rather listen to what is said than come to a decision for oneself; one allows someone else to decide; a feeling of waiting lies in the inner experience of l.

Now the point is to bring the plastic nature of these sounds to actual eurhythmic expression. The special characteristic of the breath sounds can best be shown in eurhythmy by moving the body in such a way that the sounds are carried with it, or, in other words, by trying to follow the direction of the sounds with the body. Try, for instance, to make an s, moving the body in such a way that it follows in the direction of the arms as they form the sound. Make the movement d or s, to begin, with quite quietly; now make it very clearly, so that one sees that you are following the movement with the body. If the movement tends in a forward direction, let the upper part of the body follow after it, if it tends backwards the upper part of the body must be thrown backwards also. You must have control over the whole body, and allow it to swing with the sound, to swing in the direction of the sound. Try this also with f, for example; let the body follow after the sound.

Now we will turn to a consonant of force. Here, too, the point is to bring the nature of the sound into the movement of the body. In this case the body must not be allowed to move, but must bring about the desired effect by means of its posture. The body must show that it intends to come to rest, to fix, as it were, the movement which is indicated by the sound. Take b to begin with, make it just as you like; and now stiffen yourself, stand quite still and stiffen yourself, so that one can see clearly , that the sound is held. This stiffening of the body must be carried out in such a way that you actually feel it in your muscles. This inner rigidity gives to the consonants of force their special character.

It is deeply interesting go consider such things, for in the breath sounds what really comes to expression is this: I will have nothing to do with Lucifer; everything which is Luciferic must disappear.– And the consonants of force express this feeling: I will hold fast to Ahriman, for if he escapes me he will poison everything; he must be held fast.– Thus the influence of Lucifer and of Ahriman has been implanted into these sounds.

R can only be expressed fully when one tries to move the body, gently but with a certain swing and grace, in an upward and downward direction.

In order to carry out the I-sound correctly there must be a free movement of the body forwards and backwards, not following the movement in this case, but showing two independent activities. When making the movement for a breath sound, the body must follow the direction of the arms; it must, as it were, accompany the movement. When making the wave-sound, the body must have an independent movement, free and rhythmic, – forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards. This rocking, which is carried out by changing the weight alternately from the heels to the toes, must be made externally visible. You will find how well you are able to do this if you imagine that you have a rod under your feet, and see-saw, as it were, to and fro, keeping the rod – which you may picture as rolling slightly, midway between the toes and the heels. The best way to practise it is to swing so far forward that you nearly fall, only just retaining your balance,– and then to swing so far backwards that you are once more in danger of falling. If you should happen really to fall it is of no consequence; it will only serve to impress upon you the feeling of the movement.

If you practise the movement in this way it will gradually become habit, and you will be able to make the rocking so pronounced that you only stop at the very moment of falling, so that the onlooker would be inclined to say: How clever not to fall! With practice such skill may be attained in the carrying out of the l sound, that the onlooker is left with the impression: How clever to be able to do that without falling!

By such means you will be able really to enter into and grasp the whole inner character of the sounds of speech.

Now we can gain a further understanding of speech and language by trying to enter into the nature of the diphthongs. The diphthongs naturally consist of a combination of two separate and essential parts. (Frl. S.... will you demonstrate the movement for eu.)¹

What lies in this sound? It consists of e and u; both these sounds are contained within the eu but are, as it were, left uncompleted. Try to indicate an e, and an u. Stop the e movement just as it is being formed. What would it become if it were formed completely? We will assume for the moment that the movement has been completed.... But now check the movement half-way.... You have not yet carried it out fully, and instead of doing so must lead it over into the u-sound. What do we do when completely forming an u? The arms approach one another so closely that they actually touch. The eu-movement must be carried out in such a way that the arms do not merely cross one another as in the case of the e-sound, but lie side by side, the definite contact being indicated by a feeling of trying to raise the arms up towards the head. This gives you the feeling for eu.

Thus we begin to enter into the nature of the diphthongs. We bring together the two component parts, but in such a way that they are only suggested, not carried out completely.

This, at the same time, leads you to an understanding of a very essential characteristic of speech, of sound as such. It is in the diphthongs that you can best study the transition from one sound to the next. And at this point we must consider what kind of text is most suited to the eurhythmic expression of such transitions. I know of an Austrian philosopher, Bartholomäus Carneri by name, who, during the last years of his life, wrote even his most difficult philosophical works in such a way that they could easily be expressed in eurhythmy. This philosopher would have been driven to distraction if he had come across such a sentence as the following, for example Lebe echte Empfindungen.—He would have thought it appalling. And why? He was simply disgusted when a word ending with a vowel was followed by another word beginning with a vowel. He asserted that such a thing should never be allowed to occur, but that wherever possible one should avoid a vowel sound at the end of one word being followed by a vowel sound at the beginning of the next. Indeed, he went so far as to write whole articles in which he endeavoured never to bring vowel sounds into juxtaposition, but always to let the transition from one word to the next be brought about by means of the consonants

When two vowels, or a vowel and a consonant come together, and you wish to express this in eurhythmy, you will find that you have to do so by means of gentle, soft movements. On the other hand you will make the movements decided,—they will become decided by themselves,—when one word ends and the next word begins with a consonant, it is important in eurhythmy really to observe what takes place when different sounds, sounds of a different character come together. This can best be studied in the diphthongs, for the diphthong is only truly brought to expression when the movement for the first sound is shown in its beginning and then led over into the latter part of the movement for the second sound.

Bearing this principle in mind, let us now form the ei-sound.² Let us, in the first place, make the two sounds concerned,—’ that is to say the e and i sounds as such, Now try not to complete the e-sound, but to check it as it comes into being, leading it over immediately into the final stage of the movement for i. In this way we have really formed the ei. Take as an example : Main Leib ist meiner Seele Schrein.’ (My body is the shrine of my soul.) Do this in such a way that you take into consideration the order of the consonants. First two sounds of force, then the ‘wave’ sound, again a sound of force, then a breath sound, followed by three sounds of force, breath sounds ‘wave ‘ sound, breath sound, vibrating sound, and lastly a sound of force.

Now you must fit the ei-sound satisfactorily in between.

You see how these things bring movement and life into Eurhythmy, but they must be really carefully studied.

Now we must try to realize the effect of the sound ei when it is specially strongly emphasized. (Frl. B. ... will you show us this example): Weiden neigen weit und breit. (Willows are swaying from side to side.) You must imagine that this picture of the swaying willows has to be portrayed in paradigmatic language. (I have omitted the word ‘sich’.) Thus we have w (English v), breath sound, then d, n, n, g, and again n, all sounds of force, again the breath sound w, followed by four sounds of force, t, n, d, b, then the vibrating sound r and lastly t, once more a sound of force.

Try now to bring all this into the sentence you are showing and those of us who are looking on must observe carefully how the characteristic ei-sound makes its appearance again and again. ‘Weiden neigen weit und breit.’

We can take still another diphthong, the au.³ Here again we can let the first movement merge into the second. Try to hold the movement for a as it first arises, thus checking it when it is about half-formed and leading it over into the u. Make an a forwards and now turn it aside before reaching the final position, finishing with the movement for u. When you pass over directly from the a to the u, you get the movement for au.

But this movement, although correct, will always lack character if we merely pass over from one sound into the other.

The effect will not be sufficiently strong. On the other hand when you carry out the movement in such a way that you begin to form the a-sound with one arm, at the same time bring the other arm into contact with the body, thus forming an u,—when you do this, then you have a characteristic au. This is not the only way of making u (bringing the arms together)) but I have also made an u when I simply stand up and touch the body with the left arm, bringing it slowly downwards. Try to show these words in eurhythmy: Laut baut rauh.—The point here is not the sense of the words it is simply a eurhythmic exercise.

All this must of course be studied. Naturally you can make au in all kinds of ways; for instance, you can make it by simply bringing one arm into contact with the body (right arm in the position for a, left arm laid across the breast). You must try really to penetrate into the spirit of these things.

Now in order to enter further into the forms of the sounds and their connection with language, let us take the sound ö (as in vögels, the German word for birds). The movement is similar to the o, but accompanied by a spring. The o-movement is, as it were, torn apart. This tearing of the o-movement must be carried out with a certain lightness and grace,—and now add the spring. The spring must be made just as the o-movement is broken.

Now we will make the sound ä.⁴ First make an a and then an e. Make the a with the legs in such a way that you step from the front backwards, at the same time making a with the arms. Thus you get the movement for ä.

There still remains the ü. It is an u, but its special characteristic is that it is carried out with the backs of the hands laid against each other, thus indicating the i-sound also. You must show the u with the feet and at the same time you must suggest an i in the movement of the arms. Instead of making an i in this way (stretched movement), it must be shown more like this (backs of hands together, one slipping past the other), Then you have the ü.⁵

Take this sentence in order to see how beautiful it is when the ü-sounds are really brought out:

Prilfe dich, Schiller,
tjbe mit Muhe,
(Test thyself, Pupil,
Practise with diligence.)

These words might well be taken as a eurhythmist’s motto

Prüfe dich, Schüler,
Übe mit Mühe.

In this way we enter into the true nature of those sounds which we feet to be made up of more than one element.

What then do these diphthongs represent in language? Where do we have a diphthong, where a modified vowel? What do the diphthongs, what do the modified vowels represent in language? Wherever we have the diphthongs or modified vowels we have some such feeling as this : Now everything is becoming vague, indistinct and nebulous. This very often occurs when the singular becomes plural. For instance one brother (Bruder) makes a quite definite impression, but if we take the plural, that is to say, several brothers (Brüder), the feeling immediately becomes more indefinite. Thus the modified vowel represents impressions which are less sharply defined, and the same may be said with regard to the diphthongs.

If we enter into the nature of the diphthongs, we shall always find that something is present which cannot be looked upon as being entirely in the singular, but we are, as it were, given an impression of the plural, of things which are interwoven, bound together, or separated one from the other. We must always look for this in the diphthongs.

This is why in eurhythmy it is so wonderful when the directly visible movements which we have for a, or for i, for example, take on in the movements for the diphthongs something of a fluidic nature, something shading off into the indefinite. Eurhythmy is really able to bring to expression the deepest elements of sound and language. Thus we see how the character of the individual sounds comes to visible expression in the movements of eurhythmy.

Let us try the following exercise. We will ask Frl. Sch, and Frl. S ...to stand here) you (Frl. S. . . .) making the sounds i, e, u in succession, and you (Frl. Sob. . . .) making the two remaining vowels, a and o. Now in order to show the exercise quite clearly, will you (Frl. S. . . .), make an i, and you (Frl. Sch, . . ,), follow this with an a, and so on alternately, e, o, u. Do this in such a way that the character of the sounds is brought clearly to expression.

Let us go back to the beginning and see what it is that we are doing (Frl. S. . . . i, Frl. Sch. . . . a.) The eurhythmist making i enters right into the form of the movement, while the eurhythmist making a, creates, as it were, the movement from outside. When Frl. S. . . makes the i-sound there is a flashing of fire, a flashing of fire outwards (this could, of course, also be done with the hand). When Frl. Sch, makes an a she attracts to herself from without the clouds and the winds.

You see how warmth, fire lies in this sound (i), and how form lies in this sound (a). In the former you have a radiating outwards, and in the latter a plastic, form-giving element. Thus Frl. S. . . has shown us the true Dionysos, the Dionysian vowels, and Frl. Sob. . . . the true Apollo, the Apollonian vowels. This is clearly to be seen when the movements are properly carried out. So that one may say that when a poem consists mainly of vowels o and a, it is a plastic poem, a poem with little movement, an Apollonian poem. On the other hand, when a poem consists mainly of the vowels i, u, e, the fire-element is predominant; it is a Dionysian poem.

From this you see how much may be expressed when we learn to read between the lines. One has only to say to Frl. S..... Make an i or an e, -and to Frl. Sch . . . make an a or an u, -and one has really said : You are a child of Dionysos; or: You are a child of Apollo.—In other words we may see in these vowels something of the cult of Dionysos, something of the cult of Apollo.

When one really experiences such things as these, it becomes possible, through eurhythmy, to draw out in the most wonderful way the inherent characteristics of speech, and to enter int0 the whole being of man.

Breath Sounds: h. sch, f. ch. s. f. v.
Letting oneself go with the outer world.
Sounds of Force : d. t. b. p. g. k. m, n.
An assertion of one’s inner being.
Vibrating Sound: r
Wave Sound: l.

• 1. In the German language eu corresponds to the Eng1ish oi as in ‘toil’
• 2. The ei in the German language corresponds to the English i as in ‘tide’.
• 3. The German an corresponds to the English on as in ‘ground’.
• 4. This movement is made use of in English eurhythmy for the sound a as in ‘and’.
• 5. Rudolf Steiner mentioned the word ‘sweet’ as an instance in ‘which this movement could be made use of in English eurhythmy.

My dear Friends,

To-day we will consider certain things bound up with the plastic element of speech, with a method of speaking which gradually leads over into the realm of art. When doing eurhythmy,—it is well to be clear on this point,—we can either do the movements standing still or accompanied by walking. We have already seen the significance of eurhythmic walking.

Walking is, fundamentally speaking, the expression of an impulse of will. When studying eurhythmy it is essential to understand the inner nature of all that is bound up with speech, and consequently with visible speech also. When taking a step we can clearly differentiate three separate phases 1. The lifting of the foot. 2. The carrying of the foot. 3. The placing of the foot. We must be quite conscious that this threefold movement represents a complete whole. First we have the raising of the foot. Then the foot remains for a moment in the air, it is carried; thus the second phase is the carrying of the foot. And finally, in the third phase, the foot is placed on the ground.

Naturally, when walking in ordinary life it is not necessary to bother about these details. In eurhythmy, however, everything must become conscious.

Thus we have:

1. The Lifting of the Foot.
2. The Carrying of the Foot,
3. The Placing of the Foot.

It is clear that much variety can be introduced by means of the different ways in which these three phases of walking are carried out.

If, in the first place, we take the lifting of the foot, we see that this clearly indicates the will impulse inherent in the action of walking: thus with the lifting of the foot we have to do with an impulse of will. When, on the other hand, we direct our attention to the carrying of the foot, we have to do with the thought element which lies behind every will activity.

In the first place then, we have to do with the will impulse as such. Secondly, with the lifting of the foot, we have to do with the thought which comes to expression in this will impulse. And in the placing of the foot the act of will is completed; here we have the deed.

1. The Lifting: Impulse of Will
2. The Carrying: Thought
3. The Placing: Deed

Now much variety can be brought into walking by making the middle phase of longer or shorter duration, also by actually making the step itself longer or shorter. Thus the laying stress upon the middle phase of the step mainly serves the purpose of emphasizing and bringing to expression the thought which lies behind the impulse of will; it gives form to this thought.

On the other hand, by the way in which the foot is placed upon the ground, you can always show whether you think the will impulse has achieved its goal, or whether it has faltered in its purpose. If you put your foot down uncertainly, as though walking on thin ice, your step will express uncertainty of purpose. If you put your foot down firmly, with the assurance that the ground will not give way under your feet, you will show that your goal is sure and certain.

Here, too, when working out a poem, you must analyse carefully and ask yourself whether the one mood or the other predominates. Of course such things as these only become really clear when they are practically applied. Now, however, we will pass on to other aspects of walking. And this brings us into the domain of rhythmic walking, into that poetic element which must enter into eurhythmy, into the movements and forms of eurhythmy.

It is indeed above all things important to realize consciously that, either through special emphasis, or through the longer and shorter syllables, rhythm must be brought into speech. And this rhythm must also make its appearance when expressing a poem in eurhythmy. For it would have been impossible to call this art of movement of which we are now speaking ‘Eurhythmy’, if we had not taken into account the element of rhythm.

This leads us over to a fact which must be considered if we are really to enter into the nature of speech eurhythmy,—a fact that is deeply impressed into all that is connected with the more artistic aspect of speech. We have within our modern civilization two types of language, prose and poetry. The further we go back in human evolution, the more we find that poetical language is really the only language, and that the human being when speaking has the longing to bring into his speech the element of poetry, the artistic element. Speech may really be said to lie midway between thinking and feeling. Thinking lies on the one side, feeling on the other. As human beings we have the inward experience of both thought and feeling. And when we express ourselves outwardly, when we try to bring something to external expression in speech, we really place speech midway between the two elements of thought and feeling.

Thought

Speech

Feeling

In the earlier periods of evolution man had an inner life of feeling somewhat different from ours today. The man of earlier times always had the longing, when feeling something deeply, when experiencing feeling in his soul, also to experience words rising up within him,—words which were not so clear cut and definite as our words are today, but which were, nevertheless, of the nature of articulated tones. He was able, as it were, inwardly to hear that which he experienced as feeling.

The thinking of primitive man was also different from our thinking to-day; he really thought in words. These words, however, in which he thought were more definite than those in which he felt. Thus words resounded within him. His was not such an abstract thinking as ours to-day; and words also resounded within him when he experienced feeling. That absolutely inward feeling which we possess and which has no need of words was not present in his soul. Now when we consider how closely the primitive life of the soul was bound up with word-configuration, with tone-configuration, we shall realize that an inner recitation,—if I may so describe it,—lay, in those early times, behind the thinking and feeling of man, a recitation based upon the combined development of speech, thinking and feeling. And this inner recitation differentiated itself, becoming on the one side speech which retained its artistic element, and on the other side music, that which is purely musical, the wordless sounding of tones which depends for its effect upon pitch and so on. I dealt with this latter aspect in the course of lectures on tone-eurhythmy.¹

But yet another differentiation took place,—the development of pure thought. And to-day I shall speak of the essential difference between these two types of language, between poetic language which must be given artistic shape and form, and prose language which depends entirely upon the intellectual content, and where there is no longer any necessity to give artistic form to the language as such.

During the course of the last few centuries, as materialistic thought developed—for the abstract thought of materialism is closely bound up with the prose element—the true feeling for the artistic shaping and forming of language was lost. And to-day we find any number of people having absolutely no feeling for the artistic, plastic element of language. They only regard language as a medium for the expression of thought, and are quite indifferent to the quality of the language through which this thought is expressed.

I should not enter into all these things so fully if they were not of the deepest significance for the understanding of eurhythmy. For, in speaking about eurhythmy, and taking the sounds as our starting point, we must enter at once into the realm of art. We must bring the inner soul-nature of the sounds to outward expression; we must, as it were, go back to a time in which man felt in the word itself all that he experienced in his soul as sound, to a time in which there really was a true language of sound. To-day there is no longer a true language of sound. We have instead an intellectualistic language which only serves to express concepts and thoughts. And this is the reason why to-day in recitation and declamation people no longer perceive the artistic, plastic element in language, the musical element, the form-giving element, but make the mistake of looking only for the meaning, of emphasizing the meaning, which is, of course, also present in prose.

It is essential for every eurhythmist to gain a true perception of the difference between poetic or artistic language and the language of prose. For the mere understanding, it is, of course, a matter of no importance as to whether the wording of an idea is beautiful or ugly, as to whether or no words create a noble impression. But for an artistic forming and shaping of speech it is just these shades of feeling and character which are so important. Arid this is why we must strive to gain an understanding of the artistic, plastic formation of language.

The first step towards this understanding is the development of an inner feeling for the Iambic and Trochaic rhythms. For the moment we will not bother as to whether we will express the Iambic measure by a strongly emphasized beat preceded by one less strongly emphasized, or whether we will show it by a long beat preceded by a short beat. I shall speak of these details—which really belong more to the essential difference between recitation and declaration—in a later lecture. We must feel to begin with the real significance of starting with an unemphasized syllable and following this by an emphasized syllable, and the way in which such a rhythm carries us forwards.

‘Auf Bergen flammen Feuer.’

Here we have an unemphasized syllable followed by an emphasized syllable. This is repeated three times, the fourth time being incomplete. We pass over from the quieter to that which has more movement, from the weaker to the stronger. This brings into walking a special characteristic, the characteristic of going towards something, the wish to reach something. And when we step to this rhythm we feel immediately that we enter into the inner element of the will. The Iambic element brings into speech the character of will,

Let us now take the opposite. Here the emphasized syllable occurs first, followed by the unemphasized syllable.

‘Trag mir Wasser herab,’

This is just the reverse of the previous example. We begin with the strong, important bear, and pass over to the weaker, less accented beat. If you move in such a rhythm and enter into its feeling, you will at once perceive that here one takes one’s start from something quite definite. And this feeling of something quite definite can only be present when you have a clear concept, a clear-cut thought. In this case you do not strive towards something, but you express in the rhythm your definite thoughts. Thus with the Trochaic rhythm we have to do with thinking. This thinking naturally manifests itself in action, but thought is really the dominant factor.

Will, striving, predominates in the Iambic measure; thought, the realization of thought in the Trochaic measure. You must not, of course, carry these indications to extremes. You might, for instance, picture this energetic Iambic rhythm as being expressed by a rapid progress downhill, and connect this progress with an activity of will. On the other hand you will be more inclined to connect the Trochaic rhythm with seeing or perception. As I said, you must not carry such things to extremes, but if you really enter into the nature of the different rhythms, you will find what I have said to be correct.

Now the point is to bring the Iambic and Trochaic rhythms into walking. This has, of course, already been practised. (Frl. S. . . . will you first show us the Iambic rhythm.)

And now, in order to illustrate the contrast, will you step to Trag mir Wasser herab’, strongly emphasizing the first beat. We must remember that with the unaccented beat we simply step, whereas with the accented beat the placing of the foot on the ground must be strongly marked. How must the foot be placed on the ground? The toes must touch the ground first, the other part of the foot following. It is quite time for eurhythmists to be able to do this really as it should be done. The ordinary threefold walking must be carried over into the rhythmic walking, that is to say, the toes must touch the ground first the rest of the foot following after. Eurhythmists must not simply trip along on their toes, but really place the whole foot on the ground.

Here are two examples.

u—u—u—u
Auf Bergen fiammen Feuer,
—u—u—u
Trag mir Wasser herab.

I can easily show you, by taking a more complicated rhythm, that these things really are of importance. Instead of expressing the yearning, the will, the desire in such a way that we show that we are sure of instantly achieving or object, we can prolong the feeling of desire by having two short beats, followed by a long beat. In this way we get the Anapaestia rhythm

uu—uu—uu—

Now anyone who walks to a poem in Anapeestic rhythm, and compares this with the experience of Iambic walking will notice a tremendous difference between the two. Let us take the following as an example of the Anapaest:

Von mir bist du von Menschen gebildet.
u u—u u—u u—u

Here there is the feeling of reaching the accented syllable with more difficulty. This feeling of difficulty brings a more intimate character into language. And this intimacy of character brings with it a more spiritual element. Thus we may say that the Anapaest rhythm introduces into language a certain inwardness of feeling, a certain spirituality.

(Frl. S. . . . will you show us the Anapaest rhythm:)
Von mir bist du zum Menschen gebildet.

This is a perfectly clear Anapaest.

Now in eurhythmy the point is not so much that one hears the rhythm, but that one should be able to see it: for eurhythmy is visible speech. And for this it is necessary to accustom oneself clearly to show the emphasis on the strong beat, then the unaccented beat will take care of itself. And it may be said that one only enters into the sphere of eurhythmy when these rhythms are accompanied by an upward and downward movement of the body.

When we make the opposite rhythm, the Trochaic, a little more complicated, we get the Dactyl: long, short, short, long, short, short. Let us take the following as an example:

Sing mir, unsterbliche Seele, des sündigen Menschen Erlösung.
—u u—u u—u u—u u—u u—u

Try now to walk in the Dactyl rhythm and you will find that this has more the feeling of a statement, an assertion. If, however, you wish to show the true character of the Dactyl, you must not allow the body to have a forward tendency. In this rhythm the body must remain somewhat behind.

In the rhythms we have the time element; the time element is in this way brought to eurhythmic expression. And the possibilities of eurhythmy are so great just because the eurhythmist is able to make simultaneous use of both time and space. It is possible,—to some extent even with one eurhythmist, but with a group much more so,—to bring into eurhythmy all manner of variations of forms by means of symmetry, by the grouping of the people in some special form and by the symmetrical movement of the arms and legs. The solo eurhythmist also can create forms in space, but the effect of group forms is much more powerful. The possibilities of group forms are infinitely greater.

By means of such forms, by means of this working in space, one is able to enter into the poetic element of speech even more easily, more unhampered, than is possible in recitation and declamation. Truly, recitation and declamation must also work towards the inner artistic element inherent in speech, but here the difficulties are greater than in the case of eurhythmy.

The essential thing about prose language is that it enables one clearly to understand and grasp what one wishes to express by means of a word or sentence. At least one must believe one has grasped it. In prose language we have become so extreme in our desire for clarity that we make use of the so-called definition. There is really something appalling about definitions, for they make people believe that they have clearly expressed some idea, whereas in reality, the description is merely pedantic. If people are themselves not clear about the meaning of a word, definitions will be of no help to them. In any case a comprehensive definition, even of a relatively simple thing, would necessarily lead one into endless complications, otherwise the results would be similar to the story that I have so often repeated, in which somebody described the human being as a two-legged creature without feathers. On the following day this person was confronted with a goose and told that, according to his definition, the goose was a human being, for it had two legs and no feathers—(you see, it was a plucked goose !). Now a human being is not always a goose, so here the definition did not meet the case.

‘When using prose language, one should at least attempt to express one’s ideas directly, in clear outline. In prose one cannot—and need not—live in and experience the artistic formation of language. An artistic treatment of language demands imagination and fantasy; and here one should strive to use one’s gift of fantasy, to give rein to one’s imagination. This, however, can only be attained when one does not rest content with crude description, but when one develops an attitude of mind which allows imagination and fantasy to give form and life to whatever may be in question. If anyone were to say, for instance : ‘Here is a water lily’, he would be speaking prose. But if he were to say: ‘O flowering swan!’ this would be pictorial, poetical. One can quite well picture a water lily, with its white bloom rising out of the water, as a flowering swan.

The picture can also be reversed—and here I will quote from Geibel. The lines in which he describes the swan as a floating water lily are perhaps the most beautiful he has written:

O Wasserrose, du blühender Schwan,
O Schwan, du schwimmende Rose ...
(O water lily, thou flowering swan,
O swan, thou floating lily ...)

Even this can hardly be said to be an adequate picture, but at any rate it brings us much nearer to the truth.

Now how does this picture of the ‘flowering swan’ arise ?—The expression ‘flowering swan’ is only an image; it is not in accordance with reality. A picture must have this quality; it must make us feel that it goes beyond reality and give us an impression which transcends its own imagery. The fact that a swan is not a blossom makes the expression ‘flowering swan’ into a picture. It is when we feel that there is something suggestive about the picture that we are brought closer to the true nature of that which is being described.

The inner plastic element of language depends upon this possibility of imagery. And you, my dear friends, will be able to discover this pictorial element when you realize that a sound is, in itself, always a picture. A sound is no less a picture of what it describes than this expression of the ‘flowering swan’ is a picture of the water lily. For any combination of sounds depends upon what these sounds represent; a word is no abstraction but arises out of life itself.

Thus it may be said that the use of language is based upon the fact that every sound is a picture, an image. If then, we accustom ourselves to see pictures in sounds we shall learn by degrees to have a feeling for the use of these pictures,—we shall learn to know that poetic language, artistic, plastic language, must be pictorial in character.

Now, when I say: ‘O flowering swan’, when meaning a water lily, and : ‘O floating flower’, when meaning a swan, these two conceptions have really only one characteristic in common—their dazzling whiteness. Their other qualities are different.

It is not difficult to form such pictures as these. They generally go by the name of metaphor. A metaphor is, in reality, a picture which makes use of some common characteristic in order to establish a relationship between two conceptions. In such a case one portrays one thing by describing it as something else which is not the thing to which one is really referring, but has certain characteristics in common with it. Metaphor arises in this way.

I am purposely not giving the usual definition of the metaphor, for this definition has nothing artistic about it, My description is not based upon logic, but I have tried to build it up from what is really essential.

Let us go a little further, It is possible, by making use of a word which represents something less comprehensive, to express something really wider in its meaning. For instance, one can mean ‘beasts of prey’, but if one wishes to be more pictorial, instead of actually using this expression one might equally well say : ‘the lions’. When, in using the word ‘lion’, one really intends to convey the meaning of ‘beasts of prey’, language becomes pictorial. We must be clear that in such a case the lesser is used to describe the greater. We wish to give the impression of ‘what is more comprehensive, but in order to do so we use a word which expresses something more limited. This pictorial means of expression is very general. It is called the Synecdoche. In the Synecdoche we have a picture in which one makes use of the lesser to express the greater.

The reverse is also possible; it is possible to make use of the greater to express the lesser. A particularly strong impression is created by this means. For instance we have Byron’s picturesque expression to describe the attitude of a lady who is something of a shrew, He says : ‘ She looks curtain-lectures (Sic blickt Gardinenpredigten). Here you have a comprehensive element which can otherwise only be verbally indicated by such expressions as ‘curtain-lectures’ and so on, applied to the narrower sphere of the lady’s look, It is a wonderfully effective figure of speech, when the facial expression of the worst kind of Xanthippe is characterised by applying to her look the entire series of curtain-lectures, with all the abuse and scolding and outcry they involve, In this case the whole is used for the part.

We must find a means of expressing these things in eurhythmy. First let us try a quite simple example. Wherever a metaphor occurs it may be shown by taking a step sideways,—either towards the right or towards the left. Wherever you have to do with anything in the nature of a metaphor you may introduce this sideways movement into the form.

If you wish to express the Synecdoche in a case where the greater is used to express the lesser, you must go backwards if, on the other hand, you use the lesser to express the greater you must go forwards. This lies in the form. Therefore you will always express She looks curtain-lectures by moving in a backwards direction; you will, however) move forwards when, meaning ‘beasts of prey’, you simply use the word ‘lion’. If therefore in eurhythmy you move backwards in space you immediately give the impression of an intensification, of going from the lesser to the greater; when you move forwards the opposite impression is created.

In order to illustrate this, try to express by means of the direction in which you move, the following sentence:

I strive towards the heavenly powers

(moving backwards)

And now I shall immediately take another example, so that you may see the difference between the two:

I shut myself within my little room

(moving forwards)

You must express these examples simply by means of the direction in which you move. With the first, which indicates a striving towards the greater, you must go backwards, With the second : ‘I shut myself within my little room,’ you must go forwards. In this way we have the possibility of expressing, by means of a forwards and backwards movement, all the inner shades of feeling contained in these things.

What I have here indicated is of the utmost importance for eurhythmy as an art. For only by understanding the meaning of this walking in a forwards, backwards or sideways direction, does one learn to move on the stage in the right way. Without such understanding one might quite well try to express something of the nature of a prayer by means of a forwards-moving line, which would be utterly out of place, for in the case of a prayer or a petition the backwards-moving one at once gives the right feeling. When expressing the wish to teach something, thus entering into the realm of thought, one will not go backwards, but forwards in the form.

In the case of a conversation, the movement is neither backwards nor forwards, but sideways ; for conversation is really of the nature of metaphor.

To-day I have indicated several things which, as they are further developed, will serve to make speech eurhythmy more complete and worthy of being called an art in the true sense.

• 1. Eurythmie als sichtbarer Gesang. Philosophisch-Anthroposophischer Verlag am Goetheanum, Dornach.

Just as in speech itself an inner understanding for the structure of language makes it necessary to divide words, according to the train of thought, into nouns, adjectives, etc., so, in eurhythmy, also these things must be taken into consideration. It is, of course, obvious that all pedantry must here be laid aside, and that the teaching of eurythmy from the aspect which we shall be developing here to-day must never be allowed to degenerate into those methods too frequently employed in the teaching of grammar in schools. But the eurythmist must be fully conscious of the way in which each single word,—a noun, for instance,—must be treated; for these details have their place in the whole scheme of the structure of language, by means of which the human being is enabled to express himself through speech. It is necessary then to differentiate between words which express the characteristics of things, descriptive words, and words expressing activities. Such words as describe the characteristics of things may be expressed in eurythmy by checking the movement of the form. Just at the moment when one wishes to express an adjective in eurythmy one must pause in the form and make the gestures standing still; the gestures must be made during a quiet interval in the form. On the other hand, when we are expressing some soul-content, as we do in ordinary speech by means of a verb, the point is to accompany the gestures by a decided movement in the form. Thus, gestures accompanied by movement, gestures carried out by the human being in motion, may be said to be the expression of the verb.

Now, one can sub-divide that which is expressed by means of the verb in this way; we may have the expression of something passive or of something active, or of something prolonged over a certain period of time. A transient activity, a transient passivity, or a prolonged activity, a prolonged passivity,—it is according to this that we can differentiate our eurythmic gestures. When we wish to express passivity, a passive relationship to something, the gestures must be made while the eurythmist moves in a forwards direction, not in a backwards direction. Everything which is inwardly connected with suffering, endurance, with a passive attitude, may be expressed by making the gestures to a forward-moving form; everything active may be expressed by making the gestures to a backward-movement in the form; while everything, either active or passive, which is of the nature of duration, may be expressed by making the gestures to a form which moves from side to side.

Thus we are able to express the verbal element in a way which enables the onlooker to perceive what actually lies in the nature of the verb.

We will now apply what has just been said to the working out of a short poem; we will try to bring out these three forms of inner experience as they come to expression in the verb. Let us, then, examine the verbs as they occur in this little poem:

Konnt' schlafen nicht (I could not sleep)

Sleep is something,—at least in the case of healthy people,—which has a certain duration; so here we must express something which lasts over a period of time (see diagram).

Konnt' traumen nicht (I could not dream).

Now it may be said of drearing,—and we must always analyse a poem in this way before working it out in eurythmy,—it may be said of dreaming that this also is something involving duration, but here at the same time a slight passivity is indicated. We must try to combine the side-to-side movement in the form with the forwards movement, not now going directly forwards, but in a diagonal line. You could express ‘dreaming’ by this form (see page 215). The poem continues:

Konnt' schlafen nicht,
Konnt' traumen nicht
Da hort' ich drauss'
Wie das Eis zerbricht

(I could not sleep,
I could not dream
I heard without
How the ice was shattered.)

In ‘heard' we have another verb; ‘heard' is quite obviously passive, so the line must be forwards. ‘How the ice was shattered'; we must bear in mind here that something is being said about the ice. Let us inquire: Is this the passive mood or the mood' of duration?—If we enter into the feeling of this phrase we shall realize that we have to do with the mood of duration; but that there is also the indication of something happening, of something active. The shattering of the ice is the reverse of the purely passive mood; it may even be said to make an aggressive impression upon us. We say: ‘shattered' . . . this crackling of the breaking ice is continuous . . . and at the same time we must express the active mood by moving up to a point in a backwards direction.

Then we have a line without a verb; at least there is only an auxiliary verb and we will not consider this for the moment.

Es war, als ob aus der Ferne
Es sich nahete
Wehete, lüftete,
Und in den Lüften es
Atmete, duftete.

(It was as if from afar
Something approached
Wafted, floating aloft,
As if something in the air
Breathed, sending forth fragrance.)

To approach, to be wafted, to float,—all these verbs express duration, but they have at the same time something active about them. Here, then, we must express these verbs: ‘to waft' ‘to float' by a line which goes backwards, and again backwards; ‘as if something in the air' . . . here we have no verb—‘breathed, sending forth fragrance ' . . . must be treated in the same way as ‘wafted, floating aloft'. We have therefore, to move in a backwards direction, and then again further back (see diagram).

(Over the meadows Down the valley, up the mountain,
Wenn das der Fruhling war' As though the spring were come
In full career!)

Now do the whole poem characterizing the different types of verb:

Early Spring.
(I could not sleep,
I could not dream,
I heard without
How the ice was shattered It was as if from afar, Something approached, Wafted, floating aloft, As if something in the air Breathed, sending forth
fragrance.
Over the meadows
Down the valley, up the mountain
Wenn das der Friihling war' As though the Spring were come
In full career!)

We have then these different types of verb:¹

Now we must define the nouns. Here in the first place we have those nouns which describe such things as make an impression upon the senses, things which in ordinary life are termed concrete objects.

It is, of course, impossible to state definitely what is concrete and what abstract; this must be left to individual judgment. Hegel, for instance, protested against the usual conception of ‘abstract' and ‘concrete'. He declared that a washerwoman is something very abstract, whereas wisdom is absolutely concrete!

Everything depends upon whether one is able to conceive wisdom as something concrete and a washerwoman as an abstraction! Anyone who conceives wisdom as concrete will certainly feel that a washerwoman is merely existent in thought and quite without reality. A washerwoman has no real existence. The human being embodied within her exists, but, in her capacity of washerwoman, she is altogether unreal.

For this reason it is perhaps better to say: Objects which produce an impression upon the senses are described by words which must be expressed in the form by an angle backwards. All objects producing an impression upon the senses correspond to a backward angle in the form.

On the other hand that which in the ordinary sense of the word is termed abstract,—everything, that is to say, which makes no impression upon the physical senses but depends upon experiences of the soul, as for instance: wisdom, thought-power, genius, fantasy and countless other qualities,—everything of this nature must be expressed by means of a curved line in a forwards direction.

Thus the mental-contemplative element, as we may call it, is expressed in this way, and this gives us two separate forms corresponding with two classes of substantives.²

There is also another type of noun which expresses condition. We might take as examples: whiteness, beauty, height. In the case of these nouns of condition we reverse the form which we use for objects perceptible to the senses. We make the angle forwards.

Then, further, we have words which express such things as are purely bound up with the soul-life. Here the curve line becomes more complicated.

In this way we are able to show nouns expressing some mood of soul; yearning, suffering, pain, pity, good-will, and so on. By means of the angle forwards we express conditions which appear as attributes of external objects; while for everything dependent upon the inner soul-life we must use such a form as I have just described.

In this way you will discover movements capable of arousing in the onlookers shades of feeling and perception which will enable him to follow the inner laws which determine why a certain combination of sounds conveys a definite mood of soul, a distinct condition or sense-impression.

It is not necessary to move a separate form for each individual word; with the pronouns, as with the adjectives, the movements may be made standing still. Numerals also should be treated like adjectives; they need not, in so far as eurythmy is concerned, be differentiated from the ordinary adjective.

Interjections, on the other hand,—Oh! for instance, or Ah!—have a quite special significance, for it is by such words as these that beauty and grace may be brought into eurythmy. In the case of all interjections we must either introduce a bending movement of the body, or else a spring or little jump.

Now that I am speaking about a jump or spring I will take the opportunity of drawing your attention once again to the fact that everything of this kind which is introduced into eurythmy must be carried out in such a way that one jumps on to the ball of the foot, only putting the heel down later: there is something fundamentally harmful about any jump which brings one down on to the flat of the foot. Due attention must be paid to this; it has often been overlooked in spite of very definite warnings. In the case of every jump, including those which occur in tone-eurythmy, one must jump on to the fore part of the foot, later bringing the heel into contact with the ground.

Now I am going to make a statement which will most certainly meet with opposition from materialists, but which is, nevertheless, of the utmost importance for the whole sphere of eurythmy, for eurythmy in its artistic, educational and curative aspects. Every single movement from whichever aspect it is regarded, must be carried out with ` grace' in the true sense of the word. And a eurythmy performance, or a lesson in eurythmy, which is not participated in by at least one of the ‘graces ',—I do not, of course, mean this in a physical sense—cannot, my dear friends, be said to be justified. We must have the feeling: All eurythmy, educational as well as artistic, must be of such a nature that one of the Graces might look on without embarrassment.

This, of course, entails an energetic campaign against all lack of skill in eurythmy. And of' all clumsy, awkward things this jumping on to the flat of the foot is the most awkward. As I have already said, every spring or jump must be on to the fore-part of the foot. When in education grace reigns in the sphere of eurythmy, the children actually grow in receptivity and perception in all directions. And teachers of eurythmy must make this increased power of receptivity and perception in the children the goal towards which they strive.

It is through grace alone that art finds its way into the realm of beauty. And in curative eurythmy,—this is the most difficult of all to believe, but it is nevertheless true,—one of the Graces must at least be hovering in the back-ground. Even if not actually visible, she must be listening, and for this reason that every exercise of curative eurythmy not gracefully carried out tends to produce a stiffening and hardening effect in the etheric body, thus counteracting the desired results.

Fri. S. . . . will you now show us some eurythmy into which you must introduce graceful bending movements. You can be quite free to follow your own feeling; but, when I come to the third sentence, try in addition to introduce a graceful jump. With the first of these sentences the movements must be subtle and interesting. I am going to recite three examples; you can express each one by means of the vowel sounds, adding at the same time the movements which I have just indicated:

‘The dog goes bow-wow'.

Introduce a bending movement which really represents the ‘bow-wow'.

‘The cat goes mi-auw!' . . .

and now, with the third gesture, make three graceful little jumps, combining the last jump with some sort of bending movement:

‘The cock goes cock-a-doodle-doo!'

In this way we get the interjections.

Further we have the prepositions. Some sort of acquaintance with these matters is, of course, essential. One must realize, for instance, that the prepositions express the relation-ship in which one thing stands to another. We have such words as: aus (out), ausser (outside), bei (with, among), entgegen (towards), mit (with), nach (after), nachst (next), von (of), zu (to), zuwider (contrary to),—all prepositions which, as we say, govern the dative; they are always followed by the dative, by the so-called third case. All prepositions must be expressed by a bending of the head and body in a sideways direction.

Here again, however, we must learn to differentiate. In the case of prepositions governing the dative the body must be bent, not sideways merely, but also slightly forwards, in a diagonal direction either to right or left; in the case of those governing the accusative the bending must be directly either to left or right; while in the case of those governing the genitive the movement must be sideways, and also slightly backwards.

In this way we get more variety. Let us now try to express the preposition in the following little poem. I shall ask Frau. P. . . . to express the preposition, when it occurs, by means of the corresponding movement.

‘Was mag es bedeuten? '

This is a question. In this connection we spoke earlier of the spiral form and now we have an opportunity of applying it.

Was mag es bedeuten?
Mein Herz pocht so geschwind,
Die Glocken sie Tauten
Im Morgenwind. (Bending movement forwards and sideways.)

You can, then, express prepositions in this way. On the other hand, a bending of the head only is the expression for conjunctions,—and, but, etc.—for those words whose function it is to connect other words and sentences.

To-day I want to speak of the way in which the structure of a poem may be shown by means of eurythmy forms. We must naturally try to make this course of lectures as comprehensive as possible, and with this in view I will now touch upon certain things which may help us to bring out the actual form of a poem, and to express this in eurythmy. To begin with I will show you how one may treat a poem in which the same form of verse, the same inner structure of the verse, is constantly repeated. We will suppose, for instance, that we have a verse of four lines, and we will see how such a four-lined verse can be worked out. . . . There are, of course many other possibilities. I do not mean to imply that every verse of four lines must be built up in this way, but it can be so built up.

One eurythmist must stand here (1), and move the first form, trying to find his way into it for the first line of the verse. The second eurythmist who stands here, does this form, trying to find his way into the second line, and of course only moving when this second line is being recited. The third must stand here, and during the recitation of the third line must move this form (forwards); and the fourth moves the fourth line to this last form (foreground). But now we must also observe the structure of this verse and see how the rhymes occur; the first line rhymes with the third, and the second with the fourth. We can show this quite clearly by making the eurythmist who does the first line continue to hold the i-gesture. This must also be done in the case of the third line; here again the i-gesture must be held. The eurythmist doing the second line continues to hold the u-gesture; and this same u-gesture must be shown by the fourth eurythmist.

This example shows you, in principle, the way in which the forms and movements of eurythmy may be drawn out from the actual structure of a poem. Will four of you take these places,—you will learn the form in a moment by looking at the diagram on the blackboard,—and now I will read a poem in which the structure of the verse corresponds to the form just described. This will show you how you can find your way into the building up of eurythmic forms. For one must not build up a form merely by vague dreaming, or by indefinite, muddling methods; a form must be made to correspond to what is actually contained in the text itself; and this can be done by bearing in mind all that has been said.

You will at first, of course, only be able to move the form as such, but, when you have had time to practise, you must try to bring into such a form those details of grammatical structure to which I have referred to-day. All this can also be introduced,—but you need not think, when a movement forwards is indicated, that you must immediately take ten steps! The slightest indication is quite sufficient, and indeed the effect is most beautiful when these things are suggested only. To-day I will not impose too much upon you, but will ask you simply to run the form, not showing the additional grammatical details. To do this would be comparatively difficult, but it is nevertheless possible, with adequate practice. The poem runs thus:

Scheiden

Was mag es bedeuten?
Mein Herz pocht so geschwind.
Die Glocken, sie Tauten
Im Morgenwind.

Was mag es bedeuten?
Mein Herz ist wund.
Die Glocken, sie lauten
Die Abschiedsstund.

Die Glocken, sie klagen.
Mein Herz tut mir weh,
Die Stund hat geschlagen
Ade, Ade.

Die Stund hat geschlagen.
Das Herz klopft so sehr.
Ich sitz in dem Wagen
Komm nimmermehr.

In this way then (see previous diagram), one can build up the form of a poem. To-morrow I shall speak even more exactly about the structure of poems; to-day I must just add the following:

It is only by repeatedly calling up a certain mood of soul that the eurythmist can gain the receptivity of feeling and perception necessary to expressive gesture. This delicate and fine perception can be awakened in the eurythmist by means of a meditation drawn out from the secret nature of the human organization. It can be attained when you enter, in deep and inward meditation, into what lies in the following words, not feeling them as words merely, as abstract concepts, but allowing their content to ripen within you. It is thus that you will be able to achieve all that I have just described.

I seek within me
The Strength of Creative Working,
The Power of Creative Life.
It tells me
The heavy weight of Earth
Through the Word of my feet,
It tells me
The forming power of the Air
Through the Singing of my hands,
It tells me
The strength of Heaven's Light
Through the Thinking of my Head,
So the World in Man
Speaks, sings, thinks.

Ich suche im Innern
Der schaffenden Krafte Wirken,
Der schaffenden Machte Leben.
Es sagt mir
Der Erde Schweremacht
Durch meiner Fiisse Wort,
Es sagt mir
Der Liifte Formgewalt
Durch meiner Hande Singen,
Es sagt mir
Des Himmels Lichteskraft
Durch meines Hauptes Sinnen,
Wie die Welt im Menschen
Spricht, singt, rinnt

When you have meditated upon such words as these, you will discover that you can say of yourselves: It is as though have awakened out of a cosmic sleep into the heavenly realm of eurythmy. If you stimulate this mood and feeling in your souls, you will be able to enter this realm as though awakening out of the darkness of night into the light of day.

• 1. The reader should look at all diagrams as though facing a stage. Hence a downward arrow = a line forwards.
• 2. Dr. Steiner had previously given indications as to how words describing spiritual beings (God, Zeus, Dionysus, etc.) should be shown in the form. Such words are expressed by a curved line backwards.

Naturally, it will only be possible to lay down certain guidelines in our presentation of the real nature of the art of declamation, as an exhaustive discussion would require us to penetrate into a fair number of the intimacies and inner aspects of man's physical, psychic and spiritual life. Last time, we were able to see the remarkable way in which blood-circulation, pulse-beat and breathing-rhythm interpenetrate each other in the human organism something of which the poet in his act of creation already has some apprehension, and all of which sounds forth again in the poem, as indeed it should whenever this is realized through either declamation or recitation. Recitation stands midway between singing and mere speech. In speech, everything that in singing is still bound up with numerical relations is transformed into something of inner intensity: when we pronounce a word, it is as though the elements which live in song were compressed from spatiality into something two-dimensional yet through its intensive force, the two-dimensional plane still gives expression, albeit of a different kind, to what was present in the singing. And between these, between singing and spoken prose, lie recitation and declamation. It may be said that recitation and declamation are a kind of singing on the way to becoming mere words, but held back, and arrested midway along this path: it is this “midway” character which makes the essential nature of recitation so extraordinarily difficult to grasp. Here again, it is the task of an intimate psychosomatic observation to seize on those elements, through which the arts of declamation and of recitation are sharply distinguished. For it is deeply founded in the very nature of poetry that, in one case, a poem is recited, and in another declaimed.

Deeply founded in the nature of poetry is the way in which all those things that in music and singing, in pitch, harmony and so on, take on a kind of independent, external existence, are here turned inward – in poetry they are so far turned inward that nothing external remains except time, which finds expression in the metre, in the long and short syllables. Now, although we look in recitation mainly for the metrical element, where pitch, and even tone-colour, and that which produces harmony, etc., is laid aside, yet the element of differentiation still makes itself felt. We have not yet proceeded as far as the mere word, where the element of differentiation in the actual substance of the word is removed and is no longer apparent.

When it comes to reciting, the physical processes involved take the following course. [Note 6] Essentially, recitation depends upon what takes place when inhaled air penetrates into our body, and through the breathing-rhythm, into the movements of the cerebral fluid which also fills the spinal cord right into the nervous-sensory apparatus of the brain. [Note 7] The breathing-rhythm presses, so to speak, against the organs of mental representation, and along this path is brought to a kind of stasis: this path ultimately becomes the inhaling-process, which is then followed by that of exhalation, as in this case the rhythm is always twofold. When this process is carried to its farthest limit, prose-representations arise. If, however, it is consciously checked before its ultimate stage, and the metre deriving from the breathing-rhythm is not destroyed, there arises what lives in recitation. Hence we can say: it is a striving from world observation to mental representation that should manifest itself in recitation; and this is why recitation is in essence the representative art appropriate to epic and narrative verse.

At the other extreme stands declamation. This is bound up with the very opposite process, in which the soul-life is not linked with the representational element, but with that of volition. Now, when we will something, when we pass over into a will-impulse – what actually is it that is overcome? (This happens unconsciously, of course, for many people but consciously for those who exercise self-observation.) Here, in fact, one must always overcome a world of harmony, a world of inner consonances and dissonances. It is from harmony, from an inner experience closely resembling what hovers behind music, that the will-impulse is ultimately formed: when the breath-stream strikes up into the brain and flows back again, descends through the canal of the spinal cord, and strikes into the whole metabolic process – and this again strikes into the pulse-beat of the blood-circulation. With this passage from above downwards is thrust into our will-nature, mainly bound up as it is with exhalation, all that lives in man in the way of vanquished or allayed harmonies, inner discords, consonances, and so on. Thus the very opposite element is brought to expression and mediated through the word, when the word is made the bearer of an impulse of will.

And when, in a poem, we let sound forth what lives within us not merely as an external narrative, but sending forth what lives in us as we exhale our breath – then, indeed, we enter the sphere of the dramatic. But this can, or rather should be described only as the last step: for the dramatic also evolves out of the epic, when this has been developed through some folk-disposition, for instance. Those who, working in this way out of a folk-disposition, give poetic form to the epic, have a grasp of man’s inner nature to which they give outward expression in the external representations. Thus, where we find such a folk-disposition, a dramatic element sounds into the epic. Recitation becomes declamation.

Today we hope to make clear to you how this comes about, by the recitation of the beginning of Goethe’s “Achilleis”. Here Goethe transposed himself completely into the epic feeling, the epic metre of the Greeks, into the entirely metrical hexameter: so that inwardly, the conscious grasping of the in-breathing process which tends toward representation is predominant. Secondly, and by way of contrast, we shall take an epic of the Nordic world, from an earlier age – part of the magnificent Finnish Folk-epic, the Kalevala. Here you will see how the dramatic element arises in the epic itself, and consequently how recitation in epic metre quite naturally becomes declamation – how, therefore, epic recitation subtly results in dramatic declamation.

With this, then, we will begin our practical demonstration. Frau Dr. Steiner will give a reading from Goethe’s “Achilleis”.

Hoch zu Flammen entbrannte die mächtige Lohe noch einmal

Strebend gegen den Himmel, und Ilios’ Mauern erschienen

Rot durch die finstere Nacht; der aufgeschichteten Waldung

Ungeheures Gerüst, zusammenstürzend, erregte

Mächtige Glut zuletzt. Da senkten sich Hektors Gebeine

Nieder, und Asche lag der edelste Troer am Boden.

Nun erhob sich Achilleus vom Sitz vor seinem Gezelte,

Wo er die Stunden durchwachte, die nächtlichen, schaute der Flammen

Fernes, schreckliches Spiel und des wechselnden Feuers Bewegung,

Ohne die Augen zu wenden von Pergamos’ rötlicher Feste.

Tief im Herzen empfand er den Hass noch gegen den Toten,

Der ihm den Freund erschlug, und der nun bestattet dahinsank.

Aber als nun die Wut nachliess des fressenden Feuers

Allgemach, und zugleich mit Rosenfingern die Göttin

Schmückete Land und Meer, dass der Flammen Schrecknisse bleichten,

Wandte sich, tief bewegt und sanft, der grosse Pelide

Gegen Antilochos hin und sprach die gewichtigen Worte:

‘So wird kommen der Tag, da bald von Ilios’ Trümmern

Rauch und Qualm sich erhebt, von thrakischen Lüften getrieben,

Idas langes Gebirg und Gargaros’ Höhe verdunkelt:

Aber ich werd’ ihn nicht sehen. Die Völkerweckerin Eos

Fand mich, Patroklos’ Gebein zusammenlesend; sie findet

Hektors Brüder anjetzt in gleichem frommen Geschäfte:

Und dich mag sie auch bald, mein trauter Antilochos, finden,

Dass du den leichten Rest des Freundes jammernd bestattest.

Soll dies also nun sein, wie mir es die Götter entbieten,

Sei es! Gedenken wir nur des Nötigen, was noch zu tun ist.

Denn mich soll, vereint mit meinem Freunde Patroklos,

Ehren ein herrlicher Hügel, am hohen Gestade des Meeres

Aufgerichtet, den Völkern und künftigen Zeiten ein Denkmal.

Fleissig haben mir schon die rüstigen Myrmidonen

Rings umgraben den Raum, die Erde warfen sie einwärts,

Gleichsam schützenden Wall aufführend gegen des Feindes

Andrang. Also umgrenzten den weiten Raum sie geschäftig.

Aber wachsen soll mir das Werk! Ich eile, die Scharen

Aufzurufen, die mir noch Erde mit Erde zu häufen

Willig sind, und so vielleicht befördr’ ich die Hälfte.

Euer sei die Vollendung, wenn bald mich die Urne gefasst hat!’

Also sprach er und ging und schritt durch die Reihe der Zelte,

Winkend jenem und diesem und rufend andre zusammen.

Alle sogleich nun erregt, ergriffen das starke Geräte,

Schaufel und Hacke, mit Lust, dass der Klang des Erzes ertönte,

Auch den gewaltigen Pfahl, den steinbewegenden Hebel.

Und so zogen sie fort, gedrängt aus dem Lager ergossen,

Aufwärts den sanften Pfad, und schweigend eilte die Menge.

Wie wenn, zum Überfall gerüstet, nächtlich die Auswahl

Stille ziehet des Heers, mit leisen Tritten die Reihe

Wandelt und jeder die Schritte misst und jeder den Atem

Anhält, in feindliche Stadt, die schlechtbewachte, zu dringen:

Also zogen auch sie, und aller tätige Stille

Ehrte das ernste Geschäft und ihres Königes Schmerzen.

Als sie aber den Rücken des wellenbespületen Hügels

Bald erreichten und nun des Meeres Weite sich auftat,

Blickte freundlich Eos sie an aus der heiligen Frühe

Fernem Nebelgewölk und jedem erquickte das Herz sie.

Alle stürzten sogleich dem Graben zu, gierig der Arbeit,

Rissen in Schollen auf den lange betretenen Boden,

Warfen schaufelnd ihn fort; ihn trugen andre mit Körben

Aufwarts; in Helm und Schild einfüllen sah man die einen,

Und der Zipfel des Kleids war anderen statt des Gefässes.

Jetzt eröffneten heftig des Himmels Pforte die Horen,

Und das wilde Gespann des Helios, brausend erhub sich’s.

Rasch erleuchtet’ er gleich die frommen Äthiopen,

Welche die äussersten wohnen von allen Völkern der Erde.

Schüttelnd bald die glühenden Locken, entstieg er des Ida

Wäldern, um klagenden Troern, um rüst’gen Achaiern zu leuchten.

Aber die Horen indes, zum Äther strebend erreichten

Zeus Kronions heiliges Haus, das sie ewig begrüssen.

Und sie traten hinein; da begegnete ihnen Hephaistos,

Eilig hinkend, und sprach auffordernde Worte zu ihnen:

‘Trügliche, Glücklichen Schnelle, den Harrenden Langsame, hört mich!

Diesen Saal erbaut’ ich, dem Willen des Vaters gehorsam,

Nach dem göttlichen Mass des herrlichsten Musengesanges;

Sparte nicht Gold und Silber, noch Erz, und bleiches Metall nicht.

Und so wie ich’s vollendet, vollkommen stehet das Werk noch,

Ungekränkt von der Zeit; denn hier ergreift es der Rost nicht,

Noch erreicht es der Staub, des irdischen Wandrers Gefährte.

Alles hab’ ich getan, was irgend schaffende Kunst kann.

Unerschütterlich ruht die hohe Decke des Hauses,

Und zum Schritte ladet der glatte Boden den Fuss ein.

Jedem Herrscher folget sein Thron, wohin er gebietet,

Wie dem Jager der Hund, und goldene wandelnde Knaben

Schuf ich, welche Kronion, den Kommenden, unterstützen,

Wie ich mir eherne Mädchen erschuf. Doch alles ist leblos!

Euch allein ist gegeben, den Charitinnen und euch nur,

Über das tote Gebild des Lebens Reize zu streuen.

Auf denn! sparet mir nichts und giesst aus dem heiligen Salbhorn

Liebreiz herrlich umher, damit ich mich freue des Werkes,

Und die Götter entzückt so fort mich preisen wie anfangs.’

Und sie lächelten sanft, die beweglichen, nickten dem Alten

Freundlich und gossen umher verschwenderisch Leben und Licht aus,

Dass kein Mensch es ertrüg’ und dass es die Götter entzückte...

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

[Sidney is one of the few English poets to transpose himself into the classical feeling for hexameter verse with even qualified success; in his case furthermore it is the pastoral, emblematic aspects of this representational, recitative mode which emerge, rather than its narrative possibilities. The following passage is an extract from the “First Eclogues” in Book I of The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia.

DORUS:

Then do I thinke in deed, that better it is to be private

In sorrows torments, then, tyed to the pompes of a pallace,

Nurse inwarde maladyes, which have not scope to be breath’d out,

But perforce disgest, all bitter juices of horror

In silence, from a man’s owne selfe with company robbed.

Better yet do I live, that though by my thoughts I be plunged

Into my live’s bondage, yet may disburden a passion

(Opprest with ruinouse conceites) by the helpe of an outcrye:

Not limited to a whispringe note, the Lament of a Courtier,

But sometimes to the woods, sometimes to the heavens do decyphire,

With bolde clamor unheard, unmarckt, what I seeke what I suffer:

And when I meete these trees, in the earth’s faire lyvery clothed,

Ease I do feele (such ease as falls to one wholy diseased)

For that I finde in them parte of my estate represented.

Lawrell shews what I seeke, by the Mirre is show’d how I seeke it,

Olive paintes me the peace that I must aspire to by conquest:

Mirtle makes my request, my request is crown’d with a willowe.

Cyprus promiseth helpe, but a helpe where comes no recomforte.

Sweete Juniper saith this, thoh I burne, yet I burne in a sweete fire.

Ewe doth make me be thinke what kind of bow the boy holdeth

Which shootes strongly with out any noyse and deadly without smarte.

Firr trees great and greene, fixt on a hye hill but a barrein,

Lyke to my noble thoughtes, still new, well plac’d, to me fruteles.

Figge that yeeldes most pleasante frute, his shaddow is hurtefull,

Thus be her giftes most sweet, thus more danger to be neere her,

But in a palme when I marke, how he doth rise under a burden,

And may I not (say I then) gett up though griefs be so weightie?

Pine is a maste to a shippe, to my shippe shall hope for a maste serve?

Pine is hye, hope is as hie, sharpe leav’d, sharpe yet be my hope’s budds.

Elme embraste by a vine, embracing fancy reviveth.

Popler changeth his hew from a rising sunne to a setting:

Thus to my sonne do I yeeld, such lookes her beames do aforde me.

Olde aged oke cutt downe, of newe works serves to the building:

So my desires by my feare, cutt downe, be the frames of her honour.

Ashe makes speares which shieldes do resist, her force no repulse takes:

Palmes do rejoyce to be joynd by the match of a male to a female,

And shall sensive things be so sencelesse as to resist sence?

Thus be my thoughts disperst, thus thinking nurseth a thinking,

Thus both trees and each thing ells, be the bookes of a fancy.

Sir Philip Sidney (1554-1586).] [Note 8]

Now a passage from the Kalevala: and we will try, despite the exigency of a translation, still to read this in such a way as to show all the things I have discussed.

From the Kalevala: Rune XIV (Conclusion)

Then the reckless Lemminkainen,

Handsome hero, Kaukomieli,

Braved the third test of the hero,

Started out to hunt the wild-swan,

Hunt the long-necked, graceful swimmer,

In Tuoni’s coal-black river,

In Manala’s lower regions.

Quick the daring hunter journeyed,

Hastened off with fearless footsteps,

To the river of Tuoni,

To the sacred stream and whirlpool,

With his bow upon his shoulder,

With his quiver and one arrow.

Nasshut, blind and crippled shepherd,

Wretched shepherd of Pohyola,

Stood beside the death-land river,

Near the sacred stream and whirlpool,

Guarding Tuonela’s waters,

Waiting there for Lemminkainen,

Listening there for Kaukomieli,

Waiting long the hero’s coming.

Finally he hears the footsteps

Of the hero on his journey,

Hears the tread of Lemminkainen,

As he journeys nearer, nearer,

To the river of Tuoni,

To the cataract of death-land,

To the sacred stream and whirlpool.

Quick the wretched shepherd, Nasshut,

From the death-stream sends a serpent,

Like an arrow from a cross-bow,

To the heart of Lemminkainen,

Through the vitals of the hero.

Lemminkainen, little conscious,

Hardly knew that he was injured,

Spake these measures as he perished:

‘Ah! unworthy is my conduct,

Ah! unwisely have I acted,

That I did not heed my mother,

Did not take her goodly counsel,

Did not learn her words of magic.

Oh! for three words with my mother,

How to live, and how to suffer,

In this time of dire misfortune,

How to bear the stings of serpents,

Tortures of the reed of waters,

From the stream of Tuonela!

‘Ancient mother who hast borne me,

Who hast trained me from my childhood,

Learn, I pray thee, where I linger,

Where, alas! thy son is lying

Where thy reckless hero suffers.

Come, I pray thee, faithful mother,

Come thou quickly, thou art needed,

Come deliver me from torture,

From the death-jaws of Tuoni,

From the sacred stream and whirlpool.’

Northland’s old and wretched Shepherd,

Nasshut, the despised protector

Of the flocks of Sariola,

Throws the dying Lemminkainen,

Throws the hero of the islands,

Into Tuonela’s river,

To the blackest stream of death-land,

To the worst of fatal whirlpools.

Lemminkainen, wild and daring,

Helpless falls upon the waters,

Floating down the coal-black current,

Through the cataracts and rapids

To the tombs of Tuonela.

There the blood-stained son of death-land,

There Tuoni’s son and hero,

Cuts in pieces Lemminkainen,

Chops him with his mighty hatchet,

Till the sharpened axe strikes flint-sparks

From the rocks within his chamber,

Chops the hero into fragments.

Into five unequal portions,

Throws each portion to Tuoni,

In Manala’s lowest kingdom,

Speaks these words when he has ended:

‘Swim thou there, wild Lemminkainen,

Flow thou onward in this river,

Hunt forever in these waters,

With thy cross-bow and thine arrow,

Shoot the swan within this empire,

Shoot our water-birds in welcome!

Thus the hero, Lemminkainen,

Thus the handsome Kaukomieli,

The untiring suitor, dieth

In the river of Tuoni,

In the death-realm of Manala.

Trans. J. M. Crawford.

I think that from these two examples, Goethe’s “Achilleis” and the Kalevala, you will be able to see how on the one hand in the “Achilleis” you have something experienced as a perception – as breathed-in, I might say, and on the way to being transformed into a placid mental representation. But one does not let it arrive there: it is held back so that what should terminate in representation does not quite become a purely conceptual representation; it is arrested on the way there, and becomes what we might call an ‘enjoyed’ representation. Thus, halted on the way from perception to a concept, it is not conceptually grasped, but enjoyed. This expresses itself best in metre, in a quiet verse-measure. When, however, the will-element wells up from the human being, bearing on its waves the will-impulse as a representation – then, the force which would become the will to an act, would become an external deed, is held back; and just there, where the will-impulse still lives within man and moves him to speak, it becomes vocal, and the voice is so formed that the will lives in the waves of vocal expression. Here the transition is the very reverse of the previous one: there, we had to do with a transition from the activity of perception to the repose of mental representation; now we have the opposite – from the repose of representation to volition. But the will element is held back where it would transform itself into external movement, into life in the outer world. Just this outward movement is held back and, instead of plunging into action, it lives on the stream of the words.

All that I have here indicated takes place in recitation and declamation respectively. And we can study psychosomatically, through observation of man himself, both these forms as I have just described them – something which was actually practised in former times in a more instinctive way. In earlier methods of declamation and recitation, it was possible to differentiate very clearly between the epic and the dramatic, and also to discern, within the epic, the dramatic element; and also their interweaving in the lyric, where again both interpenetrate in the rhythm. At the present time, we must raise what used to be present more spontaneously and instinctively in methods of recitation, although with the more prosaic modes of recitation it hasbeen for some time forgotten – this must now be raised into consciousness. It must not, of course, live in the reciting just as I have presented it, when I described the more corporeal processes: this connection with the artistic formation of the breath as I have presented it must rather become a feeling, an inner perception. It is along this path that an art of recitation will be found. One must be able to study the paths taken by human consciousness.

If once more we observe the path along which the predominant inbreathing-process tends toward mental representation, our consciousness then lays hold of what is en route to becoming representation. And here we can experience two paths: either we enter into abstract prose-representation, in which case we arrive at the formation of a concept; or we do not grasp these abstract prose-representations, but enter into a movement which, before the fact comes to be represented, places us in the inbreathed air and all that it does in our body – thus our consciousness floats, as it were, on the inbreathed air, and we arrive, because the psycho-spiritual frees itself from the bonds of the body, at a sort of unconscious condition. It is not allowed to reach this state, however. It is arrested: it is held up in the region of the vowels; instead of allowing it to issue in the formation of a concept or entering an unconscious state, we move in the region of the vowels – a movement of “enjoyment”. This is what is done by these poets who revel in assonance. In this experience of the breathing-process which has not quite arrived at representation, we have consciousness moving on the waves of assonance, the repetition of the vowels (which is in fact also present, in weaker form, in terminal rhyme). This is what takes place here. When, on the other hand, the will is active, what is within strives outward: and instead of checking consciousness before it leads to purely conceptual representations, we arrest it where the will streams outward, and hold the impulse back, keeping it under control, so to speak. We then bring into this life of volition something which has entered that poetry in which the element of will in particular streams out from man’s inner being – that part of man’s nature with which the Nordic races were especially endowed, and which they brought to expression when they gave themselves over to the creation of poetry. When they were unable to live themselves out in external deeds, these Nordic-Germanic peoples arrested the impulse, the urge and impetus to external deeds, and expressed the movement poetically on the waves of the out-flowing impulses of will. This lives in the incessantly repeated consonants of alliteration: in this the will, which streams through the breath and the whole body, has life. In the movement of alliteration it is just this will element that is active, just as in assonance, in the repetition of the vowels, there is laid into the innermost nature of the words that inhaled breath which fails to become representation, and expresses itself, wave-like, in the movement of assonance.

We would like to demonstrate assonance with a second example, the “Chor der Urtriebe” by Fercher von Steinwand. And then the element of alliteration, illustrated by a reading from Jordan’s Nibelunge. Now it was Jordan’s particular endeavour to bring out once more the real nature of alliteration. Of course it is natural that the modern German language did not quite achieve this: for this reason, a faint breath of coquetry hovers over Jordan’s poetry. This, however, is not important. It is better, for our purposes, to make use of a revival of alliteration, rather than trying to revive the old and far too difficult alliteration, which in fact no longer appeals to the modern soul.

From “Chor der Urtriebe”:

 Ist’s ein Schwellen, ist’s ein Wogen, 

 Was aus allen Gürteln bricht? 

 Wo wir liebend eingezogen, 

 Dort ist Richtung, dort Gewicht. 

 Hätt’ uns Will’ und Wunsch betrogen? 

 Sind wir Mächte, sind wir’s nicht? 

 Was es sei, wir heischen Licht – 

 Und es kommt in schönen Bogen! 

 Jeglichem Streite 

 Licht zum Geleite! 

 Schleunigen Schwingungen 

 Zarter Erregung, 

 Weiten Verschlingungen 

 Tiefer Bewegung 

 Muß es gelingen, 

 Bald durch die hangenden, 

 Schmerzlich befangenden 

 Nächte zu dringen. 

 Über den Gründen, 

 Über den milden 

 Schwebegebilden 

 Muß sich’s verkünden, 

 Geister entzünden, 

 Herzen entwilden. 

 Hat es getroffen, 

 Find’ es euch offen! 

 Seht ihr die erste 

 Welle der Helle? 

 Grüßt sie die hehrste, 

 Heiligste Quelle! 

 Schnelle, nur schnelle! 

 Hellen Gesichtes 

 Huldigt dem Scheine, 

 Hütet das makellos ewiglich-eine 

 Wesen des Lichtes! 

 Mag es, sein wechselndes Streben zu feiern, 

 Farben entschleiern! 

 Wecken wir lieblichen Krieg, daß sich trunken 

 Lösen die Funken! 

 Laßt uns die Tiefen, die schaffend erschäumen, 

 Laßt uns das Edle, was streitend gesunken, 

 Laßt und die Kreise, die Fruchtendes träumen, 

 Strahlend besäumen! 

 Fercher von Steinwand (1828-1902) 

[Two examples may help clarify the characteristic effects of assonance in English poetry. The first is a passage from Swinburne’s “Tristram of Lyonesse – Prelude: Tristram and Iseult”.

These are the signs wherethrough the year sees move,
Full of the sun, the sun-god which is love,
A fiery body blood-red from the heart
Outward, with fire-white wings made wide apart,
That close not and unclose not, but upright
Steered without wind by their own light and might
Sweep through the flameless fire of air that rings
From heaven to heaven with thunder of wheels and wings
And antiphones of motion-moulded rhyme
Through spaces out of space and timeless time.
So shine above dead chance and conquered change
The spherèd signs, and leave without their range
Doubt and desire, and hope with fear for wife,
Pale pains, and pleasures long worn out of life.
Yea, even the shadows of them spiritless,
Through the dim door of sleep that seem to press,
Forms without form, a piteous people and blind,
Men and no men, whose lamentable kind
The shadow of death and shadow of life compel
Through semblances of heaven and false-faced hell,
Through dreams of light and dreams of darkness tost
On waves innavigable, are these so lost?
Shapes that wax pale and shift in swift strange wise,
Void faces with unspeculative eyes,
Dim things that gaze and glare, dead mouths that move,
Featureless heads discrowned of hate and love,
Mockeries and masks of motion and mute breath,
Leavings of life, the superflux of death—
If these things and no more than these things be

Left when man ends or changes, who can see?

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

And secondly:

THE WINDHOVER
To Christ our Lord

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-

dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

¤ ¤

No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889).] [Note 9]

From Die Nibelunge: Sigfrid-Sage, Canto 20:

Als die sinkende Sonne den Strom der Sage,

Den smaragdenen Rhein, errötend im Scheiden,

Mit Geschmeiden umgoss von geschmolzenem Golde,

Da glitten bei Worms durch die glänzenden Wellen

Hinauf und hinabwärts zahlreiche Nachen

Und führten das Volk vom Festspiel heimwärts.

Dem geregelten Rauschen und Pochen der Ruder

Am Borde der Boote melodisch verbunden,

Erklangen im Takt auch die klaren Töne

Menschlicher Kehlen: in mehreren Kähnen,

Die nah aneinander hinunter schwammen,

Sangen die Leute das Lied von der Sehnsucht,

Die hinunter ins Nachtreich auch Nanna getrieben,

Als die Mistel gemordet ihren Gemahl.

Lauschend im Fenster des Fürstenpalastes

Lag Krimhilde und harrte des Gatten.

In banger Befürchtung bittersten Vorwurfs

Verlangte nun doch nach dem fernen Geliebten

Ihre sorgende Seele voll Sehnsucht und Schmerz.

Sie fühlte sich schuldig und ahnte des Schicksals

Nahenden Schritt. So vernahm sie, erschrocken

Und trüben Sinnes, den Trauergesang.

Während der Wohllaut der uralten Weise

Vom Rhein heraufklang, regten sich leise

Ihre Lippen und liessen die Worte des Liedes,

Welche sie kannte seit frühester Kindheit,

Also hören ihr eigenes Ohr:

‘O Balder, mein Buhle,

Wo bist du verborgen?

Vernimm doch, wie Nanna

Sich namenlos bangt.

Erscheine, du Schöner,

Und neige zu Nanna,

Liebkosend und küssend,

Den minnigen Mund.’

Da klingen von Klage

Die flammenden Fluren,

Von seufzenden Stimmen

Und Sterbegesang:

Die Blume verblühet,

Erblassend, enblättert;

Der Sommer entseelt sie

Mit sengendem Strahl.

Beim Leichenbegängnis

Des göttlichen Lenzes

Zerfallt sie und folgt ihm

In feurigen Tod.

‘O Balder, mein Buhle,

Verlangende Liebe,

Unsägliche Sehnsucht

Verbrennt mir die Brust.’

Da tönt aus der Tiefe

Der Laut des Geliebten:

‘Die Lichtwelt verliess ich,

Du suchst mich umsonst.’

‘O Balder, mein Buhle,

Wo bist du verborgen?

Gib Nachricht, wie Nanna

Dich liebend erlöst?’

‘Nicht rufst du zurück mich

Aus Tiefen des Todes.

Was du liebst, musst du lassen,

Und das Leid nur ist lang.’

‘O Balder, mein Buhle,

Dich deckt nun das Dunkel;

So nimm denn auch Nanna

Hinab in die Nacht.’

Wilhelm Jordan (1819-1904).

[A revival of alliteration seems never to have appealed to English poets in modern times. There are, however, a number of good translations of the Old English alliterative poem Beowulf; part of it is translated in this example:

Sorrowful sat in the Hall of the Hart, the Dane King Hrodgar

Mourning the brave one fallen, the dear friend dead.

Bowed was the hoary head and his heart was heavy,

Speechless a while, Then speedily sent he and bade them bring

Beowulf hither, the Grendel slayer, Agatheon’s son,

Straightway the Aethling answered his summons, strode thro’ the Hall,

First mid his followers all and the flooring strained at their feet,

Came to the King. With kindly custom he greeted him,

Questioning courteous if quiet the night.

Then answer made Hrodgar, strength of the skylding

Ask not of rest nor of night! renewed is the anguish

Doomed to the Danesmen. Aeskere is dead –

Aeskere, Irmenlow’s brother, of Aethlings the best.

Trusty in council was he and of comrades truest.

Foremost still at my side in the stress of the battle,

When man came breast against man and the boar tusks meet.

Here in the Hall of the Hart is he felly murdered

By a fiend most foul – which one I wot not.

Some there be of my fellows who warden the marshlands

Tell how twain there be such at times in the twilight

Ghostly figures haunting the homestead and vastly tall.

One was in woman’s shape and what stalked beside her

With menacing mien man’s form wore.

Yet huger them thinketh than human fashion.

Grendel they term him, the old ground tillers

Since times of yore – and his sire none guesseth

Nor knoweth none if brethren he boasteth

Nor kindred claimeth ’mongst grimly ghosts.

Bleak their abode and barren; holes where the wolf howls.

Trans. E. Bowen-Wedgwood.]

We see how in the first poem with its assonances, there lives the representational element, checked on the way to becoming a concept and held fast in enjoyment; and how in the second, which is built up on alliteration, on the repetition of consonants, there lives the element of will, checked on its way outwards and realizing itself in inner movement on the waves of the words, on the waves of a will-impulse that has been grasped conceptually.

You will see that in bringing the impulse of spiritual science to bear on aesthetic considerations there is no temptation to introduce those abstractions which so easily find their way into intellectually-derived studies of art. It will be evident from such studies as we have pursued here, even though we have only been able to indicate certain guidelines – how an understanding is brought to art, yet an understanding that is also a perceptive power, and which thus becomes a knowledge of things. Art and knowledge are gradually interwoven into a living spiritual perception, which makes itself felt and demands to be put to the test in that very sphere where man himself becomes an instrument of artistic expression. Knowledge such as this does not observe art from without, but is gained from an inner participation in art – and knowledge such as this can become the bridge that leads to the practice of art.

Especially when learning the art of recitation, you will find in such knowledge a support quite different from anything deriving from all those techniques of respiration based on external, materialistic and mechanistic observation of the human body, which result in voice-production that is purely external and mechanical. An inner awareness in the learning of an artform becomes possible. And now, in conclusion, I will just draw attention to a few instances of things which have to be learnt in recitation. What is at stake, for instance, is not how the voice or the tone can be sustained by some kind of external method of manipulating the breath, or placing the voice, in the way taught by some bad singing-teachers. The essential thing is that what should stay in the unconscious must still remain there when we are learning a subject such as this – a man should not just be wrenched out of everything unconscious through clumsy treatment of the body. Rather, through proper artistic formation and artistic treatment we can train our breathing so that the whole process remains in a certain sphere of the unconscious, and yet is drawn up into the soul-element which gives it artistic expression. We can then, for instance, develop a sustained tone by practising this where it is particularly preponderant: in the recitation of something of a sublime and exalted nature. If we try, when reciting such noble verse, to develop the sustained tone on a foundation of actual feeling, the poise of the voice and the breathing will develop of themselves, out of a true feeling for what is actually being recited.

We can develop correct intonation, and bring out the tone, by reciting examples of the ridiculous or comical; the required strengthening of the tone that we need in the rise and fall of speech for declamation or recitation we can achieve by practising the tragic; and we can learn to attenuate and mollify the tone by practising the joyful. We discover how it is really the soul-element which we grasp, and which must come to expression in recitation and declamation, and how, when we grasp it rightly, we draw the physical and corporeal after. We do not first adjust the physical with clumsy techniques that will rein our handling of these matters and lead, not to the development of a real art, but to mere routine. We enter upon a quite genuine, and yet straightforward practise and study of art. But this will only be obtained if there is in our knowledge so much of aesthetic sensibility, that with it we can approach art; and only if, on the other hand, our perception of man is so far evolved that in those arts which make use of man as an instrument, we can see man himself revealed – a revelation of art pierced through by the pulsating, pervading spirit of man.

Through these few guiding principles, scanty as they are, I hope to have shown you at least the direction in which an art-form as subtle and intimate as recitation and declamation leads: but this path can only be followed when the attempt is earnestly made to find the bridge between art and science. When I drew attention to this as one aspect, at the outset of the course, it was no mere empty phrase. The intention was to show you, taking the art of recitation and declamation as an example, that we do not merely set before ourselves the abstract ideal of unifying religion, art and science; but in pursuing true spiritual perception, leading to real spiritual knowledge, we do actually achieve something in the way of bringing knowledge to art and illumining artistic creation through knowledge. Thus will man be able to enter more and more consciously into art, and will be able to bring forth more and more consciously what he needs from art in the course of his evolution towards an absolutely free and truly human consciousness.

The art of recitation and declamation, of which we are going to say something this evening, is not at present accorded its full status as an art-form. In our approach to this art we often give too little consideration to exactly what is presented by the poet and to the medium in which the reciter or declaimer has to be artistically active. This moves us to consider the essentials of the art of recitation and declamation – when, as you have seen demonstrated many times, it presents itself as an accompanying art to eurythmy. We then become deeply aware that recitation and declamation must go beyond the prose content of a poem, which is actually the poem’s thought-component. For to stress the prose content turns the recitation and declamation of the poem into something inartistic. When in reciting, as happens at the present day, importance is attached to a prosaic stress on the meaning, this is an indication of our having abandoned the domain of the truly artistic. Let us be clear that a poet – if he is a true poet – will certainly have had in his imagination (in the full sense of the word) something which ultimately becomes apparent in the recitation and declamation. A poet who only had in his soul the thought-content, or the word-for-word content of feeling, and not the inwardly heard sound- and word-movement of the poem, would simply not be a poet at all. But it must also be made clear that what is put before the reciter is, in the end, only a kind of score or music-script – and that the art of recitation and declamation must go beyond the script in the same way as a pianist or other practising musician has to do. The re-creation is a new creating and the new creation is a re-creating. A musician who composes a piano work will, of course, also have in his imagination the whole pattern of sound: and whoever wishes to re-create his composition must make himself familiar above all with the instrument itself and with its characteristic sound-pattern and tone – of the piano in this instance. He must comprehend the art of handling both the instrument and its medium. And likewise the reciter must understand the art of handling speech. His instrument is bound up much more closely with his own being than are the external instruments of the musician, and in deploying his particular instrument he will also have to develop his own special characteristics. But he will have to start with the handling of speech, the material by means of which he can give expression to what reaches him from the poet only as a sort of score. As regards the handling of speech, it will be just as necessary to begin with the fundamentals as in the art of piano-playing, though the study must in many respects be pursued more intensively than in the case of learning the piano.

We must also take into consideration that we are now living in a time when much of what has hitherto lived instinctively within the soul of man must be raised into consciousness. There is still today in wide circles, and not least among artists, a certain fear of this consciousness when it is brought to bear on artistic, creative work. They think that by introducing this sort of consciousness they will injure instinctive, imaginative creation and cripple it; many believe, too, that by becoming conscious of what really goes on in the soul in artistic creation they will lose that spontaneity essential to the creation of art.

There is certainly some truth in all this. But, on the other hand, we must realise that what we are striving for in the sphere of anthroposophical perception is a matter of exceptional importance for our time and our civilisation. The slow struggle toward the experience of what in our spiritual stream is called Imagination weaves and lives in an element quite other than the intellectual, so that artistic feeling need in no way be lost when it is confronted with Imaginative experience. Indeed, if we are dealing with genuine Imaginations it cannot be lost. For what is disclosed in an Imagination with a view to knowledge is objectively (not subjectively but objectively) different from the Imagination manifested when the soul gives it an artistic form.

If I may refer for a moment to something personal: I would like to say that to me it was always extremely distasteful if someone or other came along and tried to interpret my Mystery Plays in a symbolic way and imported into them all sorts of intellectual notions. For what lives in these Mystery Plays is experienced Imaginatively – down to every single sound. The picture stands there as a picture and has always stood there as a picture. It would never have occurred to me to begin with an intellectual idea and then fashion it into a picture.

In that way I was able to discover by experience how, when one is attempting to impart artistic form, the Imaginative comes to be something objectively quite different to the form assumed by an Imagination that is directed toward cognition. Hence this prejudice, that spontaneity and instinctive imagining will be impaired if one raises artistic activity into consciousness, will have to be overcome. Our times require that this prejudice should be overcome. We may then perhaps be guided to the true foundations of declamation and recitation, as it is in this direction that they will have to be developed in the near future.

We cannot put recitation and declamation into practice unless we fathom the fundamental differences presented in poetry by, on the one side, lyric; on the second side, epic; and on the third, the dramatic. [Note 10] Today we shall only be able to present something of the lyric and the dramatic. We shall then continue with something that might be called a ‘prose-poem’. There were reasons for this choice. The epic will be considered separately later on – indeed the epic can perhaps best illustrate the art of recitation when once we have advanced beyond the elementary stages of the art.

In order to penetrate to a real declamatory and recitative art involving the lyric, dramatic and epic, the following must be observed. Whoever aims at this kind of vocal production must, for instance, develop a distinct feeling for the connection between lyric and the constituents of speech – and this he will achieve through a living experience of the vowels. A feeling for the vowels, for the intimacy of the vowels, must be sought if the lyrical is to be embodied and brought to expression. For it is in the vowel sounds that man’s essentially inward experience is expressed. In the single vowel-sounds – when penetrated by a sensitive understanding, a discerning sensibility – lies the whole spectrum of human inner experience. In vocalisation (the sounding of the vowels) lives everything which we might describe as coming from musical experience and which is projected into the lyric. Lyrical experience can definitely be traced back to musical experience. But in musical experience we find inwardness being unfolded in the movement of sound. In the lyric, we find inwardness absorbed into the very substance of the vowel itself. Yet whoever wishes to approach recitation from this point of view must avoid a certain error – and no greater error in the art of recitation is conceivable. For when we are learning how to handle the materials and elements of speech, we might be tempted to commence by introducing an element of feeling, to put subjective feeling into the vowel; and this is just what would actually make it prosaic. This is the opposite approach to that of recitation. Anyone who wishes to recite lyrical poetry must have a sensitivity to the vowel itself. He must begin by experiencing the vowel as such. Just as Goethe, for instance, recognises different shades of feeling in the various shades of colour, so we shall not only experience in the vowels different shades of feeling, but utterly different conditions of soul, different soul-contents. We shall feel every gradation, from sorrow and bitterness to joy and jubilation, in our sensing of the vowels and experience of what might be termed the vowel-scale.

It will be readily admitted that much of what I am saying is often felt instinctively by the reciter when he comes to apply his art in individual poems. But he will be able to enhance his art significantly if he brings such a feeling to conscious awareness. Through vocalisation something capable of further development will be disclosed to him: he will discover how a vowel sounding earlier on still sounds in the later vowels – or a later vowel-sound modifies the earlier ones, etc. However, these things must not be practised in the mechanical and materialistic way often adopted nowadays, when various postures are assumed, along with artificial breath-control. Everything the body has to learn in this domain must derive purely from what is learnt in working with speech itself. Just as a painter can learn most when, instructed by an accomplished artist, he paints directly onto the canvas and only touches his work up here and there, – so too will the reciter best learn to recite by acquiring his grasp of speech from speech itself: from actual speaking, from handling the speech-movement. Afterwards, his attention can be drawn to any particular detail relating to external, bodily control. It is a curious tendency of our materialistic times first to move away from the poem and adjust the instrument of speech and only then return to artistic speaking. This aberration might almost be called nonsense; it certainly does not derive from true artistic feeling.

Furthermore, if it is with the help of the vowel-sounds that we come to experience the lyric it is through the consonants that we shall begin to get a feeling for the epic. Truly to enter into the consonants is to experience over again, within ourselves, what is going on outside us. And if we feel in the consonantal element this peculiar imitation within us of the outside world, we shall be led artistically from these elementary constituents to an inner re-experiencing of what is also to be found in the images of a far-ranging epos. I can only touch upon this today; at another opportunity it can be referred to again.

In this way it will be possible to develop what ought to lie at the foundation of recitation and declamation into a true art-form, down to its handling of the constituents of speech. And it will necessarily become clear to us, if we see the essential feature of this art in the way it handles actual speech, that the nuances of the art will show up in its response to the different languages – each language having its own special recitative or declamatory requirements. A language which is essentially mimetic, one which takes its departure from the intellect and classification and has developed language in the sphere of the intellect, a language which has abstracted itself from what can be experienced in the outer world, – such a language will have to tackle recitation and declamation quite differently to one in which the sounds (vowels and consonants) themselves express their relationship to inwardness or to externality.

Now, in the first part of what Frau Dr. Steiner is going to declaim, you will hear to begin with something lyrical. From this you should actually be able to hear how lyrical poems come to expression with varying nuances, depending on the language in which they are presented. That will be the first part of our programme – a performance of essentially lyrical poems.

Three poems of Goethe’s youth.

BEHERZIGUNG

Ach, was soll der Mensch verlangen?

Ist es besser, ruhig bleiben?

Klammernd fest sich anzuhangen?

Ist es besser, sich zu treiben?

Soll er sich ein Häuschen bauen?

Soll er unter Zelten leben?

Soll er auf die Felsen trauen?

Selbst die festen Felsen beben.

Eines schickt sich nicht für alle!

Sehe jeder wie er’s treibe,

Sehe jeder wo er bleibe,

Und wer steht, dass er nicht falle!

MEERES STILLE

Tiefe Stille herrscht im Wasser,

Ohne Regung ruht das Meer,

Und bekümmert sieht der Schiffer

Glatte Fläche rings umher.

Keine Luft von keiner Seite!

Todesstille fürchterlich!

In der ungeheuern Weite

Reget keine Welle sich.

MIT EINEM GEMALTEN BAND

Kleine Blumen, kleine Blätter

Streuen mir mit leichter Hand

Gute junge Frühlingsgötter

Tändelnd auf ein luftig Band.

Zephyr, nimm’s auf deine Flügel,

Schling’s um meiner Liebsten Kleid!

Und so tritt sie vor den Spiegel

All in ihrer Munterkeit.

Sieht mit Rosen sich umgeben,

Selbst wie eine Rose jung:

Einen Blick, geliebtes Leben!

Und ich bin belohnt genung.

Fühle, was dies Herz empfindet,

Reiche frei mir deine Hand,

Und das Band, das uns verbindet,

Sei kein schwaches Rosenband!

A little English lyric:

SONG

April, April,

Laugh thy girlish laughter;

Then, the moment after,

Weep thy girlish tears!

April, that mine ears

Like a lover greetest,

If I tell thee, sweetest,

All my hopes and fears,

April, April,

Laugh thy golden laughter,

But, the moment after,

Weep thy golden tears!

William Watson (1858-1935).

THE BELLS OF ST. PETERSBURGH

Those evening bells! those evening bells!

How many a tale their music tells,

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time,

When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are past away!

And many a heart, that then was gay,

Within the tomb now darkly dwells,

And hears no more those evening bells!

And so ’twill be when I am gone;

That tuneful peal will still ring on,

While other bards shall walk these dells,

And sing your praise, sweet evening bells!

Thomas Moore (1799-1852).

An example of Russian lyric:

NILE DELTA

Lucid gold and emerald,

and black earth’s thick fecundity:

landscape aloof, your wealth witheld

from ease, in mute profundity…

Bosom laden with your fruit, –

how many slumberous shapes repose

secure in you, most lowly root,

or fertile corpses decompose?

Yet not for all slow dissipation:

not those that yearly upward flame,

like ghosts at magic conjuration,

and vernal life from death proclaim;

not Isis, crowned with flowers supernal,

lush companions of the spring –

the Touch-me-not, the Maid eternal,

the Rainbow’s incandescent ring!

Vladimir Soloviov (1853-1900).

Trans. Neil Thompson and A.J.W. [Note 11]

[Of considerable interest too is the beautiful German translation used in the original programme:

NILDELTA

Goldenglänzendes, smaragdenes,

Tief schwarzerdenes Gefild,

Deines Kraftens reicher Segen

Aus der Scholle quillt.

Dieser Schoss, der keimetragende,

Tote bergend in den Ton,

Er litt stumm, der allergebene,

Die jahrtausend lange Fron.

Doch nicht alles so Empfangene

Trugst empor du jedes Jahr.

Das vom alten Tod Gezeichnete

Sieht des Lenzes sich noch bar.

Isis nicht, die Kronen tragende,

Wird dir bringen jenen Kranz,

Doch die unberührte, ewige

Magd im Regenbogenglanz.

Trans. Marie Steiner.]

WANDRERS STURMLIED

Wen du nicht verlässest, Genius,

Nicht der Regen, nicht der Sturm

Haucht ihm Schauer übers Herz.

Wen du nicht verlässest, Genius,

Wird dem Regengewölk,

Wird dem Schlossensturm

Entgegen singen,

Wie die Lerche,

Du da droben.

Den du nicht verlässest, Genius,

Wirst ihn heben übern Schlammpfad

Mit den Feuerflügeln;

Wandeln wird er

Wie mit Blumenfüssen

Über Deukalions Flutschlamm,

Python tötend, leicht, gross,

Pythius Apollo.

Den du nicht verlässest, Genius,

Wirst die wollnen Flügel unterspreiten,

Wenn er auf dem Felsen schläft,

Wirst mit Hüterfittichen ihn decken

In des Haines Mitternacht.

Wen du nicht verlässest, Genius,

Wirst im Schneegestöber

Wärmumhüllen;

Nach der Wärme ziehn sich Musen,

Nach der Wärme Charitinnen.

Umschwebet mich ihr Musen,

Ihr Charitinnen:

Das ist Wasser, das ist Erde,

Und der Sohn des Wassers und der Erde,

Über den ich wandle

Göttergleich.

Ihr seid rein, wie das Herz der Wasser,

Ihr seid rein, wie das Mark der Erde,

Ihr umschwebt mich und ich schwebe

Über Wasser, über Erde,

Göttergleich.

Soll der zurückkehren,

Der kleine, schwarze, feurige Bauer?

Soll der zurückkehren, erwartend

Nur deine Gaben, Vater Bromius,

Und helleuchtend umwärmend Feuer?

Der kehren mutig?

Und ich, den ihr begleitet,

Musen und Charitinnen alle,

Den alles erwartet, was ihr,

Musen und Charitinnen,

Umkränzende Seligkeit

Rings ums Leben verherrlicht habt,

Soll mutlos kehren?

Vater Bromius!

Du bist Genius,

Jahrhunderts Genius,

Bist, was innre Glut

Pindarn war,

Was der Welt

Phöbus Apoll ist.

Weh! Weh! Innre Wärme,

Seelenwärme,

Mittelpunkt:

Glüh’ entgegen

Phöb’ Apollen;

Kalt wird sonst

Sein Fürstenblick

Über dich vorübergleiten,

Neidgetroffen

Auf der Ceder Kraft verweilen,

Die zu grünen

Sein nicht harrt.

Warum nennt mein Lied dich zuletzt?

Dich, von dem es begann,

Dich, in dem es endet,

Dich, aus dem es quillt,

Jupiter Pluvius!

Dich, dich strömt mein Lied,

Und kastalischer Quell

Rinnt ein Nebenbach,

Rinnet Müssigen,

Sterblich Glücklichen

Abseits von dir,

Der du mich fassend deckst,

Jupiter Pluvius!

Nicht am Ulmenbaum

Hast du ihn besucht,

Mit dem Taubenpaar

In dem zärtlichen Arm,

Mit der freundlichen Ros’ umkränzt,

Tändelnden ihn, blumenglücklichen

Anakreon,

Sturmatmende Gottheit!

Nicht im Pappelwald

An des Sybaris Strand,

An des Gebirges

Sonnebeglänzter Stirn nicht

Fasstest du ihn,

Den bienensingenden,

Honig-lallenden,

Freundlich winkenden

Theokrit.

Wenn die Räder rasselten,

Rad an Rad rasch ums Ziel weg,

Hoch flog

Siegdurchglühter

Jünglinge Peitschenknall,

Und sich Staub wälzt’,

Wie vom Gebirg herab

Kieselwetter ins Tal,—

Glühte deine Seel’ Gefahren, Pindar

Mut.—Glühte?—

Armes Herz!

Dort auf dem Hügel,

Himmlische Macht!

Nur so viel Glut,

Dort meine Hütte,

Dorthin zu waten!

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

[For such lyrical intensity and power in English this famous ode remains unsurpassed:

ODE TO THE WEST WIND

I

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until

Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)

With living hues and odours plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;

Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!

II

Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,

Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed,

Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread

On the blue surface of thine aery surge,

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge

Of the horizon to the zenith’s height,

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,

Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere

Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear!

III

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,

Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay,

And saw in sleep old palaces and towers

Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou

For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below

The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear

The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,

And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!

IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

A wave to pant beneath thy power, and spare

The impulse of thy strength, only less free

Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even

I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,

As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed

Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne’er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.

Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life: I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed

One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:

What if my leaves are falling like its own!

The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,

Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,

My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe

Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!

And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth

Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind,

If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822).]

When studying poetry with a view to artistic declamation, it is of primary importance to lose nothing of what wells up in the words from the poet’s soul, or is contained in what is given to us by him. Recitation, as well as poetry itself, will only become artistic when everything that the soul expresses in the prose content is recast into form, into something formed. In the lyric it must go more into the musical. In the epic and particularly in the dramatic, more into imagery, into what has been given a definite form. The lyrical, as I said, inclines toward the vowel-sounds; but we must not forget that every consonant also has in it a vowel-element. In every consonant there lies a disposition toward a vowel and every vowel has a tendency toward a consonant. Consequently through art, just as in other spheres where something similar is effected, the opposition between subjective and objective will be completely overcome. The whole inner being of man will be able to live in the outer world and the outer world will be brought to expression in its full strength through the inner being of man.

Speaking about the art of reciting in our course last autumn, I drew your attention to the universal, cosmic rhythm which is expressed in the rhythmic system of man. Furthermore, I showed how this comes to find expression in poetry – and thence, of course, in recitation as the manifestation of poetic art. We may say that an element with a more spiritual tendency (since the spirit manifests itself in everything physical) unfolds in the tempo of the human pulse-beat; while something more psychic, we may also say, something that takes its course in the soul, unfolds in the rhythm of breathing. A greater part of what is expressed in poetic form depends on the interplay between the rhythms of the pulse and breathing and the ratio of one to the other. And it is in the hexameter that the primary and most self-evident ratio between pulse-rhythm and breathing-rhythm is displayed. Fundamentally the hexameter involves two breaths, with four pulse-beats to each breath and this, of course, is the natural ratio between human breathing and the pulse.

In this way, what wells up in poetry comes to actual corporeal utterance. And conversely, the poetic must come to expression through recitation and declamation out of the human being as a whole. It is as if the pulse-rhythm were playing upon the breathing-rhythm – rhythm on rhythm. And what lives in rhythm is expressed again in the musicality of speech, in lyrical poetry. All the prose content of a poem must be led back to this inner rhythmic treatment of metre and tempo. Everything that lies in the what of the content must also lie in the how of the performance, so that in discovering the one in the other there is really an experience of the whole. [Note 12] If, in poetry or reciting, we find ourselves having to exert our intellect to grasp the merely word-for-word content, then the artistic is at that point disrupted.

This should really be ever-present in our mind when in any field of art we have to struggle through from inartistic content to genuine artistic form or to what has been permeated by the element of music. The latter is especially evident in reciting or declaiming a poem that is lyrical in origin.

In the case of dramatic art, too, its own artistic forms must be represented when it is expressed in speech-formation. In fact we can say: Recitation as an independent art must take account of the way that it evolves the dramatic rather differently from how it is evolved in a fully staged production. Yet the essence of the stage-production must appear in the way the speech is handled – in the recitative-declamatory treatment of the drama.

What do we actually have before us when we consider poetic drama? It is essentially something that only comes into existence through the characters on stage – or, if we do not see the drama with our eyes and hear it with our ears, through what our imagination has picked up from the poetic language and set in its totality before our souls. Everything must flow in moving form. But although the drama is only complete when presented on stage, we must realise all the same that everything standing before us, the persons on the stage, everything we hear, is fundamentally the expression of a soul-quality. The soul-quality which evolves as drama, in the separate characters and in their interaction – this is really the essential content of the drama.

At this point it becomes necessary to take note of what actually goes on in the soul. What goes on there, especially in the re-creation of a drama, is something imaginative; and this is so even when it is only with the poetry that we are concerned. On the stage the presentation must be pictorial. But here, too, what is spoken is a pictorial representation of what lives in the poet’s soul. What is presented on the stage is effective, not through its reality, but through what derives from the ’fair seeming’: [Note 13] it is imaginative despite its reality. And when the dramatic forms come before our souls as images – that too is imaginative, albeit in a special sense. Imagination is not experienced in its true being, but as a projection into our souls in image-form. In the same way a shadow thrown onto the wall by a three-dimensional object is related to the object itself, though in no way containing what lives in the object; as a good two-dimensional portrayal contains everything its three-dimensional subject has: so what is represented in our imaginings contains the shadow thrown there by imagination. The stage presentation is fundamentally nothing but an external, corporeal representation of what lives in these images and for this reason we feel an aversion (if we have any healthy feeling for such things) whenever in the drama external reality is merely imitated naturalistically. Dramatic art can no more tolerate realistic imitation than can the other arts of speech – though these are less liable to such difficulties. And when, as in our times, the tendency toward realism has so often emerged in drama productions, and we have seen Schiller’s characters shown on stage with their hands in their pockets! When an attempt has been made to produce a realistic imitation of external, physical nature, this only shows that we have strayed from a genuinely aesthetic perception, and little by little in the general course of civilisation lost the truly artistic.

It is possible to adopt a materialistic world-conception, and in a certain sense this is appropriate for the external organic world. In outer life it is possible to be realistic, but it is not so in art. For what we then produce is no longer in the domain of art at all – and this can be seen both in the drama itself and in the way speech is handled in these dramatic productions.

It is really a matter of putting everything an artistic speech-formation can achieve into the treatment of the language. This comprises the most varied elements. I should only like to point out a few details – our limited time does not allow more. There may exist, for example, in what is presented through speech-formation, a sort of average tempo. We feel this and starting from this average tempo we can effect a transition to a quicker one, to a more rapid delivery of the words, or to a slower one. The first, the more rapid delivery, always expresses a kind of going-out of the human “I” – a going out from oneself and widely extending oneself. Naturally one can feel this in different ways: as a separation, for example, from some thing one longs to reach. A slowing-down of the words, notably in dramatic speech, will present a kind of being-within-oneself. Everything expressed in a self-collected contemplation, a resting within oneself, will be connected with a slowing-down of the tempo.

Another formative principle lies in the raising or lowering of the pitch. The first is connected with the spiritualisation of an inner experience, with an ascending of the “I” above itself. Going out of oneself in wide extension is connected with the tempo: and ascending above oneself is associated with a rising in pitch. Everything in the content which strives toward spiritualisation (even if only a spiritualisation in which the human intellect is overpowered by the will, by ardour, by enthusiasm) will bring itself to formative expression in raising the pitch. And when a human being sinks below the level of his ordinary life, whether in sorrow or in inwardness, this will be connected with a fall in pitch. All this will find particular expression in dramatic art and everything dramatic speech-formation demands will have to flow into the element of form – so that everything must be grasped, not by the sheer power of intellect, but as an expression of this formative treatment of speech – and of course, if it is a matter of stage production, through the gestures. It will all flow into this special way of speaking, so that in the very speech we can feel what the content is. It will not be very easy to bring certain things in dramatic art to perfection, because (as Aristotle already knew) drama has to do with causal connections in life; and for this reason what may be called the dramatic score, in the sense we spoke of earlier as that which has to be realised, is very largely based on an implicit understanding and discernment. It must be transformed into something that can be attained through the speech-formation itself: through tempo, metre, rhythm, the rise and fall of the pitch, etc. It is from the speech-formation that the images which arise before the soul must flow.

We must enter into such intimacies of human life if we wish to find the truly artistic. Dramatic art itself, because it is lifted out of physical experience through imagination (even if only a reflection, a shadowy image of true imagination) can only become effective if it shows itself in the style, in the handling of the speech.

Hence in dramatic art, even down to the treatment of speech, it is for dramatic style that one will have to cultivate a special sense. Style, not realism, must be all-important. Hence we can say that what has been developed in the way of dramatic style in the French theatre and has been imitated in other languages, what culminated in the classical French presentation of tragedy can stand before us like a model from which to learn the formation of a dramatic style. From the style in which the French classics were, until quite recently, presented on the French stage (and after them the non-classical drama too), we shall be able to obtain a good idea of how a uniquely dramatic mode stands out against naturalistic speech, such as depends on intellectual understanding rather than the element of form.

Two passages, taken from the German and the French, will exemplify what I have roughly tried to indicate as regards dramatic style and the dramatic treatment of speech.

Recitation by Marie Steiner.

From Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell, Act IV, Scene 5:

TELL (enters with his crossbow):

Durch diese hohle Gasse muss er kommen;

Es führt kein andrer Weg nach Küssnacht – Hier

Vollend’ ich’s. – Die Gelegenheit ist günstig.

Dort der Holunderstrauch verbirgt mich ihm,

Von dort herab kann ihn mein Pfeil erlangen;

Des Weges Enge wehret den Verfolgern.

Mach deine Rechnung mit dem Himmel, Vogt,

Fort musst du, deine Uhr ist abgelaufen.

Ich lebte still und harmlos – Das Geschoss

War auf des Waldes Tiere nur gerichtet,

Meine Gedanken waren rein von Mord –

Du hast aus meinem Frieden mich heraus

Geschreckt, in gärend Drachengift hast du

Die Milch der frommen Denkart mir verwandelt,

Zum Ungeheuren hast du mich gewöhnt –

Wer sich des Kindes Haupt zum Ziele setzte,

Der kann auch treffen in das Herz des Feinds.

Die armen Kindlein, die unschuldigen,

Das treue Weib muss ich vor deiner Wut

Beschützen, Landvogt! – Da, als ich den Bogenstrang

Anzog – als mir die Hand erzitterte –

Als du mit grausam teufelischer Lust

Mich zwangst, aufs Haupt des Kindes anzulegen –

Als ich ohnmächtig flehend rang vor dir,

Damals gelobt’ ich mir in meinem Innern

Mit furchtbarm Eidschwur, den nur Gott gehört,

Dass meines nächsten Schusses erstes Ziel

Dein Herz sein sollte. – Was ich mir gelobt

In jenes Augenblickes Höllenqualen,

Ist eine heil’ge Schuld – ich will sie zahlen.

Du bist mein Herr und meines Kaisers Vogt;

Doch nicht der Kaiser hätte sich erlaubt,

Was du. – Er sandte dich in diese Lande,

Um Hecht zu sprechen – strenges, denn er zürnet –

Doch nicht um mit der mörderischen Lust

Dich jedes Greuels straflos zu erfrechen;

Es lebt ein Gott, zu strafen und zu rächen.

Komm du hervor, du Bringer bittrer Schmerzen,

Mein teures Kleinod jetzt, mein höchster Schatz –

Ein Ziel will ich dir geben, das bis jetzt

Der frommen Bitte undurchdringlich war –

Doch dir soll es nicht widerstehn. – Und du,

Vertraute Bogensehne, die so oft

Mir treu gedient hat in der Freude Spielen,

Verlass mich nicht im fürchterlichen Ernst:

Nur jetzt noch halte fest, du treuer Strang,

Der mir so oft den herben Pfeil beflügelt –

Entränn’ er jetzo kraftlos meinen Händen,

Ich habe keinen zweiten zu versenden.

(Wanderers pass over the stage.)

Auf dieser Bank von Stein will ich mich setzen,

Dem Wanderer zur kurzen Ruh bereitet –

Denn hier ist keine Heimat. – Jeder treibt

Sich an dem andern rasch und fremd vorüber

Und fraget nicht nach seinem Schmerz. – Hier geht

Der sorgenvolle Kaufmann und der leicht

Geschürzte Pilger – der andächtige Mönch,

Der düstre Räuber und der heitre Spielmann,

Der Säumer mit dem schwerbeladnen Ross,

Der ferne herkommt von der Menschen Ländern,

Denn jede Strasse führt ans End’ der Welt.

Sie alle ziehen ihres Weges fort

An ihr Geschäft – und meines ist der Mord’. (Sits down)

– Sonst, wenn der Vater auszog, liebe Kinder,

Da war ein Freuen, wenn er wiederkam;

Denn niemals kehrt’ er heim, er bracht’ euch etwas,

Warts eine schöne Alpenblume, war’s

Ein seltner Vogel oder Ammonshorn,

Wie es der Wandrer findet auf den Bergen –

Jetzt geht er einem andern Weidwerk nach,

Am wilden Weg sitzt er mit Mordgedanken;

Des Feindes Leben ist’s, worauf er lauert.

– Und doch an euch nur denkt er, liebe Kinder,

Auch jetzt – euch zu verteidigen, eure holde Unschuld

Zu schützen vor der Rache des Tyrannen,

Will er zum Morde jetzt den Bogen spannen. (Stands up).

Ich laure auf ein edles Wild. – Lässt sich’s

Der Jäger nicht verdriessen, tagelang

Umher zu streifen in des Winters Strenge,

Von Fels zu Fels den Wagesprung zu tun,

Hinan zu klimmen an den glatten Wänden,

Wo er sich anleimt mit dem eignen Blut,

– Um ein armselig Grattier zu erjagen. Hier

gilt es einen köstlicheren Preis, Das Herz des

Todfeinds, der mich will verderben.

(Gay music in the distance coming nearer.)

Mein ganzes Lebelang hab’ ich den Bogen

Gehandhabt, mich geübt nach Schützenregel;

Ich habe oft geschossen in das Schwarze

Und manchen schönen Preis mir heimgebracht

Vom Freudenschiessen. – Aber heute will ich

Den Meisterschuss tun und das beste mir

Im ganzen Umkreis des Gebirgs gewinnen.

Friedrich Schiller (1759-1805).

[A speech from Dryden’s All for Love: or, The World Well Lost (his “imitation” of Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra) may stand here as a sample of the Neoclassical drama in England. It comprises Act I, Scene i, 237ff:

ANTONY (having thrown himself down) :

Lye there, thou shadow of an Emperor;

The place thou pressest on thy Mother-earth

Is all thy Empire now: now it contains thee;

Some few days hence, and then ’twill be too large,

When thou’rt contracted in thy narrow Urn,

Shrunk to a few cold Ashes; then Octavia,

(For Cleopatra will not live to see it)

Octavia then will have thee all her own,

And bear thee in her Widow’d hand to Caesar;

Caesar will weep, the Crocodile will weep,

To see his Rival of the Universe

Lie still and peaceful there. I’le think no more on’t.

Give me some Musick; look that it be sad:

I’le sooth my Melancholy till I swell,

And burst my self with sighing—Soft Musick

‘Tis somewhat to my humor. Stay, I fancy

I’m now turn’d wild, a Commoner of Nature;

Of all forsaken, and forsaking all;

Live in a shady Forest’s Sylvan Scene,

Stretch’d at my length beneath some blasted Oke;

I lean my head upon the Mossy Bark,

And look just of a piece, as I grew from it:

My uncomb’d Locks, matted like Misleto,

Hang o’re my hoary Face; a mirm’ring Brook

Runs at my foot…

The Herd come jumping by me,

And fearless, quench their thirst, while I look on,

And take me for their fellow-Citizen,

More of this Image, more; it lulls my thoughts.

(Soft Musick again)

John Dryden (1631-1700).]

From Le Cid, Act III, Scene 4:

CHIMÈNE: Ah! Rodrigue, il est vrai, quoique ton ennemie,

Je ne puis te blâmer d’avoir fui l’infamie;

Et, de quelque façon qu’éclatent mes douleurs,

Je ne t’accuse point, je pleure mes malheurs.

Je sais ce que l’honneur, aprés un tel outrage,

Demandait à 1’ardeur d’un généreux courage:

Tu n’as fait le devoir que d’un homme de bien;

Mais aussi, le faisant, tu m’as appris le mien.

Ta funeste valeur m’instruit par ta victoire;

Elle a vengé ton père et soutenu ta gloire:

Même soin me regarde, et j’ai, pour m’affliger,

Ma gloire à soutenir, et mon père à venger.

Hélas! ton intérêt ici me désespère:

Si quelque autre malheur m’avait ravi mon père,

Mon âme aurait trouvé dans le bien de te voir

L’unique allégement qu’elle eût pu recevoir;

Et contre ma douleur j’aurais senti des charmes

Quand une main si chére eût essuyé mes larmes.

Mais il me faut te perdre après l’avoir perdu;

Cet effort sur ma flamme a mon honneur est dû;

Et cet affreux devoir, dont l’ordre m’assassine,

Me force à travailler moi-même à ta ruine.

Car enfin n’attends pas de mon affection

De lâches sentiments pour ta punition.

De quoi qu’en ta faveur notre amour m’entretienne,

Ma générosité doit répondre à la tienne:

Tu t’es, en m’offensant, montré digne de moi;

Je me dois, par ta mort, montrer digne de toi.

RODRIGUE: Ne diffère donc plus ce que l’honneur t’ordonne:

demande ma tête, et je te l’abandonne;

Fais-en un sacrifice a ce noble intérêt;

Le coup m’en sera doux, aussi bien que l’arrêt.

Attendre après mon crime une lente justice,

C’est reculer ta gloire autant que mon supplice.

Je mourrai trop heureux, mourant d’un coup si beau.

CHIMÈNE: Va, je suis ta partie, et non pas ton bourreau.

Si tu m’offres ta tête, est-ce à moi de la prendre?

Je la dois attaquer, mais tu dois la défendre:

C’est d’un autre que toi qu’il me faut l’obtenir

Et je dois te poursuivre, et non pas te punir.

RODRIGUE: De quoi qu’en ma faveur notre amour t’entretienne.

Ta générosité doit répondre à la mienne;

Et, pour venger un père, emprunter d’autres bras

Ma Chimène, crois-moi, c’est n’y répondre pas.

Ma main seule du mien a su venger l’offense,

Ta main seule du tien doit prendre la vengeance.

CHIMÈNE: Cruel! à quel propos sur ce point t’obstiner?

Tu t’es vengé sans aide, et tu m’en veux donner!

Je suivrai ton exemple, et j’ai trop de courage

Pour souffrir qu’avec toi ma gloire se partage.

Mon père et mon honneur ne veulent rien devoir

Aux traits de ton amour ni de ton désespoir.

RODRIGUE: Rigoureux point d’honneur. Hélas! quoi que je fasse.

Ne pourrai-je à la fin obtenir cette grâce?

Au nom d’un père mort, ou de notre amitié

Punis-moi par vengeance, ou du moins par pitié.

Ton malheureux amant aura bien moins de peine

A mourir par ta main qu’à vivre avec ta haine.

CHIMÈNE: Va, je ne te hais point.

RODRIGUE: Tu le dois.

CHIMÈNE: Je ne puis.

Pierre Corneille (1606-1684).

We shall continue now with something about the prose-poem. Here it is a matter of something in the artist’s soul which he experiences as poetry, but which cannot be expressed in any of the art-forms generally employed. Although put into prose, it is nonetheless a genuinely poetic art that is brought to expression in this form. But anything cast in the form of a prose-poem will need special treatment when it is expressed in speech-formation. It is almost universally – though quite erroneously – assumed that the recitation or declamation of prose-poems is something easy to accomplish. In reality, the recitative-declamatory speaking of prose-poetry is the most difficult, as it represents the most intimate form of the art. Everything that comes to light in lyric, dramatic or epic speech-formation, whether of a more delicate or more profound nature, must form a synthesis whenever a prose-poem is to be presented in oral production. In recitation of this kind everything that is to be found in verse, or any form of poetic art, will sound forth – but with a more delicate shading.

In this way, merely touching upon what otherwise appears in the recitation and declamation with stronger emphasis, with more marked contours – by giving this only gentle emphasis – the recital will become essentially suffused with soul. Suffused with soul!

The artistic recital of prose-poetry must become much more soul-filled: it must occasion our going beyond the conceptual understanding of the words toward something imaginative. The energetic impetus that underlies logical inference, for example, leads toward an image-forming experience; [Note 14] and at the same time there sounds through softly, as something musical, the octave. The image-forming treatment of speech in a prose-poem, when presented in recitation or declamation, is like a continually flowing stream with its even waves. And, as if from the depths, other waves arise, bringing variation into its even flow – this is the delicate musical element which should become perceptible in this kind of recitation. In speaking a prose-poem with poetic sensibility, the more intimate features of a language will come to light and the raising of what looks like a prose production into a poetical work, into the realm of art and poetry, is something of a triumph which man can give to his language. What we may call the soul of a language finds a very adequate embodiment there.

We will now take an example – from The Apprentices of Sais by Novalis. In this novel, which remained unfinished, there is a wonderful little passage of prose in which all that I have tried to indicate about the recitation and declamation of prose-poems comes into prominence. The essential thing is that everything which otherwise comes to light in the reciting of poetry is transformed, through acquiring a more intimate character, into a particular mood or feeling. Everything, on the other hand, that serves to differentiate the mood will be taken up into the totality of the mood as a whole. Something like this can be attempted in an outstanding piece of prose like the fairy-tale in Novalis’ The Apprentices of Sais. In this wonderful fairy-tale, as in so much that has come to us from Novalis, is revealed the whole depth of his soul.

The handsome youth Hyacinth loves the maiden Rosepetal. It is a love cherished in secret – only the flowers and the animals of the forest know of the love of the handsome youth for the maiden Rosepetal. And then there appears a man with a long beard, who makes a wondrous impression and tells marvellous stories, in which the handsome youth Hyacinth becomes completely immersed. He is seized with a great longing for the veiled Virgin, for the veiled image of Truth. His soul trembles with longing, which also enlarges his vision so that he becomes estranged from his immediate surroundings, and his heart yearns for the image of the veiled Virgin. He forsakes Rosepetal, who remains behind weeping. He wanders through all sorts of unknown regions, and comes to know many things on his way; and at last he arrives at the Temple of Isis. Everything seems familiar to him, and yet different from what he had experienced before – it seems so much more splendid. And behold! he ventures to lift the veil! and Rosepetal falls into his arms.

It would be hard to represent with more intimate feeling the expansion of the soul out of her subjectivity into the wide universe; it would be hard to represent more intimately the longing of man for truth – hard to link more closely what man can experience when he rises to the highest spheres of truth with what he lives through in his most direct, intimate day-to-day experiences. All that is needed is sufficient intimacy of soul. What is expressed in this prose fairy-tale can only be brought to light by a soul such as that of Novalis, who really felt everyday life in such a way that it was for him a direct expression of the eternal. Novalis, after his first love had died, was able in inward truth of soul to live with her and to feel the direct presence of one who was in the other world as if she were in this world. Novalis’ soul was truly able to experience the super-sensible in the sensible and so raise what belongs to the sense-world to assume the character of the super-sensible. Everything flowed together in Novalis: striving after truth, striving after beauty and religious ardour. Only if we understand his comprehensiveness do we understand Novalis. Hence there could arise the remarkable feeling which resounds through The Apprentices of Sais, and wrests itself from Novalis’s soul: man has felt that in the image of Isis truth is veiled; “I am the past, the present and the future, no mortal as yet has lifted my veil” – that is the pronouncement of the veiled Isis and Novalis was sensible of it. Confronted with “No mortal as yet has lifted my veil”, Novalis responded with “Then we must become immortal”. Novalis never despaired of the soul’s ability to lift the veil of truth: but the soul must first become immediately aware of her own immortality. A man who experiences his immortality in himself may, in the sense of Novalis, lift the veil of truth. It is a powerful saying – “Then we must become immortal”.

What lives in this feeling in a far-reaching way meets us again in an intimate mood when the handsome youth Hyacinth comes to the Temple of Isisafter long dream-wanderings through unknown regions, which are nonetheless familiar to him, though now appearing more splendid than he had once known. He comes to the Temple of Isis, lifts the veil and what he knows and loves – Rosepetal – comes to meet him. Yet, as we can envisage and feel intimately in this prose fairy-tale, she has become through this experience of eternity much more splendid than she once was.

Truly it is a prose-poem conceived in a mood where the highest to which man can aspire takes the form of the most intimate – one of the fairest flowers of poetic prose, demonstrating that, in what is apparently prose, true poetry can be expressed.

From Die Lehrlinge zu Sais:

DAS MÄRCHEN VON HYAZINTH UND ROSENBLÜTE

Vor langen Zeiten lebte weit gegen Abend ein blutjunger Mensch. Er war sehr gut, aber auch über die Massen wunderlich. Er grämte sich unaufhorlich um nichts und wieder nichts, ging immer still für sich hin, setzte sich einsam, wenn die andern spielten und fröhlich waren, und hing seltsamen Dingen nach. Höhlen und Wälder waren sein liebster Aufenthalt, und dann sprach er immerfort mit Tieren und Vögeln, mit Bäumen und Felsen, natürlich kein vernünftiges Wort, lauter närrisches Zeug zum Totlachen.

Er blieb aber immer mürrisch und ernsthaft, ungeachtet sich das Eichhörnchen, die Meerkatze, der Papagei und der Gimpel alle Mühe gaben, ihn zu zerstreuen und ihn auf den richtigen Weg zu weisen. Die Gans erzählte Märchen, der Bach klimperte eine Ballade dazwischen, ein grosser dicker Stein machte lächerliche Bockssprünge, die Rose schlich sich freundlich hinter ihm herum, kroch durch seine Locken, und der Efeu streichelte ihm die sorgenvolle Stirn.—Allein der Missmut und Ernst waren hartnäckig. Seine Eltern waren sehr betrübt, sie wussten nicht, was sie anfangen sollten. Er war gesund und ass, nie hatten sie ihn beleidigt, er war auch bis vor wenig Jahren fröhlich und lustig gewesen, wie keiner; bei allen Spielen voran, von allen Mädchen gern gesehn. Er war recht bildschön, sah aus wie gemalt, tanzte wie ein Schatz.

Unter den Mädchen war eine, ein köstliches, bildschönes Kind, sah aus wie Wachs, Haare wie goldne Seide, kirschrote Lippen, wie ein Püppchen gewachsen, brandrabenschwarze Augen. Wer sie sah, hätte mögen vergehn, so lieblich war sie.

Damals war Rosenblüte, so hiess sie, dem bildschönen Hyazinth, so hiess er, von Herzen gut, und er hatte sie lieb zum Sterben. Die andern Kinder wussten’s nicht. Ein Veilchen hatte es ihnen zuerst gesagt, die Hauskätzchen hatten es wohl gemerkt, die Häuser ihrer Eltern lagen nahe beisammen. Wenn nun Hyazinth die Nacht an seinem Fenster stand und Rosenblüte an ihrem, und die Kätzchen auf den Mäusefang da vorbeiliefen, da sahen sie die beiden stehn und lachten und kicherten oft so laut, dass sie es hörten und böse wurden. Das Veilchen hatte es der Erdbeere im Vertrauen gesagt, die sagte es ihrer Freundin, der Stachelbeere, die liess nun das Sticheln nicht, wenn Hyazinth gegangen kam; so erfuhr’s denn bald der ganze Garten und der Wald, und wenn Hyazinth ausging, so rief’s von allen Seiten: Rosenblütchen ist mein Schätzchen! Nun ärgerte sich Hyazinth und musste doch auch wieder aus Herzensgrunde lachen, wenn das Eidechschen geschlüpft kam, sich auf einen warmen Stein setzte, mit dem Schwänzchen wedelte und sang:

Rosenblütchen, das gute Kind,

Ist geworden auf einmal blind,

Denkt, die Mutter sei Hyazinth,

Fällt ihm um den Hals geschwind;

Merkt sie aber das fremde Gesicht,

Denkt nur an, da erschrickt sie nicht,

Fährt, als merkte sie kein Wort,

Immer nur mit Küssen fort.

Ach! wie bald war die Herrlichkeit vorbei. Es kam ein Mann aus fremden Landen gegangen, der war erstaunlich weit gereist, hatte einen langen Bart, tiefe Augen, entsetzliche Augenbrauen, ein wunderliches Kleid mit vielen Falten und seltsamen Figuren hineingewebt. Er setzte sich vor das Haus, das Hyazinths Eltern gehörte. Nun war Hyazinth sehr neugierig und setzte sich zu ihm und holte ihm Brot und Wein. Da tat er seinen weissen Bart voneinander und erzählte bis tief in die Nacht, und Hyazinth wich und wankte nicht und wurde auch nicht müde zuzuhören. So viel man nachher vernahm, so hat er viel von fremden Ländern, unbekannten Gegenden, von erstaunlich wunderbaren Sachen erzählt und ist drei Tage dageblieben und mit Hyazinth in tiefe Schachten hinuntergekrochen. Rosenblütchen hat genug den alten Hexenmeister verwünscht, denn Hyazinth ist ganz versessen auf seine Gespräche gewesen und hat sich um nichts bekümmert; kaum dass er ein wenig Speise zu sich genommen. Endlich hat jener sich fortgemacht, doch dem Hyazinth ein Büchelchen dagelassen, das kein Mensch lesen konnte. Dieser hat ihm noch Früchte, Brot und Wein mitgegeben und ihn weit weg begleitet. Und dann ist er tiefsinnig zurückgekommen und hat einen ganz neuen Lebenswandel begonnen. Rosenblütchen hat recht zum Erbarmen um ihn getan, denn von der Zeit an hat er sich wenig aus ihr gemacht und ist immer für sich geblieben.

Nun begab sich’s, dass er einmal nach Hause kam und war wie neu geboren. Er fiel seinen Eltern um den Hals und weinte. ‘Ich muss fort in fremde Lande’, sagte er, ‘die alte wunderliche Frau im Walde hat mir erzählt, wie ich gesund werden müsste, das Buch hat sie ins Feuer geworfen und hat mich getrieben, zu euch zu gehn und euch um euren Segen zu bitten. Vielleicht komme ich bald, vielleicht nie wieder. Grüsst Rosenblütchen. Ich hätte sie gern gesprochen, ich weiss nicht, wie mir ist, es drängt mich fort; wenn ich an die alten Zeiten zurückdenken will, so kommen gleich mächtigere Gedanken dazwischen, die Ruhe ist fort, Herz und Liebe mit, ich muss sie suchen gehn. Ich wollt euch gern sagen, wohin, ich weiss selbst nicht, dahin wo die Mutter der Dinge wohnt, die verschleierte Jungfrau. Nach der ist mein Gemüt entzundet. Lebt wohl.’

Er riss sich los und ging fort. Seine Eltern wehklagten und vergossen Tränen, Rosenblütchen blieb in ihrer Kammer und weinte bitterlich. Hyazinth lief nun, was er konnte, durch Täler und Wildnisse, über Berge und Ströme, dem geheimnisvollen Lande zu. Er fragte überall nach der heiligen Göttin, Menschen und Tiere, Felsen und Bäume. Manche lachten, manche schwiegen, nirgends erhielt er Bescheid. Im Anfange kam er durch rauhes, wildes Land, Nebel und Wolken warfen sich ihm in den Weg, es stürmte immerfort; dann fand er unabsehliche Sandwüsten, glühenden Staub, und wie er wandelte, so veränderte sich auch sein Gemüt, die Zeit wurde ihm lang, und die innre Unruhe legte sich, er wurde sanfter und das gewaltige Treiben in ihm allgemach zu einem leisen, aber starken Zuge, in den sein ganzes Gemüt sich auflöste. Es lag wie viele Jahre hinter ihm. Nun wurde die Gegend auch wieder reicher und mannigfaltiger, die Luft lau und blau, der Weg ebener, grüne Büsche lockten ihn mit anmutigen Schatten, aber er verstand ihre Sprache nicht, sie schienen auch nicht zu sprechen, und doch erfüllten sie auch sein Herz mit grünen Farben und kühlem, stillem Wesen. Immer höher wuchs jene süsse Sehnsucht in ihm, und immer breiter und saftiger wurden die Blätter, immer lauter und lustiger die Vögel und Tiere, balsamischer die Früchte, dunkler der Himmel, wärmer die Luft, und heisser seine Liebe, die Zeit ging immer schneller, als sähe sie sich nahe am Ziele.

Eines Tages begegnete er einem kristallnen Quell und einer Menge Blumen, die kamen in ein Tal herunter zwischen schwarzen himmelhohen Säulen. Sie grüssten ihn freundlich mit bekannten Worten. ‘Liebe Landsleute’, sagte er, ‘wo find’ ich wohl den geheiligten Wohnsitz der Isis? Hier herum muss er sein, und ihr seid vielleicht hier bekannter als ich.’ ‘Wir gehn auch nur hier durch’, antworteten die Blumen; ‘eine Geisterfamilie ist auf der Reise, und wir bereiten ihr Weg und Quartier, indes sind wir vor kurzem durch eine Gegend gekommen, da hörten wir ihren Namen nennen. Gehe nur aufwärts, wo wir herkommen, so wirst du schon mehr erfahren.’ Die Blumen und die Quelle lächelten, wie sie das sagten, boten ihm einen frischen Trunk und gingen weiter. Hyazinth folgte ihrem Rat, frug und frug und kam endlich zu jener längst gesuchten Wohnung, die unter Palmen und andern köstlichen Gewächsen versteckt lag. Sein Herz klopfte in unendlicher Sehnsucht, und die süsseste Bangigkeit durchdrang ihn in dieser Behausung der ewigen Jahreszeiten. Unter himmlischen Wohlgedüften entschlummerte er, weil ihn nur der Traum in das Allerheiligste führen durfte.

Wunderlich führte ihn der Traum durch unendliche Gemächer voll seltsamer Sachen auf lauter reizenden Klängen und in abwechselnden Akkorden. Es dünkte ihm alles so bekannt und doch in niegesehener Herrlichkeit, da schwand auch der letzte irdische Anflug, wie in Luft verzehrt, und er stand vor der himmlischen Jungfrau. Da hob er den leichten, glänzenden Schleier, und Rosenblütchen sank in seine Arme. Eine ferne Musik umgab die Geheimnisse des liebenden Wiedersehns, die Ergiessungen der Sehnsucht, und schloss alles Fremde von diesem entzückenden Orte aus.

Hyazinth lebte nachher noch lange mit Rosenblütchen unter seinen frohen Eltern und Gespielen, und unzählige Enkel dankten der alten wunderlichen Frau für ihren Rat und ihr Feuer; denn damals bekamen die Menschen so viel Kinder, als sie wollten.—

Novalis (1772-1801).

[The prose-poem is a relatively rare beast in English literature; but one of its descendants is the lyrical novel, as practised by (among others) Joyce. [Note 15] This is one of the formal poetic “epiphanies” from his A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, ch. 4:

Her image had passed into his soul for ever and no word had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Her eyes had called him and his soul had leaped at the call. To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life out of life: A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel of mortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courts of life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasy the gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and on and on and on.

He halted suddenly and heard his heart in the silence. How far had he walked? What hour was it?

There was no human figure near him nor any sound borne to him over the air. But the tide was near the turn and already the day was on the wane. He turned landward and ran towards the shore and, running up the sloping beach, reckless of the sharp shingle, found a sandy nook amid a ring of tufted sandknolls and lay down there that the peace and silence of the evening might still the riot of his blood.

He felt above him the vast indifferent dome and the calm processes of the heavenly bodies; and the earth beneath him, the earth that had borne him, had taken him to her breast.

He closed his eyes in the languor of sleep. His eyelids trembled as if they felt the vast cyclic movement of the earth and her watcher, trembled as if they felt the strange light of some new world. His soul was swooning into some new world, fantastic, dim, uncertain as under sea, traversed by cloudy shapes and beings. A world, a glimmer or a flower? Glimmering and trembling, trembling and unfolding, a breaking light, an opening flower, it spread in endless succession to itself, breaking in full crimson and unfolding and fading to palest rose, leaf by leaf and wave of light by wave of light, flooding all the heavens with its soft flushes, every flush deeper than the other.

Evening had fallen when he woke and the sand and arid grasses of his bed glowed no longer. He rose slowly and, recalling the rapture of his sleep, sighed at its joy.

He climbed to the crest of the sandhill and gazed about him. Evening had fallen. A rim of the young moon cleft the pale waste of skyline, the rim of a silver hoop embedded in grey sand; and the tide was flowing in fast to the land with a low whisper of her waves, islanding a few last figures in distant pools.

James Joyce (1882-1941).]