| 281. Poetry and the Art of Speech: Lecture II
06 Oct 1920, Dornach Translated by Julia Wedgwood, Andrew Welburn Rudolf Steiner |
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| – Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below: Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. |
| 281. Poetry and the Art of Speech: Lecture II
06 Oct 1920, Dornach Translated by Julia Wedgwood, Andrew Welburn Rudolf Steiner |
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Our present age, inartistic as it is, shows little awareness of the fact that recitation stands midway between speaking, or reading, which are not artistic, and artistically developed singing. In many circles there is a feeling that really anyone can recite – and this, of course, is not unconnected with the fact that in these same circles everyone flatters himself that he can also write poetry. It would not so easily enter anyone's head that someone could be a musician, or a painter, without having previously undergone any sort of artistic training. When we consider current views on the art of recitation, we are obliged to admit that, just as in people's ideas about the real nature of poetry, there is also a certain lack of clarity as to the nature of the art of recitation. As to how this art of recitation must use its instrument – the human voice in connection with the human organism – even for this there is no clear understanding. This is undoubtedly connected with the fundamental absence, in our present age, of any earnest feeling for the true nature of poetry. There is no doubt that poetry stands in a relationship with the whole being of man quite different to that of ordinary prose, of whatever kind this may be; everything that man must recognize as that higher world to which he belongs with the soul and spiritual parts of his being poetry must also stand in a certain connection with all this. Along with the lack of clarity which gradually invaded ideas concerning man's relationship with the super-sensible world, there also came about another partial lack of clarity, concerning man's relationship with that world which is expressed in the art of poetry. I should like to draw attention to two facts – things which resound to us from ancient times, though from quite different peoples, with quite differently evolved characters. One fact, though one which today is passed over so lightly, is something to which Homer, the great writer of Greek epic, draws our attention at the beginning of both his poems: namely, that what he wished to convey to the world as his poetry did not come from himself.
‘Sing, O Muse, of the anger of Peleus' son Achilles ...’
It is not Homer, but the Muse who is singing. Our age can no longer take this seriously – for the understanding that lies hidden behind the opening of the Homeric poem had, in fact, already been extinguished by the eighteenth century, with its intellectual conceptions. When Klopstock began his Messiah, he did indeed look at the beginning of the Homeric poems; but in this respect he lived entirely in abstract ideas, intellectualistic ideas, and these could only lead him to say: the Greeks still believed in gods, in the Muses – modern man can replace this only by his own immortal soul. Thus, Klopstock begins with the words:
‘Sing, immortal soul, of sinful man's redemption.’
Now this opening of the Messiah, for anyone who can see into these things, is a document of the very greatest significance. And in the nineteenth century, too, all feeling had been completely lost for what Homer meant to convey – that when I reveal myself in poetry, it is really something higher that is revealed in me: my “I” withdraws, my ego withdraws, so that other powers make use of my speech-organism; divine-spiritual powers make use of this speech-organism in order to reveal themselves. One must, therefore, regard what Homer placed at the opening of his two poetic creations as something worthy of more serious consideration than is usually accorded to such things today. It is remarkable how something similar, and yet quite different, resounds to us from a certain period in the development of Central Europe, a period to which the Nibelungenlied points – although it was not written down until a later date. This begins in a manner similar to, yet quite different from Homer:
‘To us in olden maeren is many a marvel told’
“In olden maeren” – what are maeren, for those who still have a living feeling and perception for such things? I cannot go into all this in detail, but I need only allude to the real meaning of this expression, maer – Nachtmar (nightmare): for this same expression is used to describe certain dreams which are caused by being oppressed, as it were, by an Alp – by a nightmare. In this nightmare, this Alp, we have the last atavistic traces of what is indicated in the Nibelungenlied, when it says: “To us in olden maeren is many a marvel told…”; something is here related which does not come out of normal day-time ego-consciousness, but from a kind of perception which proceeds in the manner of the consciousness we possess in an especially vivid dream such as the nightmare, the maeren. Here again our attention is directed not to ordinary consciousness, but to something which is revealed, through ordinary consciousness, from super-sensible spheres. Homer says: “Sing, O Muse, of the anger of Peleus' son Achilles ...”; and the Nibelungenlied says: “To us in olden maeren is many a marvel told.” What is referred to in the first instance? To that which is, in reality, brought forth by the Muse, when she makes use of the human organism, begins to speak through the human organism, to vibrate musically; our attention is directed to something musical which permeates the human being, and which speaks from greater depths than are reached by his ordinary consciousness. And when the Nibelungenlied says: “To us in olden maeren is many a marvel told …” – it is something which permeates human consciousness as a perception similar to seeing, as something like visual perception, to which we are referred. The Nibelungenlied indicates something plastic and formative, something imaginative; in the Homeric epic we are given something musical. Both, however, from different sides, show us what wells up in poetry from the profounder depths of human nature, something which takes hold of the human being and finds utterance through him. One must have a feeling for this, if one is to experience the way in which true declamation gives expression in poetry, and takes hold of the human instrument of speech – though, as we shall see later, this involves the entire human organism. The manner, the whole way in which a human being is built up is an outcome of the forces of the spiritual world. And again, the whole manner in which a human being is able to bring his organism into movement when he declaims or recites poetry – this, too, must be the result of a spiritual force holding sway in the human organism. One must learn to trace this working of the spirit in the human organism when the art of poetry is expressed through recitation or declamation. Declamation then becomes what the human organism can be, when it is tuned in the most various ways. In order to gain a practical, artistic realization of these things in some detail, we would now like to show you what must live in declamation when something more of the nature of folk-poetry, or folk-song, is taken into consideration; we shall then proceed to something which is more definitely art – poetry. We hope to show you how fundamentally different the effect of declamation must be, depending on whether it sounds forth from those depths of human nature from which earnestness, or tragedy, resound; or whether it comes from those surface realms of the human organization from which gaiety, satire and humour emanate. Only when we have learned to apprehend these things quite concretely today will I permit myself to give certain intimations of the connection between poetry and recitation and declamation. From these, we will then show how there results an exact method of educating oneself in artistic recitation and declamation. We will ask Frau Dr. Steiner to declaim a poem of Goethe: a folk-poem in its whole tone and mood – Goethe's “Heidenröslein”. HEIDENRÖSLEIN
Sah ein Knab' ein Röslein stehn, Röslein auf der Heiden, War so jung und morgenschön, Lief er schnell, es nah zu sehn, Sah's mit vielen Freuden. Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot, Röslein auf der Heiden.
Knabe sprach: Ich breche dich Röslein auf der Heiden, Röslein sprach: Ich steche dich, Dass du ewig denkst an mich, Und ich will's nicht leiden. Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot, Röslein auf der Heiden.
Und der wilde Knabe brach 's Röslein auf der Heiden; Röslein wehrte sich und stach, Half ihm doch kein Weh und Ach, Musst' es eben leiden. Röslein, Röslein, Röslein rot, Röslein auf der Heiden. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. [Comparable in English in many respects is: MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe; My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. – Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North; The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth: Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlandsfor ever I love. – Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below: Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. – My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlandsa-chasing the deer: Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe; My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. – Robert Burns (1759-1796.]
We will now ask Frau Dr. Steiner to recite to us “Erlkönigstochter”, which gives opportunity for a quite special style in the rendering of folk-poems. Herr Oluf reitet spät und weit, Zu bieten auf seine Hochzeitleut': Da tanzten die Elfen auf grünen Land, Erlkönigs Tochter reicht ihm die Hand. ‘Willkommen, Herr Oluf, was eilst von hier? Tritt her in den Reihen und tanz mit mir.’ – ‘Ich darf nicht tanzen, nicht tanzen ich mag, Frühmorgen ist mein Hochzeittag.’ – ‘Hör’ an, Herr Oluf, tritt tanzen mit mir, Zwei güldne Sporen schenk' ich dir; Ein Hemd von Seide, so weiss und fein, Meine Mutter bleicht's im Mondenschein.’ – ‘Ich darf nicht tanzen, nicht tanzen ich mag, Frühmorgen ist mein Hochzeittag.’ – ‘Hör’ an, Herr Oluf, tritt tanzen mit mir, Einen Haufen Goldes schenk' ich dir.’ – ‘Einen Haufen Goldes nahm’ ich wohl; Doch tanzen ich nicht darf, noch soll.’ ‘Und willt, Herr Oluf, nicht tanzen mit mir, Soll Seuch' und Krankheit folgen dir.’ – Sie tät einen Schlag ihm auf sein Herz, Noch nimmer fühlt er solchen Schmerz. Sie hob ihn bleichend auf sein Pferd: ‘Reit heim zu deinem Bräutlein wert.’ Und als er kam vor Hauses Tiir, Seine Mutter zitternd stand dafür. ‘Hör’ an, mein Sohn, sag’ an mir gleich, Wie ist dein' Farbe blass und bleich?’ – ‘Und sollt’ sie nicht sein blass und bleich? Ich traf in Erlenkönigs Reich.’ – ‘Hört an, mein Sohn, so lieb und traut, Was soll ich nun sagen deiner Braut?’ – ‘Sagt ihr, ich sei im Wald zur Stund’, Zu proben da mein Pferd und Hund.’ – Frühmorgen als es Tag kaum war, Da kam die Braut mit der Hochzeitschar. Sie schenkten Met, sie schenkten Wein. ‘Wo ist Herr Oluf, der Bräutigam mein?’ – ‘Herr Oluf, er ritt in Wald zur Stund’, Er probt allda sein Pferd und Hund.’ – Die Braut hub auf den Scharlach rot, Da lag Herr Oluf, und er war tot. Johann Gottfried Herder (1744-1803). [Comparable in style in English is: LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has wither'd from the Lake, And no birds sing. O, what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful – a faery's child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long; For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery's song. She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew, And sure in language strange she said – ‘I love thee true’. She took me to her elf in grot, And there she wept and sigh'd full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lulled me asleep And there I dream'd – Ah! woe betide! The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cried – ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!’ I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid darning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill's side. And this is why I sojourn here Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge has wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. John Keats (1795-1821).]
Now we will present Goethe's two poems “Olympos” and “Charon”, where we shall find an opportunity to demonstrate recitation or declamation as the case may be. In the Poem “Olympos”, which is drawn more from the pictorial element, we have the art of declamation; while the more metrical “Charon” is drawn more from the musical element. OLYMPOS
Der Olympos, der Kissavos, Die zwei Berge haderten; Da entgegnend sprach Olympos Also zu dem Kissavos: ‘Nicht erhebe dich, Kissave, Turken – du Getretener. Bin ich doch der Greis Olympos, Den die ganze Welt vernahm. Zwei und sechzig Gipfel zähl ich Und zweitausend Quellen klar, Jeder Brunn hat seinen Wimpel, Seinen Kämpfer jeder Zweig. Auf den höchsten Gipfel hat sich Mir ein Adler aufgesetzt, Fasst in seinen mächt'gen Klauen Eines Helden blutend Haupt.’ ‘Sage, Haupt! wie ist's ergangen? Fielest du verbrecherisch?’ – Speise, Vogel, meine Jugend, Meine Mannheit speise nur! Ellenlänger wächst dein Flügel, Deine Klauen spannenlang. Bei Louron, in Xeromeron So in Chasia, auf'm Olympos Kämpft’ ich bis ins zwölfte Jahr. Sechzig Agas, ich erschlug sie, Ihr Gefild verbrannt’ ich dann; Die ich sonst noch niederstreckte, Türken, Albaneser auch, Sind zu viele, gar zu viele, Dass ich sie nicht Ahlen mag; Nun ist meine Reihe kommen, Im Gefechte fiel ich brav. CHARON Die Bergeshöhn, warum so schwarz? Woher die Wolkenwoge? Ist es der Sturm, der droben kämpft, Der Regen, Gipfel peitschend? Nicht ist's der Sturm, der droben kämpft, Nicht Regen, Gipfel peitschend; Nein, Charon ist's, er saust einher, Entführet die Verblichnen; Die Jungen treibt er vor sich hin, Schleppt hinter sich die Alten; Die Jüngsten aber, Säuglinge, In Reih' gehenkt am Sattel. Da riefen ihm die Greise zu, Die Junglinge, sie knieten: ‘O Charon, halt! halt am Geheg, Halt an beim kühlen Brunnen! Die Alten da erquicken sich, Die Jugend schleudert Steine, Die Knaben zart zerstreuen sich Und pflücken bunte Blümchen.’ Nicht am Gehege halt’ ich still, Ich halte nicht am Brunnen; Zu schöpfen kommen Weiber an, Erkennen ihre Kinder, Die Männer auch erkennen sie, Das Trennen wird unmöglich. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe. [A similar contrast is presented within the work of Donne, between the vivid, declamatory style of “The Sunne Rising” and the more sustained, metrical “Elegie: His Picture”: THE SUNNE RISING Busie old foole, unruly Sunne, Why dost thou thus, Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us? Must to thy motions lovers seasons run? Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices, Goe tell Court-huntsmen, that the King will ride, Call countrey ants to harvest offices; Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme, Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time. Thy beames, so reverend and strong Why shouldst thou thinke? I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke, But that I would not lose her sight so long: If her eyes have not blinded thine, Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee, Whether both the ‘India's of spice and Myne Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee. Aske for those Kings whom thou saw'st yesterday, And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay. Nothing else is. Princes doe but play us; compar'd to this, All honor's mimique; All wealth alchimie. Thou sunne art halfe as happy’as wee, In that the world's contracted thus; Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee To warme the world, that's done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art every where; This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare. ELEGIE: HIS PICTURE Here take my Picture; though I bid farewell, Thine, in my heart, where my soule dwels, shall dwell. ‘Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more When wee are shadowes both, than 'twas before. When weather-beaten I come backe; my hand, Perhaps with rude oares torne, or Sun beams tann'd, My face and brest of hairecloth, and my head With cares rash sodaine stormes, being o'rspread, My body'a sack of bones, broken within, And powders blew staines scatter'd on my skinne; If rivall fooles taxe thee to 'have lov'd a man, So foule, and course, as, Oh, I may seeme then, This shall say what I was: and thou shalt say, Doe his hurts reach mee? doth my worth decay? Or doe they reach judging minde, that hee Should now love lesse, what hee did love to see? That which in him was faire and delicate, Was but the milke, which in loves childish state Did nurse it: who now is growne strong enough To feed on that, which to disused tasts seemes tough. John Donne (1573-1631).] We will now pass on to a more highly-wrought verse-form – the sonnet; and sonnets by Hebbel and Novalis will now be recited. DIE SPRACHE Als höchstes Wunder, das der Geist vollbrachte, Preist ich die Sprache, die er, sonst verloren In tiefste Einsamkeit, aus sich geboren, Weil sie allein die andern möglich machte. Ja, wenn ich sie in Grund und Zweck betrachte, So hat nur sie den schweren Fluch beschworen, Dem er, zum dumpfen Einzelsein erkoren, Erlegen wäre, eh' er noch erwachte. Denn ist das unerforschte Eins und Alles In nie begrifftnem Selbstzersplitt‘rungsdrange Zu einer Welt von Punkten gleich zerstoben: So wird durch sie, die jedes Wesenballes Geheimstes Sein erscheinen lässt im Klange, Die Trennung vollig wieder aufgehoben! Friedrich Hebbel (1813-1863).
I Du hast in mir den edeln Trieb erregt, Tief ins Gemüt der weiten Welt zu schauen; Mit deiner Hand ergriff mich ein Vertrauen, Das sicher mich durch alle Stürme trägt. Mit Ahnungen hast du das Kind gepflegt, Und zogst mit ihm durch fabelhafte Auen; Hast als das Urbild zartgesinnter Frauen, Des Jünglings Herz zum höchsten Schwung bewegt. Was fesselt mich an irdische Beschwerden? Ist nicht mein Herz und Leben ewig dein? Und schirmt mich deine Liebe nicht auf Erden? Ich darf fier dich der edlen Kunst mich weiten; Denn du, Geliebte, willst die Muse werden, – Und stiller Schutzgeist meiner Dichtung sein. II In ewigen Verwandlungen begrusst Uns des Gesangs geheime Macht hienieden, Dort segnet sie das Land als ew'ger Frieden, Indes sie hier als Jugend uns umfliesst. Sie ist's, die Licht in unsre Augen giesst, Die uns den Sinn für jede Kunst beschieden, Und die das Herz der Frohen und der Müden In trunkner Andacht wunderbar geniesst. An ihrem vollen Busen trank ich Leben: Ich ward durch sie zu allem, was ich bin, Und durfte froh mein Angesicht erheben. Noch schlummerte mein allerhöchster Sinn; Da sah ich sie als Engel zu mir schweben, Und flog, erwacht, in ihrem Arm dahin. Novalis (1772-1801). [The following three poems show some characteristics of the English sonnet: ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET The poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; That is the Grasshopper's – he takes the lead In summer luxury, – he has never done With his delights; for when tired out with fun He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetry of earth is ceasing never: On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, And seems to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. John Keats SONNET O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray Warbl'st at Eve, when all the Woods are still, Thou with fresh hope the Lovers heart dost fill, While the jolly hours lead on propitious May, Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day, First heard before the shallow Cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; O if Jove's will Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate Foretell my hopeless doom in som Grove ny: As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief; yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. John Milton (1608-1674).
\ My galy charged with forgetfulnes Thorrough sharpe sees in wynter nyghtes doeth pas Twene Rock and Rock; and eke myn ennemy, Alas, That is my lorde, sterith with cruelnes; And every owre a thought in redines, As tho that deth were light in suche a case. An endles wynd doeth tere the sayll apase \ Of forced sightes and trusty ferefulnes. A rayn of teris, a clowde of derk disdain, \ Hath done the wered cordes great hinderaunce; \ Wrethed with errour and eke with ignoraunce. The starres be hid that led me to this pain; \ Drowned is reason that should me consort, And I remain dispering of the port. Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503-1542).]
And now, in order to show how another, the very opposite mood must be drawn from quite different realms of the human organization when this serves as the instrument for poetry and declamation, we will end with something humorous and satirical – choosing a poem by Christian Morgenstern. ST. EXPEDITUS Einem Kloster, voll von Nonnen, waren Menschen wohlgesonnen. Und sie schickten, gute Christen, ihm nach Rom die schönsten Kisten: Äpfel, Birnen, Kuchen, Socken, eine Spieluhr, kleine Glocken, Gartenwerkzeug, Schuhe, Schürzen... Aussen aber stand: Nicht stürzen! Oder: Vorsicht! oder welche wiesen schwarzgemalte Kelche. Und auf jeder Kiste stand ‘Espedito’, kurzerhand. Unsre Nonnen, die nicht wussten, wem sie dafür danken mussten, denn das Gut kam anonym, dankten vorderhand nur IHM, rieten aber doch ohn’ Ende nach dem Sender solcher Spende. Plötzlich rief die Schwester Pia eines Morgens: Santa mia! Nicht von Juden, nicht von Christen Stammen diese Wunderkisten – Expeditus, o Geschwister, heisst er und ein Heiliger ist er! Und sie fielen auf die Kniee. Und der Heilige sprach: Siehe! Endlich habt ihr mich erkannt. Und nun malt mich an die Wand! Und sie liessen einen kommen, einen Maler, einen frommen. Und es malte der Artiste Expeditum mit der Kiste. – Und der Kult gewann an Breite. Jeder, der beschenkt ward, weihte kleine Tafeln ihm und Kerzen. Kurz, er war in aller Herzen. II Da auf einmal, neunzehnhundert- fünf, vernimmt die Welt verwundert, dass die Kirche diesen Mann fürder nicht mehr dulden kann. Grausam schallt von Rom es her: Expeditus ist nicht mehr: Und da seine lieben Nonnen längst dem Erdental entronnen, steht er da und sieht sich um – und die ganze delt bleibt stumm. Ich allein hier hoch im Norden fühle mich von seinem Orden, und mein Ketzergriffel schreibt: Sanctus Expeditus – bleibt. Und weil jenes nichts mehr gilt, male ich hier neu sein Bild: – Expeditum, den Gesandten, grüss’ ich hier, den Unbekannten Expeditum, ihn, den Heiligen, mit den Assen, den viel eiligen, mit den milden, weissen Haaren und dem fröhlichen Gebaren, mit den Augen braun, voll Güte, und mit einer grossen Düte, strebt ihr spärlich Los zu lindern. Einen güldnen Heiligenschein geb’ ich ihm noch obendrein den sein Lacheln um ihn breitet, wenn er durch die Lande schreitet. Und um ihn in Engeiswonnen stell’ ich seine treuen Nonnen: Mägdlein aus Italiens Auen, himmlisch lieblich anzuschauen. Eine aber macht, fürwahr, eine lange Nase gar. Just ins ‘Bronzne Tor’ hinein spannt sie ihr klein Fingerlein. Oben aber aus dem Himmel quillt der Heiligen Gewimmel, und holdselig singt Maria: Santo Espedito - sia! Christian Morgenstern (1871-1914). [An excerpt from “The Rape of the Lock” shows the great English satirist in a comparatively rare mood of good humoured and friendly mocking. It comes from Canto II:
But now secure the painted vessel glides, The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides; While melting music steals upon the sky, And soften'd sounds along the waters die; Smooth flow the waves, the Zephyrs gently play, Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay. All but the Sylph – with careful thoughts opprest, Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. He summons strait his Denizens of air; The lucid squadrons round the sails repair: Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, That seem'd but Zephyrs to the train beneath. Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold, Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light. Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew, Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies, Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, While ev'ry beam new transient colours flings, Colours that change whene'er they wave their wings. Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd; His purple pinions op'ning to the sun, He rais'd his azure wand, and thus begun. Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear, Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Daemons hear! Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign'd By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. Some in the fields of purest Aether play, And bask and whiten in the blaze of day. Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high, Or roll the planets thro' the boundless sky. Some less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, Or suck the mists in grosser air below, Or dip their pinions in the painted bowl Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, Or o'er the glebe distil the kindly rain. Others on earth o'er human race preside, Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: Of these the chief the care of Nations own, And guard with Arms divine the British Throne. Our humbler province is to tend the Fair, Not a less pleasing, tho' less glorious care; To save the powder from too rude a gale, Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale; To draw fresh colours from the vernal Flow'rs; To steal from rainbows e'er they drop in show'rs A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs; Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow, To change a Flounce, or add a Furbelow. This day, black Omens threat the brightest fair That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care; Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight; But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night. Alexander Pope (1688-1744)]
Now the art of recitation must undoubtedly follow the poetry. Recitation introduces the human element into poetry, for the human organization itself furnishes the instrument of artistic expression. How this instrument is used in singing and in recitation – that is something which has indeed been much investigated: we have already taken the opportunity here of pointing out, in response to certain questions, how many methods (one method after another!) exist in our present age, to singing and recitation. For in a certain sense we have entirely lost the deeper, inner relationship between poetic utterance or expression and the human organization. I will take as. a starting-point next today something apparently quite physiological – and next time, after our detour through physiology, we shall be able to show you what poetry, as expressed in recitation and declamation, really demands. Let us look first at something which has been frequently mentioned during the lectures of the last few days: the human rhythmic system. The human being is organized into the system of nerves and senses – the instrument for the thought-world, for the world of sense-representations, and so on; the rhythmic system – the instrument for the development of the feeling world, and for all that is mirrored from the feeling-world and plays into the world of mental representations; and the metabolic system – through which the will pulsates, and in which the will finds its actual physical instrument. [Note 4] First, let us look at the rhythmic system. In this rhythmic system, two rhythms interpenetrate each other in a remarkable way. In the first place, we have the breathing-rhythm. This is essentially regular – though everything living is different in this respect, and it varies from individual to individual – so that in the case of healthy people, we are able to observe 16-19 breaths per minute. Secondly, we have the pulse-rhythm, directly connected with the heart. Naturally, when we take into account that in this rhythm we are dealing with functions of a living being, again we cannot cite any pedantic number; but, generally speaking, we may say that the number of pulse-beats per minute, in a healthy human organism, is approximately 72. Hence we can say that the number of pulse-beats is about four times the number of respirations. We can thus represent the course of the breath in the human organism, and how while we take one breath, the pulse intervenes four times. Now let us devote our minds for a moment to this interaction of the pulse-rhythm and the rhythm of the breath to this inner, living piano (if I may so express myself) where we experience the pulse rhythm as it strikes into the course of the breathing-rhythm. Let us picture the following: one breath inhaled and exhaled; and a second inhaled and exhaled; and, striking into this, the rhythm of the heart. Let us picture this in such a way that we can see that in the pulse-rhythm, which is essentially connected with the metabolism, which touches on the metabolic system, the will strikes, as it were, upwards; thus we have the will-pulses striking into the feeling-manifestations of the breath-rhythm. And let us suppose that we articulate these will-pulses, in such a way that we follow the will-pulses in the words, inwardly articulating the words to ourselves. Thus we have, for instance: long, short, short; long, short, short; long, short, short – one breath-stream; then we make a pause, a kind of caesura, we hold back; then, accompanying the next drawing of the breath, we have the heart-rhythm striking into it: long, short, short; long, short, short; long, short, short.
¾ È È ¾ È È ¾ È È || ¾ È È ¾ È È ¾ È È ||
Then, when we allow two breaths to be accompanied by the corresponding pulse-beats, and between them we make a pause, a pause for breath – we have the hexameter. [Note 5] We can ask: what is the origin of this ancient Greek verse metre? It originated from the harmony between blood-circulation and breathing. The Greek wished to turn his speech inward, so that, having suppressed his “I”, he orientated the words according to the pulse-beats, allowing these to play upon the stream of breath. Thus he brought his whole inner organization, his rhythmic organization, to expression in his speech: it was the harmony between heart-rhythm and breath-rhythm that resounded in his speech. To the Greek, this was more musical – as if it resounded up from the will, resounded up from the pulse-beats into the rhythm of the breath. You know that what remained as the last, atavistic remnant of the old clairvoyant images – the Alp, the nightmare – found expression in pictures, and is connected with the breathing-process: and there is still a connection between the pathological form of the Alpdruck and breathing. Now let us assume – for me it is more than an assumption – that in those primaeval times when his experience was more closely connected with the internal processes, man went out more with the breath; the movement was more from above downwards. And then he put into one breath:
¤ ¤ ¤ ‘To us in olden maeren'
Again, three high-tones: three times the perception of how the pulse beats into the breathing, and how this brings to expression an experience that is more visual, finding expression in the light and shade of the language, in the high and low tones. In the Greek we have something metrical long, short, short; long, short, short; long, short, short; whereas in the Nordic verses we have something with more declamatory impetus – high-tone and low-tone:
¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ‘To us in olden maeren is many a marvel told ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ ¤ Of praise-deserving heroes, of labours manifold ...'
It is the interaction of the breathing-rhythm and the rhythm of the heart, the rhythm of the pulse. Just as the Greek experienced a musical element and expressed this in metre, so the Nordic man experienced a pictorial element, which he expressed in the light and shade of the words, in the high-tones and low-tones. But there was always the knowledge that one was submerged in a state of consciousness where the “I” yielded itself up to the divine-spiritual being which reveals itself through the human organism – which forms this human organism so that it may be played upon as an instrument through the pulsation of the heart, through the breathing-process, through the stream of exhaled and inhaled breath:
È ¾ È ¾ È ¾ È || ¾ È ¾ È ¾
You know that many breathing-techniques have been discovered, and much thought given to methods of treating the human body to facilitate correct singing or recitation. It is much more to the point, however, to penetrate the real mysteries of poetry and recitation and declamation: for both of these will proceed from the actual, sensible-super-sensible perception of the harmony between the pulse, which is connected with the heart, and the breathing-process. As we shall see next time, each single verse-form, each single poetic form including rhyme, alliteration, and assonance, may be understood when we start from a living perception of the human organism, and what it does when it employs speech artistically. This is why it was quite justified when people who understood such things spoke, more or less figuratively, of poetry as a language of the gods: for this language of the gods does not speak the mysteries of the transient human “I”; it speaks in human consciousness, speaks musically and plastically the cosmic mysteries – it speaks when the super-sensible worlds play, through the human heart, upon the human breath. |
| 281. Poetry and the Art of Speech: Lecture VI
07 Jun 1922, Vienna Translated by Julia Wedgwood, Andrew Welburn Rudolf Steiner |
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| So the Soul, that Drop, that Ray Of the clear Fountain of Eternal Day, Could it within the humane flow’r be seen, Remembring still its former height, Shuns the sweat leaves and blossoms green; And, recollecting its own Light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express The greater Heaven in an Heaven less. |
| 281. Poetry and the Art of Speech: Lecture VI
07 Jun 1922, Vienna Translated by Julia Wedgwood, Andrew Welburn Rudolf Steiner |
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It is through declamation and recitation that the art of poetry is accorded its true value. So I shall allow myself – not, however, out of allegiance to any abstract principle or any wish to claim that a world-view which springs from the needs of our time must cast its reforming light in some way or other over everything – I shall allow myself on quite other grounds to say a little about recitation and declamation from the vantage-point of the life- and world-conception represented at this Congress. We shall only recapture an inner, a genuine soul-understanding of poetry when we are in a position to find our way to the real homeland of poetic art. And this real homeland of poetic art is in fact the spiritual world – though it is not that intellectual, that conceptual or ideational factor in the spiritual world particularly cultivated in our own time. For this more than anything else has a paralysing effect on poetry. We shall see most clearly what is meant by this when we are reminded that one of the most significant products of this art resounds to us out of the revolutions of time along with a particular avowal on the part of its creator, or perhaps creators. The Homeric epics invariably begin with the words “Sing, O Muse...” Nowadays we are only too inclined to treat such a phrase as more or less a cliché. But when it was first coined it was no cliché – it was an inner experience of the soul: whoever it was that conceived the poem out of the spirit, whence this phrase was also drawn, knew how he was immersed through his poetic faculty in a region of human existence and experience different to that in which we stand in immediate When Klopstock, drawing upon the German spiritual life, wished to sing of the great deed of the Messiah, as Homer had sung the past events of Hellas, he did not say “Sing, O Muse...”, but “Sing, immortal soul, of sinful man’s redemption.” Here something of greater intensity is indicated, something connected directly with the human and its self-reliance. Here man has come to himself in his individual personality. Yet we can add: if the mode of consciousness which lives in our modern world of ideas and observations were the sole criterion, we should lose poetry and art altogether. All the same, it is necessary that here, too, what was suitable for mankind at one time should now assume other forms. But these new forms can only arise if the way into the spiritual world is rediscovered; for such a path alone makes it possible for the human “I” to be laid hold of again by the spiritual world – not as in former times, in an unconscious, dreamy fashion, but in accordance with the needs of the present day: in full consciousness. That this need not be bound up with a crippling of imaginative activity – this is not generally recognized today. It will come to be understood, however, as the world and life-conception put forward here gains more and more ground. If we enter into the spiritual world with circumspection – in full consciousness and with a developed feeling of personality – it will exert no crippling effect on our direct perception or on the vital participation in things and beings so necessary to poetry and art in general. If, however, we abstract ourselves from things in ideas, standing aside from them in purely intellectual concepts, our knowledge will yield nothing that can become a direct artistic creation. But if we plunge down into what pervades the world as a vibrant spiritual essence we will find again, along this spiritual path what poetry and art as a whole were fundamentally seeking all along. From such a spiritual approach the poet will have before his soul what recitation and declamation must re-create for his audience. The poet must submerge himself in the element of speech. This experience of submersion was still to be found among the Greeks, and even in earlier forms of Central European spiritual life, such as the Germanic. In primaeval ages of humanity, if one wished to receive the divine-spiritual and bring it to expression as it spoke in the soul, one dived down not only into the element of speech, but also into what flowed within speech, like the waves of the sea – into the breath. And in earlier times, when the ancient spiritual life was still valued above science, art or religion in isolation, in the period when that spiritual life came into being, poetry, too, was not isolated. It grew isolated at the stage when the felt vitality of the breath (as manifestation of the efficacy of man’s innermost will) was taken up into more exalted regions of organic life: into the element of speech. In due course today we have arrived at the element of thought. And from the thought-element we can experience only a sort of “upthrust” of the breath. What held sway in ancient times in Central Europe in the form of an unconscious feeling whenever man felt the poetic urge was the pulsating of the blood. Taking hold with the will, this formed the breathstream from within, into tone; whereas when the man of Greek or Graeco-Roman times waxed poetic he lived more in what flowed from the breathing-rhythm in the way of a picture or conception, and in what musically formed the sound, tone and line through metre, number and syllable. Goethe’s whole being, his essential soul-nature, was born from the spirit of Central Europe. The writings of his youth derived their imaginative, pictorial form from an experience, an instinctive feeling of how human breathing pushes up, through the will-pulsating waves of the blood, into the formation of tone and sound – and so into the expressivity of the human soul. In this way he attained the qualities we admire so much in his youth, even when he appears to be speaking in prose. We have the prose-poems of Goethe’s youth, like the marvellous Hymn to Nature, where the ruling principle is that where we feel the language permeated by a kind of breathing which pulsates on the waves of the blood. It was from some such sense that the young Goethe initially composed his Iphigeneia. In this composition we feel how something from the Nibelungenlied, or the Gudrunlied, still lives and weaves in the prose, welling up and working in its high and low intonations. It calls attention to the upward thrust of the will into what comes to be man’s head-experience. This rhythm, thrown upward into configurations of thought, is what we can admire in the poems of Goethe’s youth, including the first version of his Iphigeneia. But Goethe longed to get away to Italy. A time came when he could no longer come to terms with himself without undertaking a journey to Italy, which he did in the ’eighties. What was it that he longed for in his innermost being at that time? He longed to enter more deeply into human individuality – to enter into the whole human being with what lived in the high and low tones, creating in speech-formation an effect like the forms of a Gothic cathedral. He wanted to blend this with the even-measured flow he was seeking and believed was accessible only in the south, in Italy, in the wake of what had lived in Greek culture. Out of this, stemming from his feeling for such art as was still to be seen, came an understanding of Greek art He understood that the Greeks created their art in accordance with the same laws that govern the productions of nature; and of this he believed himself to have uncovered the clue. He believed, too, that he had traced these laws in speech-formation. He brought speech into a deeper connection with the breath. Then, in Rome, he refashioned his Iphigeneia accordingly. We must distinguish sharply between the northern Iphigeneia as first conceived and what came about when he refashioned it in Rome – even though the difference between the original and the Roman verse-Iphigeneia is really quite slight. It turned it into a poem that no longer lives simply in high and low tones; it became a work where in quite a different way – and not in any trivial sense, but as regards the whole of its speech-formation - the psychical experience of the blood-rhythm, the circulation with its deeper rhythm, plays over into the tranquil metre of the breathing-rhythm and the element of thought. In this way, what represented a declamatory form in the Nordic Iphigeneia is transformed in the Roman version into recitation. By juxtaposing the one Iphigeneia with the other in this way, we can clearly discern the difference between declamation and recitation. Recitation leads us more deeply into human nature, and creates, too, more from its depths, seizing upon the whole blood-circulation as well as the breathing. But because in declamation the will (as it surges in the depths) is caught up into the highest part of man’s spiritual and soul-being, into the breath, it appears to us as the more forceful – living as it does in high and low tones. It does not only engage the flow of rhyme and verse, but evokes something which goes out into the world – perhaps even with a certain belligerence – as alliteration. In this there is a beauty that is peculiar to the north. We do not wish today to give theoretical explanations, but to make known what should be present in an artistic sensibility. We will therefore firstly present the declamatory, in Goethe’s Nordic Iphigeneia; and then contrastingly the recitative, in the Roman composition. [Note 25] [The magnificent language of the Authorized Version puts it on a different level to any other translation in English. There can be no doubt of its own high literary qualities, and it furnishes us with fine examples of poetry for declamation, as in this version of the ninetieth Psalm: Lord, thou hast bene our dwelling place in all generations.
Before the mountaines were brought forth, or ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world: even from everlasting to everlasting thou art God.
Thou turnest man to destruction: and sayest, Returne yee children of men.
For a thousand yeeres in thy sight are but as yesterday when it is past: and as a watch in the night.
Thou carriest them away as with a flood, they are as a sleepe: in the morning they are like grasse which groweth up.
In the morning it flourisheth, and groweth up: in the evening it is cut downe, and withereth.
For we are consumed by thine anger: and by thy wrath are we troubled.
Thou hast set our iniquities before thee: our secret sinnes in the light of thy countenance.
For all our dayes are passed away in thy wrath: we spend our yeeres as a tale that is told.
and if by reason of strength they be fourescore yeeres, yet is their strength labour and sorrow: for it is soone cut off, and we flie away.
Who knoweth the power of thine anger? even according to thy feare, so is thy wrath.
So teach us to number our daies: that wee may apply our hearts unto wisedome.
Returne (O LORD) how long? and let it repent thee concerning thy servants.
O satisfie us early with thy mercie: that we may rejoyce, and be glad all our dayes.
Make us glad according to the dayes wherein thou hast afflicted us: and the yeeres wherein we have seene evil.
Let thy worke appeare unto thy servants: and thy glory unto their children.
And let the beautie of the LORD our God be upon us, and establish thou the worke of our hands upon us: yea, the work of our hands establish thou it. Metrical translations of the Psalms are numerous; but many of them have no aims beyond fitting the verses to a tune. The version begun by Sir Philip Sidney and completed by his sister, the Countess of Pembroke, however, brought all the literary resources of the classical tradition in Renaissance poetry to bear on the problem of making an authentically poetic translation. The result is that the ninetieth Psalm is here drastically transformed into a recitative vein: DOMINE REFUGIUM
Thou’our refuge, thou our dwelling, O Lord, hast byn from time to time: Long er Mountaines, proudly swelling, Above the lowly dales did clime: Long er the Earth, embowl’d by thee, Bare the forme it now doth beare: Yea, thou art God for ever, free From all touch of age and yeare.
O, but man by thee created, As he at first of earth arose, When thy word his end hath dated, In equall state to earth he goes. Thou saist, and saying makst it soe: Be noe more, O Adams heyre; From whence ye came, dispatch to goe, Dust againe, as dust you were.
To mortall men of life and light: What is that to thee compared? One day, one quarter of a night. When death upon them storm-like falls, Like unto a dreame they grow: Which goes and comes as fancy calls, Nought in substance all in show.
As the hearb that early groweth, Which leaved greene and flowred faire Ev’ning change with ruine moweth, And laies to roast in withering aire: Soe in thy wrath we fade away, With thy fury overthrowne When thou in sight our faultes dost lay, Looking on our synns unknown.
Therefore in thy angry fuming, Our life of daies his measure spends: All our yeares in death consuming, Right like a sound that, sounded, ends. Our daies of life make seaventy yeares, Eighty, if one stronger be: Whose cropp is laboures, dollors, feares, Then away in poast we flee.
Yet who notes thy angry power As he should feare, soe fearing thee? Make us count each vitall hower Make thou us wise, we wise shall be. Turne Lord: shall these things thus goe still? Lett thy servantes peace obtaine: Us with thy joyfull bounty fill, Endlesse joyes in us shall raigne.
Glad us now, as erst we greeved: Send yeares of good for yeares of ill: When thy hand hath us releeved, Show us and ours thy glory still. Both them and us, not one exempt, With thy beauty beautify: Supply with aid what we attempt, Our attempts with aid supply. Mary Herbert, Countess of Pembroke (1561-1621).]
Goethe followed up his incursion into the new poetic sphere of his remodelled Iphigeneia with works like his “Achilleis”, from which a passage will now be recited. Here in Goethe we find something that shows us how poetry springs from the whole man, how it should emerge from the whole man and take shape as recitation and declamation. I might seem, at first glance, to be propounding a mechanical interpretation of reciting and declaiming, if I were to point to something in the nature of man as the origin of recitation and declamation: this something is to be found, however, precisely along the spiritual path. As an art, poetry has the task of enlarging again what prose has atomized and contracted into the single word. The harmony of sounds, the melodious flow of sound in the picture-formation of speech, of mundane speech, is in this way “canopied over,” as we might say, by a second, spiritual speech. The prose-speaker clothes in words those thoughts he wants to convey, along with whatever of individual experience he can. The poet draws back from such rhetoric, to a much more profoundly inward human experience. [Note 26] He reverts to a level at which (as I have already indicated) the rhythms of breathing and the circulatory system become perceptible, as they vibrate through the language of poetry. We shall only get to the bottom of rhyme, metre, the pictorial and the melodic in speech, by comprehending human nature spiritually, even down to the physical. We have, then, as one pole of the rhythmical in man, the breathing; and as the other pole, circulation. In the interaction of breathing and circulation is expressed something which is first given, in its simplest ratio, when we attend to the resonance of breathing and circulation in the flow of human speech. In breathing, we draw a particular number of breaths every minute – between sixteen and eighteen. And over the same period we have, an average, about four times as many pulse‑beats. Circulation and breathing interact, so that the circulation plays into the breath, and the breath in turn weaves into the circulation its slower rhythm. It is an apprehension of such an harmonious interchange between pulse-beat and breathing that echoes on in speech. Formed and transformed in various ways, it produces the after-effect of a pictorial or a musical speech-formation, which is then brought to expression by the poet. I said – and the point has actually been raised – that the fundamental law of poetry, the interaction of breathing and circulation that I have elicited from human morphology might be considered mechanical and materialistic. But the spiritual life that holds sway and works in the world can only be grasped if we trace that life right into its material formations; only if the life of man’s spirit and soul is pursued to those depths where it lives out its expression in corporeal functions. These bodily workings will then act as a firm wall to hurl back, like an echo, what derives from the laws of a profounder spirituality – a spirituality of direct experience pouring itself out into speech. Goethe sensed how in earlier stages of human culture man stood in a deeper relation, as it were, to his own nature. He too sought to enter into an earlier epoch’s feeling for poetic forms and revivify them. It is actually of deep significance that at the highest point in the development of German poetry, Goethe pointed away from the crude, prosaic stress popularly taken for recitation and declamation, to a special kind of what can be called – and deservingly – a real speech-formation. To rehearse the iambics of his Iphigeneia, Goethe stood in front of the actors with his baton. He knew that what had to be revealed was, above all, the imagery he wanted to incorporate, while the prose-content was there merely as a ladder by which to scale the heights of the full, spiritual sense – the sound and the picture-quality of speech that must evolve from it. We must pierce through the given prose-content of a poem into the truly poetic. Schiller’s experience in his best creations, of an initially indefinable melody, a musicality onto which he then threaded the prose-content, was not a personal peculiarity. As regards the words, some of Schiller’s poems could even have had a different content to the one they currently possess. In a true poet there is everywhere, in the background of the rhetorical speech, a quality that must simply be felt. And only when it does justice to the musical in speech-formation will true poetry stand revealed. If we turn to what is often taught today as recitation and declamation, it is with a keen sense of something having, in these uncultured times, gone amiss. The voice itself is strengthened, and great value is attached to technical adjustment of the organism: this is because no-one is any longer able to live in a direct relationship with recitation and declamation (not to mention singing), and we transfer to material tampering with the body what should be experienced on a quite different plane. The important thing in teaching recitation and declamation is that the pupil should on no account be made to do anything but live with speech-formation as such and the soul-resonance of living with speech-formation, in such a way as to bring him to listen properly. For anyone who is capable of listening correctly to what may come over in poetry, the appropriate breathing, proper disposition of the body, etc., will come about of their own accord – as a response to proper listening. It is important to let the pupil live in the actual element of declamation and recitation, and leave all the rest to him. He must become absorbed in the objective realities of tone, in “musical pictoriality” and in authentically poetic formations. In this way alone, paradoxical as it may sound, can we get the pupil to develop an ear for what he hears declaimed to him and thereby sensitivity to what moves spiritually over the waves of sound he hears. Only when he experiences something in his surroundings, we might say, and not in himself – and even though to begin with this experience is illusory, it must be cultivated – only then will he be able to refer back to himself what he feels vibrant in the world around him. It is only through the recital of certain aesthetically fashioned word-sequences, which have a special relation to human morphology, that we ought to learn breath-control or anything else connected with the adjusting of the voice. In this way we shall best meet the requirements of Goethe’s artistic perception and the sensitivity we value so greatly. By way of illustration – not of any theory, but of the foregoing remarks there will now be recited a passage from Goethe’s “Achilleis”. [Note 27] [Since the hexameter in its true, classical form can only occasionally be reproduced successfully in English, C. Day Lewis performed the service of devising a metre which sounds convincingly like it. He used it to evoke the heroic and epic associations of classical poetry in relating, for example, an episode from the Spanish Civil War in “The Nabara”. This extract is from “Phase One”:
Freedom is more than a word, more than the base coinage Of statesmen, the tyrant’s dishonoured cheque, or the dreamer’s mad Inflated currency. She is mortal, we know, and made In the image of simple men who have no taste for carnage But sooner kill and are killed than see that image betrayed. Mortal she is, yet rising always refreshed from her ashes: She is bound to earth, yet she flies as high as a passage bird To home wherever man’s heart with seasonal warmth is stirred: Innocent is her touch as the dawn’s, but still it unleashes The ravisher shades of envy. Freedom is more than a word.
I see man’s heart two-edged, keen both for death and creation. As a sculptor rejoices, stabbing and mutilating the stone Into a shapelier life, and the two joys make one – So man is wrought in his hour of agony and elation To efface the flesh to reveal the crying need of his bone. Burning the issue was beyond their mild forecasting For those I tell of – men used to the tolerable joy and hurt Of simple lives: they coveted never an epic part; But history’s hand was upon them and hewed an everlasting Image of freedom out of their rude and stubborn heart. C. Day Lewis (1904-1972) An earlier solution to the problem was a rather more radical departure from the hexameter for a five-foot line, and the blank-verse pentameter remains the natural epic metre in English. Milton employed it in recreating many of the features of classical epic in Paradise Lost, as may be illustrated from the following passage (Book VI, 189-214):
So saying, a noble stroke he lifted high, Which hung not, but so swift with tempest fell On the proud Crest of Satan, that no sight, Nor motion of swift thought, less could his Shield Such ruin intercept: ten paces huge He back recoild; the tenth on bended knee His massie Spear upstayd; as if on Earth Winds under ground or waters forcing way Sidelong, had push’t a Mountain from his seat Half sunk with all his Pines. Amazement seiz’d The Rebel Thrones, but greater rage to see Thus foil’d their mightiest, ours joy find, and shout, Presage of Victorie and fierce desire Of Battel: whereat Michaël bid sound Th’ Arch-angel trumpet; through the vast of Heav’n It sounded, and the faithful Armies rung Hosanna to the Highest: nor stood at gaze The adverse Legions, nor less hideous join’d The horrid shock: now storming furie rose, And clamor such as heard in Heav’n till now Was never, Arms on Armour clashing bray’d Horrible discord, and the madding Wheeles Of brazen Chariots rag’d; dire was the noise Of conflict; over head the dismal hiss Of fiery Darts in flaming vollies flew, And flying vaulted either Host with fire. John Milton.] And now, to illustrate declamation, Goethe’s “Hymnus an die Natur” (abridged, as occasion demanded, for a Eurythmy performance).
Natur! Wir sind von ihr umgeben und umschlungen – unvermögend aus ihr herauszutreten, und unvermögend, tiefer in sie hinein zu kommen. Ungebeten und ungewarnt nimmt sie uns in den Kreislauf ihres Tanzes auf und treibt sich mit uns fort, bis wir ermüdet sind und ihrem Arm entfallen.
Sie schafft ewig neue Gestalten; alles ist neu, und doch immer das Alte. Sie baut immer und zerstört immer. Sie lebt in lauter Kindern; und die Mutter, wo ist sie? – Sie ist die einzige Künstlerin; sie spielt ein Schauspiel; es ist ein ewiges Leben, Werden und Bewegen in ihr. Sie verwandelt sich ewig, und ist kein Moment Stillestehen in ihr.
Ihr Tritt ist gemessen, ihre Ausnahmen selten, ihre Gesetze unwandelbar. Gedacht hat sie und sinnt beständig.
Die Menschen sind alle in ihr, und sie in allen. Auch das Unnatürlichste ist Natur, auch die plumpste Philisterei hat etwas von ihrem Genie.
Sie liebt sich selber; sie freut sich an der Illusion. Ihre Kinder sind ohne Zahl.
Sie spritzt ihre Geschöpfe aus dem Nichts hervor. Leben ist ihre schönste Erfindung, und der Tod – ihr Kunstgriff, viel Leben zu haben.
Sie hüllt den Menschen in Dumpfheit ein und spornt ihn ewig zum Lichte. Man gehorcht ihren Gesetzen, auch wenn man ihnen widerstrebt; man wirkt mit ihr, auch wenn man gegen sie wirken will. Sie macht alles, was sie gibt, zur Wohltat.
Sie hat keine Sprache noch Rede, aber sie schafft Zungen und Herzen, durch die sie fühlt und spricht. Ihre Krone ist die Liebe.
Sie macht Klüfte zwischen allen Wesen, und alles will sie verschlingen. Sie hat alles isoliert, um alles zusammenzuziehen.
Sie ist alles. Sie belohnt sich selbst und bestraft sich selbst, erfreut und quält sich selbst. Vergangenheit und Zukunft kennt sie nicht. Gegenwart ist ihr Ewigkeit. Sie ist gütig, sie ist weise und still. Sie ist ganz, und doch immer unvollendet.
Jedem erscheint sie in einer eignen Gestalt. Sie verbirgt sich in tausend Namen und ist immer dieselbe.
Sie hat mich hereingestellt, sie wird mich auch herausführen. Ich vertraue mich ihr. Alles hat sie gesprochen. Alles ist ihre Schuld, alles ist ihr Verdienst! [Perhaps the nearest parallel in English is the unrestricted and freely expansive rhythm of Blake. He celebrates not Nature, but the spirits (the Sons of Los) in Nature in these extracts from his Milton pl. 27,66 – 28,12; pl. 31, 4 – 22:
Thou seest the Constellations in the deep & wondrous Night: They rise in order and continue their immortal courses Upon the mountains & in vales with harp & heavenly song, With flute & clarion, with cups & measures fill’d with foaming wine.
Glitt’ring the streams reflect the Vision of beatitude, And the calm Ocean joys beneath & smooths his awful waves: These are the Sons of Los, & these the Labourers of the Vintage. Thou seest the gorgeous clothed Flies that dance & sport in summer
Upon the sunny brooks & meadows: every one the dance Knows in its intricate mazes of delight artful to weave: Each one to sound his instruments of music in the dance, To touch each other & recede, to cross & change & return: These are the Children of Los; thou seest the Trees on mountains, The wind blows heavy, loud they thunder thro’ the darksom sky, Uttering prophecies & speaking instructive words to the sons Of men: These are the Sons of Los: These are the Visions of Eternity, But we see only as it were the hem of their garments When with our vegetable eyes we view these wondrous Visions.
The Sky is an immortal Tent built by the Sons of Los: And every Space that a Man views around his dwelling-place Standing on his own roof or in his garden on a mount Of twenty-five cubits in height, such space is his Universe: To meet the flat Earth &the Sea in such an order’d Space: The Starry heavens reach no further, but here bend and set On all sides, & the two Poles turn on their valves of gold; And if he move his dwelling-place, his heavens also move Where’er he goes, & all his neighbourhood bewail his loss. Such are the Spaces called Earth & such its dimension. As to that false appearance which appears to the reasoner As of a Globe rolling thro’ Voidness, it is a delusion of Ulro. The Microscope knows not of this nor the Telescope: they alter The ratio of the Spectator’s Organs, but leave Objects untouch’d. For every Space larger than a red Globule of Man’s blood Is visionary, and is created by the Hammer of Los: And every Space smaller than a Globule of Man’s blood opens Into Eternity of which this vegetable Earth is but a shadow. William Blake.]
And now we will adduce some examples of the lyric – to be precise, from two poets, both Austrian: Robert Hamerling and Anastasius Grün. The lyric diverges from epic and dramatic poetry in that, as far as speech-formation is concerned, its aesthetic quality must be experienced directly. In a way, all lyric strives to obliterate the immediate content of consciousness – at any rate to some degree. It would restore to man’s being a sense of universal participation. One might say that in lyric there is always a damping down of conscious experience. With a poet like Hamerling, a once widely influential poet who compared with then is now largely forgotten, we can indeed observe how personal experience passes over into a lyrical experience. Here we have a personality whose soul wants to share inwardly with every fibre of its being in the entire life of the world. He wants to share in the life of colour that meets him from the world. And thus the unconscious elements of human life come to play a part in him. We can still see the after-effects of this colourful experience in him when he tries to give it shape by casting it in antique forms. Particularly in Hamerling’s lyric poetry we can feel the true Austro-German lyricism. He is in a sense perhaps the most representative of Austro-German poets. The German spoken in Austria, deriving as it does from several dialects to become the common parlance and also the so-called “literary language” of Austrian poetry – this language has something which marks it off from the other forms of German language, fine discriminations which are of special interest to poetry and speech-formation. Compared with other varieties of German we might say that Austrian German has a subdued quality: yet in this quality there lingers a delicate sense of humour; this language became that of Austrian poetry. This soft humorous sound and intimate soul-quality that comes across in Austrian speech is not readily found in other forms of German – except possibly dialects. And here we have something which brings us, so to speak, close to antiquity. It is at any rate remarkable that so outstanding a poet as Joseph Misson should have resorted to Austrian dialect for his “Da Naz, a niederösterreichischer Bauerbui geht in d’Fremd”, and that he arrived at a type of hexameter in which he felt artistically at home. We might add that the idealism of thought natural to someone who lives with Austrian German imparts an idealistic tinge to all the German inner feeling in this little piece of Central Europe. We encounter this even in the formation of speech in Hamerling’s lyrics, which convey the feeling as if on the wings of a bird, while continually catching the bird again in powerfully moulded forms. This is really possible only with the soft humour of Austrian German. If we recapture this in declamation by taking what lives in Hamerling’s lyrical poetry and allow it to be heard elsewhere, it strikes a German from a different region as being cornpletely German and yet he feels what is German in the language to have been idealized. This is what gives Hamerling’s lyricism its nobility and what makes his verve and colour genuinely artistic as well as spontaneous. How differently this appears in our other poet, Anastasius Grün! In accordance with the unique character of the Austrian disposition, he had a real feeling for what ought to mediate between East and West – for the mutual understanding of people all over the earth. The mood of 1848 finds expression most nobly and beautifully in Anastasius Grün’s poem Schutt – and in other of his poems too. It is this prologue to Schutt that will be recited. So, on the one hand we have, in Hamerling, a poet who really created more for declamation, yet found for it a metrical form and in Anastasius Grün a poet who takes over a recitative principle straight from the language. We would now like to demonstrate this in a poem by Anastasius Grün which, from its contents, might be entitled “West und Ost”; and in two poems by Robert Hamerling: “Nächtliche Regung” and “Vor einer Genziane”. WEST UND OST
Aug’ in Auge lächelnd schlangen Arm in Arm einst West und Ost; Zwillingspaar, das liebumfangen Noch in einer Wiege kost’!
Ahriman ersah’s, der Schlimme, Ihn erbaut der Anblick nicht, Schwingt den Zauberstab im Grimme, Draus manch roter Blitzstrahl bricht.
Wirft als Riesenschlang’ ins Bette, Ringelnd, bäumend, zwischen sie Jener Berg’ urew’ge Kette, Die nie bricht und endet nie.
Lässt der Lüfte Vorhang rollend Undurchdringlich niederziehn, Spannt des Meers Sahara grollend Endlos zwischen beiden hin.
Lächlend ob dem schlechten Schwank, Winkt mit seiner Zauberrute, Sternefunkelnd, goldesblank.
Sieh, auf Taubenfitt’chen, fächelnd, Von der fernsten Luft geküsst, Schifft die Liebe, kundig lächelnd; Wie sich Ost and Westen grüsst!
Blütenduft und Tau und Segen Saugt im Osten Menschengeist, Steigt als Wolke, die als Regen Mild auf Westens Flur dann fleusst!
Und die Brücke hat gezogen, Die vom Ost zum West sich schwingt, Phantasie als Regenbogen, Der die Berge überspringt.
Durch die weiten Meereswüsten, Steuernd, wie ein Silberschwan, Zwischen Osts und Westens Küsten Wogt des Lieds melod’scher Kahn.
Anastasius Grün (1806-1876). [The poem that follows demonstrates the English sense of delicacy and restraint, and the subtle humour to which the language was in its own way particularly suited – perhaps especially around Marvell’s time: ON A DROP OF DEW
See how the Orient Dew, Shed from the Bosom of the Morn Into the blowing Roses, Yet careless of its Mansion new; For the clear Region where ’twas born Round in its self incloses: And in its little Globes Extent, Frames as it can its native Element. How it the purple flow’r does slight, Scarce touching where it lyes, But gazing back upon the Skies, Shines with a mournful Light; Like its own Tear, Because so long divided from the Sphear. Restless it roules and unsecure, Trembling lest it grow impure; Till the warm Sun pitty it’s Pain, And to the Skies exhales it back again. So the Soul, that Drop, that Ray Of the clear Fountain of Eternal Day, Could it within the humane flow’r be seen, Remembring still its former height, Shuns the sweat leaves and blossoms green; And, recollecting its own Light,
The greater Heaven in an Heaven less. In how coy a Figure wound, Every way it turns away; So the World excluding round, Yet receiving in the Day. Dark beneath, but bright above: Here disdaining, there in Love. How loose and easie hence to go: How girt and ready to ascend. Moving but on a point below, It all about does upwards bend. Such did the Manna’s sacred Dew destil; White, and intire, though congeal’d and chill. Congeal’d on Earth: but does, dissolving, run Into the Glories of th’ Almighty Sun.
Andrew Marvell (1621-1678).] NÄCHTLICHE REGUNG
Horch, der Tanne Wipfel Schlummertrunken bebt, Wie von Geisterschwingen Rauschend überschwebt. Göttliches Orakel In der Krone saust, Doch die Tanne selber Weiss nicht, was sie braust.
Mir auch durch die Seele Leise Melodien, Unbegriffne Schauer, Allgewaltig ziehn: Ist es Freudemahnung Oder Schmerzgebot? Sich allein verständlich Spricht in uns der Gott.
VOR EINER GENZIANE Einsam erblüht tief unten in kühler Waldschlucht. O wie sie durchs Föhrengestrüpp Heraufschimmerte mit den blauen, prächtigen Glocken: Gewohnten Waldespfad Komm’ ich nun Tag um Tag Gewandelt und steige hinab in die Schlucht Und blicke der schönen Blume tief ins Aug’...
Schöne Blume, was schwankst du doch Vor mir in unbewegten Lüften so scheu, So ängstlich? Ist denn ein Menschenaue nicht wert Zu blicken in ein Blumenantlitz? Trübt Menschenmundes Hauch Den heiligen Gottesfrieden dir, In dem du atmest?
Ach, immer wohl drückt Schuld, Drückt nagende Selbstanklage Die sterbliche Brust und du, Blume, du wiegst In himmlischer Lebensunschuld Die wunderbaren Kronen: Doch blicke nicht allzu vorwurfsvoll mich an! Sieh, hab’ ich doch Eines voraus vor dir: Ich habe gelebt: Ich habe gestrebt, ich habe gerungen, Ich habe geweint, Ich habe geliebt, ich habe gehasst, Ich habe gehofft, ich habe geschaudert; Der Stachel der Qual, des Entzückens hat In meinem Fleische gewühlt; Alle Schauer des Lebens und des Todes sind Durch meine Sinne geflutet, Ich habe mit Engelchören gespielt, ich habe Gerungen mit Dämonen.
Du ruhst, ein träumendes Kind, Am Mantelsaum des Höchsten, ich aber; Ich habe mich emporgekämpft Zu seinem Herzen, Ich habe gezernt an seinen Schleiern, Ich habe ihn beim Namen gerufen, Emporgeklettert Bin ich auf einer Leiter von Seufzern, Und hab’ ihm ins Ohr gerufen: ‘Erbarmung!’ O Blume, heilig bist du, Selig und rein; Doch heiligt, was er berührt, nicht auch Der zündende Schicksalsblitz? O, blicke nicht allzu vorwurfsvoll mich an, Du stille Träumerin; Ich habe gelebt, ich habe gelitten!
Robert Hamerling (1830-1889).
[Something of the same fusion of lyric flight and precision of form can be felt in the following poem: THE MORNING-WATCH
O Joyes! Infinite sweetnes! with what flowres, And shoots of glory, my soul breakes, and buds! All the long houres Of night, and Rest Through the still shrouds Of Sleep, and Clouds, This Dew fell on my Breast; O how it Blouds, And Spirits all my Earth! heark! In what Rings, And Hymning Circulations the quick world Awakes, and sings; The rising winds, ‘And falling springs, Birds, beasts, all things Adore him in their kinds. Thus all is hurl’d In sacred Hymnes, and Order, The great Chime And Symphony of nature. Prayer is The world in tune, A spirit-voyce, And vocall joyes Whose Eccho is heav’ns blisse. O let me climbe When I lye down! The Pious soul by night Is like a clouded starre, whose beames though said To shed their light Under some Cloud Yet are above, And shine, and move Beyond that mistie shrowd So in my Bed That Curtain’d grave, though sleep, like ashes, hide My lamp, and life, both shall in thee abide.
Henry Vaughan (1621-1695).] And to close, we shall introduce part of the Seventh Scene from my Mystery Play, The Portal of Initiation. One is in a unique position when trying to give poetic form to the life of the super-sensible. For, to begin with, one seems to be withdrawing far from the solid ground of external reality. One is thus exposed to the additional danger, that anyone not readily familiar and quick with spiritual matters takes our intention to be allegorical or symbolic. Neither symbol nor allegory has any place in the aesthetic viewpoint arising from the sort of perception we advocate here. It is assuredly no more the abstractions of symbolism than it is a straw-stuffed allegory that we attempt, but a living portrayal of perceptions actually more distinct than our ordinary sense-perceptions, because apprehended by the soul directly, unmediated by bodily organs. Only for someone unable to rouse these perceptions to life in himself do they seem abstract or hollow. I hope to limit my remarks on this subject to a few words, for it does not do to dwell over much on one’s own accomplishments. These Mystery Plays concern the spiritual and soul development of Johannes Thomasius, who is to be brought little by little to a direct super-sensible experience of the spiritual world. This has to a certain extent been achieved when once he has succeeded in overcoming a range of inner obstacles, and made various advances. There then comes a moment at which he finds, in what has hitherto been known to him as the external world of the senses and the intellect (which infiltrates the senses only as the thinnest and most abstract spirituality), he comes upon a pervading activity of concrete spiritual beings and concrete spiritual events. The occurrences in a human soul who reaches this stage of initiation are complex. Everything so far experienced in light or sound, or in the other elements of the external world, figures for the higher mode of experience in a different guise. It is actually like a transformation in which the world is experienced as a drawing together and struggling up of the soul-forces of thinking, feeling and willing to another form of existence. As to how these soul-forces share in such a transformation of man, and how this participation stands in intimate relation to the entire cosmos – that is what is presented in the scene from the Mystery Drama. One of the characters – Maria – who has raised her life up into the spiritual, describes first how those forces come together which are to inspire the soul’s individual forces. Philia, Astrid and Luna are seen as the powers of the soul which hold sway in real, living people, and play a part in inspiring the man Johannes Thomasius. What the human soul may come to be, out of the whole world, out of the totality of the world what it can become in the moment that true understanding of spiritual life arises there: that is the subject of this representation. While one apparently withdraws in such a representation more than ever from the ground of reality, yet (as who should know better than their creator?) the characters formed in this way actually stand before the soul no less concretely than any external thing. Many people, of course, will not be drawn into such matters: they call everything allegorical that leads beyond sense-perception. In defence, Hamerling asked in his Ahasver: Can anyone help me out of this predicament – that Nero stands here and symbolizes cruelty? We introduce symbolism only to the extent that reality itself is a kind of symbol. It is exactly when we come to shape spiritual forms that we feel how every detail, down to the minuter shades, has been directly experienced. And we perceive a spiritual entity of this kind not in concepts, but in words, in nuances of sound. No-one, I believe, could create out of the energies of the spirit and attain to that degree of life who cannot himself enter vitally into language. He may then employ the spirit of language, with its wonderful inner wisdom, its wonderful formation of feeling and its impulses of will, to that end – so as to grasp things in their particularity. If he cannot put to use those unconscious spiritual pulsations which proceed from everyday life, he will not be able to avail himself of the language to present the spiritual world. We need not grow less poetic because our presentations take us into the spiritual world. For there we enter the native country of poetry and art. All poetry has originated from the soul and spirit. Since, therefore, man finds himself confronted by the spiritual essences of things, the lyric flight, the epic power and the dramatic form that live in him can never be lost. These cannot be destroyed if the art of poetry returns, as to its own proper home, to the realm of the spirit. From The Soul’s Probation, Scene 2: [Note 28] MARIA: Ihr, meine Schwestern, die ich In Wesenstiefen finde, Wenn meine Seele sich erweitet, Und in die Weltenfernen Sich selbst geleitet, Entbindet mir die Seherkräfte Aus Aetherhöhen, Und führet sie auf Erdenpfade; Dass ich im Zeitensein Mich selbst ergründe, Und die Richtung mir geben kann Aus alten Lebensweisen Zu neuen Willenskreisen.
PHILIA: Ich will erfüllen mich Mit strebendem Seelenlicht Aus Herzenstiefen; Ich will eratmen mir Belebende Willensmacht Aus Geistestrieben; Dass du, geliebte Schwester, In alten Lebenskreisen Das Licht erfühlen kannst.
ASTRID: Ich will verweben Sich fühlende Eigenheit Mit ergebenem Liebewillen; Ich will entbinden Die keimenden Willensmächte Aus Wunschesfesseln Und dir das lähmende Sehnen Verwandeln in findendes Geistesfühlen; Dass du, geliebte Schwester, In fernen Erdenpfaden Dich selbst ergriinden kannst.
LUNA: Ich will berufen entsagende Herzensmächte, Und will erfestigen tragende Seelenruhe; Sie sollen sich vermählen Und kraftendes Geistesleuchten Aus Seelengründen heben; Sie sollen sich durchdringen, Und lauschendem Geistgehör Die Erdenfernen zwingen; Dass du, geliebte Schwester, In weitem Zeitensein Die Lebensspuren finden kannst.
MARIA (after a pause): Wenn ich mich entreissen kann Verwirrendem Selbstgefühl, Und mich euch geben darf: Dass ihr mein Seelensein Mir spiegelt aus Weltenfernen: Vermag ich zu lösen mich Aus diesem Lebenskreise Und kann ergründen mich In andrer Daseinsweise.
(a longer pause and then the following)
In euch, ihr Schwestern, schau’ ich Geisteswesen, Die Seelen aus dem Weltenall beleben. Ihr könnt die Kräfte, die in Ewigkeiten keimen Im Menschen selbst zur Reife bringen. Durch meiner Seele Tore dürft’ ich oft Den Weg in eure Reiche finden, Und Erdendaseins Urgestalten Mit Seelenaugen schauen. Bedürftig bin ich eurer Hilfe jetzt, Da mir obliegt, den Weg zu finden Von meiner gegenwärtigen Erdenfahrt In langvergangne Menschheitstage. Entbindet mir das Seelensein vom Selbstgefühl In seinem Zeitenleben. Erschliesset mir den Pflichtenkreis Aus meiner Vorzeit Lebensbahnen.
From The Soul’s Probation, Scene 2: MARIA: You, my sisters, I find when in the depths of being my soul, expanding, guides itself into the reaches of the universe. Release for me the powers of seeing out of etheric heights and lead them down to earthly paths so that I may explore and find myself in course of time and give direction to myself to change old ways of life into new spheres of will.
PHILIA: I will imbue myself with striving light of soul out of the heart’s own depths; I will breathe in enlivening power of will out of the spirit’s urging; that you, beloved sister, within old spheres of life may feel and sense the light.
ASTRID: I will weave into one a selfhood’s feeling of itself with love’s forebearing will; I will release the burgeoning powers of will from fetters of desire, transform your languid yearning to certainty of spirit sensing; that you, beloved sister, on paths of earth far distant explore and find your Self.
LUNA: I will call forth renouncing strength of heart and will confirm enduring soul-repose. These shall unite and raise empowering spirit light out of the depths of soul; they shall pervade each other and shall subdue far distances of earth to the listening spirit ear; that you, beloved sister, in time’s wide ranges may find the traces of your life.
MARIA (after a pause): When I can tear myself away from the bewildering sense of Self and give myself to you so that you reflect to me my soul from world-wide distances: then I can free myself out of this sphere of life and can explore and find myself in other states of being.
(a long pause, then the following)
In you, my sisters, I see spirit beings that quicken souls out of the cosmos’ life. You bring to full maturity in man himself Through portals of my soul I often could find my way into your realm and could behold with inner eyes the archetypes of earth existence. I now must ask your help: it has become my duty to find the way that leads from present life on earth to long past ages of mankind. Release my soul-life from its sense of self in time-enclosed existence. Open for me the sphere of duty, brought from my life journey in ancient days.
Trans. R. and H. Pusch. |
the forces germinating in eternities.