The Rudolf Steiner Archive

‘A translation has to be made out of the spirit of the language of the country just as if the respective book were written in this language’ (R. Steiner, Soul Economy and Waldorf Education, Lecture 14, 5.1.22, GA303 [RSP/AP 1986]).

With this sentence, Steiner encapsulates the translator's ideal. It is echoed by Gerald Vann: ‘Translation must always of course be a rendering not of word for word but of idea for idea; to be content to transliterate is merely illiterate’ (G. Vann, ‘Translator's Note to Teilhard de Chardin, Hymn of the Universe [Collins, London 1965]). I do not think any translator believes a fixed ‘fundamentalist’ view concerning Steiner's terms is a tenable position. Words with Teutonic roots are not automatically holy or accurate, whoever the author might be. Nor does anybody claim pommes de terre has anything to do with apples! We have all heard of ‘anthrospeak’, that habit of jargonizing which we try to avoid in serious discourse. We all know that language is a living reality, and we try to be sensitive to its development.

These remarks arise from a perception that general awareness of our use of language is not as precise as it might be, that several factors are involved, and that a translator of a text on music inherits a difficult and controversial situation from which, nevertheless, I am convinced much good can result. Questions of terminology began to be aired at last in the Newsletter of the Association of Eurythmists in the United Kingdom and the Republic of Ireland, Aberdeen, Winter 1993. Potential critics may care to know that the aims expressed in Anna Meuss' article ‘Translating Rudolf Steiner's lectures’ (in Anthroposophy Today No. 20, RSP Autumn 1993) match my own. Most translators working in English owe much to her example. With the question of spelling and what to italicize, I have followed The Oxford Dictionary for Writers and Editors (1991). The few alternative American musical terms are included in brackets.

The course of lectures on music eurythmy translated here was held in February, 1924, for an audience of eurythmists and musicians. It represents the greatest of Steiner's contributions to music, and should interest all artists. Other lecture courses were planned, including one for musicians, but Steiner's death in 1925 prevented this. Nevertheless a rich fund of insights was offered with which artists can begin working: the lectures published under the title Das Wesen des Musikalischen GA283, most of which are published in The Inner Nature of Music and the Experience of Tone (AP 1983), also Art as seen in the Light of Mystery Wisdom GA275 (AP 1984), and The Arts and their Mission GA276 (AP 1964). Lea van der Pals, a leading eurythmist in Dornach, has achieved a creative synthesis of what Steiner gave on the subject in her book, The Human Being as Music (The Robinswood Press, Stourbridge 1992).

Eurythmie als Sichtbarer Gesang GA278, was first published in English as Eurythmy as Visible Song in 1932. In the second edition (1977) this title was changed to Eurythmy as Visible Music, presumably on the grounds that eurythmy is not practised with singers (for reasons Steiner gives in Lecture 7 below). However, the original designation sichtbarer Gesang is unusual in German, too. The literal translation ‘visible singing’ is what Steiner had in mind, more active than either ‘visible music’ or ‘visible song’. (Steiner sometimes said sichtbares Singen, ‘visible singing’ [14.2.20 in GA277 and Tb642, and in the essay ‘Das Goetheanum ...’ IV, 1924 in GA36 and Tb635, p. 142]; and in Lecture 6, in connection with instrumental music, he said Gesangseurythmie—‘a singing eurythmy’.) Gesang is translated as ‘singing’ because it points to three central issues:

(1) the human being as creative source of music;

(2) the origin of all instrumental music in singing, intrinsically and historically;

(3) the possibility of expressing this human essence in artistic movement.

Steiner sums it up: ‘Eurythmy is a singing through movement; it is singing. It is not dancing; it is not mime’ (Lecture 7; see GA277, p. 337 too). Ralph Kux explains: The eurythmic artist ... perceives instrumental music through the ear and straight away transforms it into an inwardly heard singing, and fashions this singing into visible movement. Consequently we can speak of a “visible singing” and not of a “visible music” ’ (R. Kux, Erinnerungen an Rudolf Steiner, Mellinger Verlag [Stuttgart 1976], p. 52; translation A. S.).

It also seems reasonable that a conscientious translator should be consistent in following the use of one of the main branches of the English language. Clarity of meaning is thereby encouraged. As this translation aims, in the first place, for accuracy in English as it is used in Britain, we should clarify three words. The German Ton means ‘sound’, more specifically ‘musical sound’, and ‘note’. In the USA the term ‘tone’ might cover some, but not all, of the uses: both English and American musicians sing and play ‘notes’. To British musicians, the word ‘tone’ denotes a major second; it also refers to the quality of sound. Interestingly, Shakespeare's Titania begs, ‘I pray you gentle mortal, sing again / Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note’; Don Pedro advises: ‘do it in notes’. Steiner, too, sometimes uses Note and Noten in his lectures. Eurythmy employs sound as its raw material: Laut—speech sound, Ton—musical sound. For Lauteurythmie we rightly say ‘speech eurythmy’, and for Toneurythmie, logically ‘music eurythmy’. This term suggests itself as one which avoids misunderstanding and consequently one which could be internationally acceptable. But it may genuinely not be desirable to have an ‘internationally acceptable’ term.

Incidentally, Steiner uses the expressions musikalische Eurythmie (‘musical eurythmy’) and musikalisches Eurythmisieren (literally ‘musical eurythmizing’) in Lecture 5; musikalische Eurythmisierende (‘the person engaged in music eurythmy’) in Lecture 6, and Musikgebärde (‘gestures of music [eurythmy]’) in Lecture 1. Owen Barfield, in his article ‘The Art of Eurythmy’, in The Golden Blade (London 1954), speaks of ‘speech eurythmy’, ‘musical eurythmy’, and simply ‘eurythmy’.

The Romance languages use the words ‘music’ and ‘musical’: eurythmie musicale (French), euritmia musicale (Italian), eurythmia da musica (Portuguese), eurythmia de la musica (Spanish). Hebrew possesses only one word for both musical and speech sound (tzlil), and so uses ‘music’ too: oritmia im-musica. Eastern Europe uses the word ‘musical’, for example: muzikalaija evritmija (Russian), musikalna evritmia (Bulgarian). The Japanese, too, use their equivalent word for ‘music’. Since this translation uses English as it is spoken in Britain, Ton is translated as ‘sound’, ‘musical sound’ and ‘note’ according to the context. Here, as in general, I have been guided by the Oxford Dictionary of Music (1985) and The New Oxford Companion to Music (1983), The New Grove Dictionary of Music and Musicians (1980), and Collins Encyclopaedia of Music (1976). Those who feel they are closer to the Teutonic tradition, and who prefer the earlier terms ‘tone’ and ‘tone-eurythmy’ that have been hallowed by use, will realize that these terms sound like jargon, at least in Britain. It should also be said that the modern meaning of the word ‘tone’ for acoustics and electronics, for example, as implied in ‘a musical note, without its harmonics’ (from the first sentence of the entry ‘Tone’ in The International Cyclopaedia of Music and Musicians, ed. Oscar Thompson [Dodd, Mead and Co, New York and Toronto / Dent, London; 10th edition 1975], p. 2293), is the opposite of what Steiner means by Ton. However, I have been asked to retain the term ‘tone eurythmy’ in the lectures.

Eurythmists, Steiner explains, have to ‘raise’ their bodies ‘through work’, so that their bodies (their instruments) can appear as if moving in the etheric realm. Translators, similarly, have to ‘raise’ their thinking. In fact, anyone who manages to do this can ‘approach [the archangel] Michael’ (lecture 13.1.24 in GA233a). ‘Christology,’ Steiner says elsewhere (Lecture 1.8.15), ‘has nothing to do with any division of man and mankind.’ But he does emphasize that realization comes only from within. The ‘raising’ mentioned above is also attempted by all those who have contributed their labour of love to the present work. No translation, of course, can claim to be ‘perfect’. Even were this translation good, it could still be better. Any comments in this direction that would assist preparation for the day when a fourth edition is needed, will be appreciated. Endnote numbers in square brackets refer to the section ‘Notes to the Lectures’ in the companion volume to the present lectures. This companion volume also contains eight Appendices on specific subjects.

Eurythmists will be for ever grateful to Marie Steiner for her incalculable contribution to eurythmy. Her main concern, however, was the speech work. Her synopsis of the present lectures which appeared in the first edition (Eurythmy as Visible Song) even contains an occasional misleading statement. Her original titles for these lectures have been slightly revised here. This third edition of Eurythmy as Visible Singing is planned to appear during the bicentenary of Schiller's Aesthetic Letters (1794) and the centenary of Steiner's own The Philosophy of Freedom (1894). Both books are recommended by Steiner for eurythmy students. What worthier companions could be imagined for the present lecture course, which is an attempt to blaze a trail between naturalism and abstraction in art, in order to get beyond materialism? May this edition, planned to appear in 1994 (seventy years after the lectures were held), encourage a further step in bringing about that which Goethe called ‘Nature's worthiest exponent, Art’.

These lectures dealing with the nature of eurhythmy are given in response to a request from Frau Dr. Steiner, who believes it to be necessary, in order to lay the foundation of an exact eurhythmic tradition, to recapitulate in the first place all that has been given in the domain of speech-eurhythmy at different times to different people. To this repetition fresh material will be added in order to widen the field of eurhythmic expression. Such material will, however, not be set apart in separate chapters, but will be given in connection with each individual point as this comes under discussion.

I shall endeavour to deal with eurhythmy from its various aspects; not only from the artistic side which naturally calls for our first consideration here, but also from the point of view of education and healing.

The first lecture will be in the nature of an introduction and this will be followed by a lecture dealing with the first elements of speech-eurhythmy. In every branch of eurhythmic activity it is necessary above all that the personality, the whole human being of the eurhythmist should be brought into play, so that eurhythmy may become an expression of life itself. This cannot he achieved unless one enters into the spirit of eurhythmy, feeling it actually as visible speech. As in the case of all artistic appreciation, it is quite possible for anyone to enjoy eurhythmy as a spectator, without having acquired any knowledge of its essential basis, just as it is quite unnecessary to have studied harmony or counterpoint to be able to appreciate music. For it is an accepted fact of human evolution that the healthily developed human being carries within him a natural appreciation and understanding of art.

Art must work through its own inherent power. Art must explain itself. Those, however, who are studying eurhythmy, whose duty it is in some way or another to bring eurhythmy before the world, must penetrate into the actual essence and nature of eurhythmy in just the same way as, let us say, the musician, the painter or the sculptor must enter into the nature of his own particular art. If we wish to enter into the true nature of eurhythmy we must perforce enter into the true nature of the human being. For eurhythmy, to a far greater extent than any other art, makes use of what lies in the nature of man himself. Take for example various other arts, arts which need instruments or tools for their expression. You find no instrument or tool so nearly akin to the human being as the instrument made use of by the eurhythmist. The art of mime and the art of dancing do indeed to some extent make use of the human being as a means of artistic expression. With the art of mime, however, that which is expressed through the mime itself is merely subordinate to the performance as a whole, for such a performance does not depend entirely upon the artistic, plastic use of the human being. In such a case this same human being is made use of in order to imitate something or other which is already represented in man here upon the earth.

Further, in the case of the art of mime, we find as a rule that the gestures are used mainly to emphasize and render clearer something which is made use of by man in everyday life; that is to say, mime emphasizes speech. In order to bring a more intimate note into speech, gesture is added. Thus we are here concerned with something which merely adds in some small measure to the scope of that which is already present in man on the physical plane.

In the art of dancing—if we may use the word ‘art’ in such a connection—we have to do with an outpouring of the emotions, of the will, into movements of the human body, whereby are only further developed those possibilities of movement inherent in the human being and already present elsewhere on the physical plane. In eurhythmy we have to do with something which can nowhere be found in the human being in ordinary physical life, but which must be through and through a creation out of the spiritual worlds. We have to do with something which makes use of the human being, which makes use of the human form and its possibilities of movement as a means of expression.

Now the question arises:—What is really expressed in eurhythmy?—This you will only understand when you begin to realize that eurhythmy is actually a visible speech. With regard to speech itself the following must be said. When we give form to speech by means of mime, the ordinary speech itself provides us with a picture, with an image; when, however, we give form to speech itself, to sound as such, we find that the latter contains within it no such image. Speech arises as a separate, independent product from out of the human being himself. Nowhere in Nature do we find that which reveals itself in speech, that which comes into being through speech.

For this reason eurhythmy must, in its very nature, be something which represents a primeval creation. Speech—let us take this as our starting point—speech appears as a production of the human larynx and of those organs of speech which are more or less connected with it. What is the nature of the larynx? This question must eventually be brought forward, for I have often shown how in eurhythmy the whole human being must become a sort of larynx. We must therefore put to ourselves the question: Of what significance is the larynx? Now if you look upon speech merely as a production of the larynx, you will gain no conception of what is really proceeding from it, of what is being fashioned within it. Here it would perhaps be well to remind ourselves of a remarkable tradition which to-day is little understood, and of which you find some indication when you take the beginning of St. John’s Gospel: ‘In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and a God was the Word’. The Word.—Of course that which we to-day imagine to be the Word is something which gives not the slightest sense to the opening sentences of this Gospel. Nevertheless they are continually quoted. People believe they can make something out of them. They do not, however, succeed. For it is an undeniable fact that the conception of a word as held by the man of to-day is often truly expressed by his saying something of this kind:—What is a name but mere sound and smoke, mist and vapour?—In a certain sense he values the word itself little in comparison with its underlying concept. He feels a certain superiority in thus being able to value the word little in comparison with the thought. When, therefore, one puts oneself in the position of the man of to-day, and considers his conception of a word, the beginning of St. John’s Gospel has indeed no meaning. For consider the Word?—we have so many words, which word? It can only be a definite, concrete word. And what is the nature of this Word? That is the question.

Now behind this tradition which is indicated in the beginning of this Gospel lies the fact that man once had an instinctive knowledge of the true nature of the Word. To-day, however, this knowledge has been lost. To primeval human understanding the idea, the conception, ‘the Word’ comprised the whole human being as an etheric creation.

All of you, as Anthroposophists, know what we mean by the etheric man. We have the physical man and we have the etheric man. Physical man, as he is described to-day by modern physiology and anatomy, consists, both outwardly and inwardly, of certain forms of which one is able to make diagrams. Here, however, one naturally does not take into consideration the fact that what one draws is only the very smallest part of the physical human being, for the physical body is at the same time fluidic; it consists also of air and warmth. These constituents are naturally not included when one is speaking of the human being in physiology and anatomy. Nevertheless it is possible to gain some idea of the nature of the physical body of man.

We have, however, the second member of the human being,—the etheric body. If we were to attempt to draw the etheric body something extraordinarily complicated would come to expression. For the etheric body can just as little be represented as something static as can lightning. It is impossible to paint lightning; for lightning is in continual movement, lightning is in continual flow. In portraying lightning one must attempt to show it in continual flow and movement. And the same holds good with the etheric body. The etheric body is in continual motion, in continual activity.

Now these movements, these gestures which are continually in movement,—of which the etheric body does not indeed consist, but out of which it continually arises and again passes away,—do we find them anywhere in the world, do we come up against them anywhere? Yes, we do. This was no secret to a primeval and intuitive knowledge. We have these movements,—and here, my dear friends, I must ask you to take what I am saying quite literally,—we have these movements in the sound formations which embody the content of speech.

Now review mentally all the sounds of speech to which your larynx gives form and utterance, inasmuch as this formative principle is applied to the entire range of articulate speech. Bear in mind all the component elements which issue from the larynx for the purpose of speech. You must realize that all these elements, proceeding as they do from the larynx, really form the component parts of that which is brought to outer expression in speech. You must realize that these sound-formations consist of definite movements, the origin of which lies in the structure and form of the larynx and its neighbouring organs. They proceed from the larynx.

But these movements do not of course appear simultaneously. We cannot utter all the sounds which make up the content of speech at the same moment. How then could we utter all that makes up the content of speech? We could do so,—paradoxical us this may sound it is nevertheless a fact,—we could do so if for once we were to utter one after the other all the possible sounds from a, b, c, down to z. Try to imagine this. Imagine that someone were to say the alphabet aloud, beginning with a, b and continuing as far as z, with only the necessary pauses for breathing. Every spoken sound describes a certain form in the air, which one does not see but the existence of which must be presupposed. It is possible, indeed, to think of these forms being retained, fixed by scientific means, without actually making a physical drawing of them.

When we utter any particular word aloud,—‘tree’ for example, or ‘sun’,—we produce a quite definite form in the air. If we were to say the whole alphabet aloud from a to z, we should produce a very complicated form. Let us put this question to ourselves:—What really would be the result if someone were actually to do this? It would have to take place within a certain time,—as you will learn in the course of these lectures. It would have to take place within a certain time, so that, on reaching z, the first sound would not have completely disintegrated, that is to say the a-sound must still retain its plastic form when we have reached the sound z. If it were actually possible in this creation of air-forms to pass from a to z in such a way that the a-sound remained when the z-sound were reached, thus creating in the air an image of the whole alphabet, what would be the result? What sort of form should we have made? We should have created the form of the human etheric body. In this way we should have reproduced the human etheric body. If you were to repeat the alphabet aloud from a to z—(one would have to do this in exactly the right way; the alphabetical order of sounds in general use to-day is no longer quite correct—but I am speaking now of the underlying principle)—the human etheric body would stand before you.

What then would really have taken place? The human etheric body is always present. Every man bears it within himself. What do you do therefore when you speak, when you say the alphabet aloud? You sink into the form of your own etheric body. What happens then, when we utter a single word, which of course does not consist of all the sounds? Let us picture to ourselves the human being as he stands before us. He consists of physical body, etheric body, astral body and ego. He speaks some word. He sinks his consciousness into his etheric body. He forms some part of the etheric body in the air as an image, in much the same way as you, standing before a physical body, might for instance copy the form of a hand, so that the form of the hand were made visible in the air. Now the etheric body does not consist of the same forms as those which make up the physical body, but in this case it is the forms of the etheric body which are impressed into the air. When we learn to understand this rightly, my dear friends, we gain an insight into the most wonderful metamorphosis of the human form, an insight into the evolution of man. For what is this etheric body? It is the vehicle of the forces of growth; it contains within it all those forces bound up with the processes of nourishment, and also those forces connected with the power of memory. All this is imparted to the airy formations when we speak.

The inner being of man, in so far as this is expressed in the etheric body, is impressed into the air when we speak. When we put sounds together, words arise. When we put together the whole alphabet from beginning to end, there arises a very complicated word. This word contains every possibility of word-formation. It also contains at the same time the human being in his etheric nature. Before man appeared on the earth as a physical being he already existed as an etheric being. For the etheric man underlies the physical man. How then may the etheric man be described? The etheric man is the Word which contains within it the entire alphabet.

Thus when we are able to speak of the formation of this primeval Word, which existed from the beginning before physical man came into being, we find that that which arises in connection with speech may indeed be called a birth,—a birth of the whole etheric man when the alphabet is spoken aloud. Otherwise, in the single words, it is a partial birth, a birth of fragments, of parts of the human being. In every single word as it is uttered there lies something of the being of man. Let us take the word ‘tree’ for instance,—what does it mean when we say the word ‘tree’?

When we say the word ‘tree’ it means that we describe the tree in some such way as this. We say: That which stands there in the outer world, to which we give the name ‘tree’ is a part of ourselves, a part of our own etheric being. Everything in the world is a part of ourselves; nothing exists which cannot he expressed through the being of man. Just as the human being when he gives utterance to the whole alphabet really gives utterance to himself, and consequently to the whole universe, so, when uttering single words, which represent fragments of the Collective Word, of the alphabet, he gives expression to something which is a part of the universe. The entire universe is expressed when the whole alphabet is repeated from beginning to end. Parts of the universe are expressed in the single words.

There is one thing, however, about which we must be quite clear when we think over all that lies behind sound as such. Behind sound as such there lies everything that is comprised in the inner being of man. The activity manifested by the etheric body is representative of inner experiences of the soul in the nature of feeling. We must now find our way to these feelings themselves which are experienced in the human soul.

Let us take the sound a as a beginning.¹ To-day one learns to utter the sound a when one is in that unconscious dreamy condition in which one lives as a very small child. This experience is later submerged when the child suffers harm at school as a result of receiving wrong teaching in sound and language. When one learns to speak as a child there is really present something of the great mystery of speech. It remains, however, in a state of dreamy unconsciousness.

When we utter the sound a we feel, if our instinct is at all healthy, that this sound really proceeds from our inmost being when we are in a state of wonder and amazement.

 German English a, ah (as in father) e, a (as in say) i, ee (as in feet) ei, i (as in light) au, ow (as in how) eu, oi (as in joy 

Now this wonder is of course again only a part of the human being. Man is no abstraction. At every waking moment of his life he is something or other. One can of course allow oneself to become sluggish or stupefied, in which case one cannot be said to be anything very definite. But the human being must always be something, even when he reduces himself to a state of torpor; at every minute of the day he must be something or other. Now he is filled with wonder, now with fear, or again, let us say, with aggressive activity. The human being is no abstraction; every second he must be something definite. Thus there are times when man is a being of wonder, a being filled with amazement. The processes at work in the etheric body when man experiences wonder are imprinted into the air with the help of the larynx when he utters the sound a. When man utters the sound a he sends forth out of himself a part of his own being, namely the quality of wonder. This he imprints into the air.

We know that when a physical man appears upon the earth, he appears,—if he is born in accordance with the ordinary possibilities of development,—as a complete human being. This complete human being comes forth from the womb of the mother. He is born as physical man with a physical form. If all the sounds of the alphabet were uttered from a to z there would arise an etheric man, only this etheric man would be imprinted into the air, born from out of the human larynx and its neighbouring organs.

In the same way, when the child is brought into the world, when the child first sees the light, we must say: From out of the womb and its neighbouring organs there has arisen a physical man.

But the larynx differs from the womb of the mother in that it is in a continual state of creation. So that in a single word fragments of the human being arise; and indeed, if one were to bring together all the words of a language (which even in the case of a poet of such rich vocabulary as Shakespeare never actually occurs) the entire etheric man as an air-form would be produced by means of the creative larynx, but it would be a succession of births, a continuous becoming. It would be a birth continually taking place during the process of speech. Speech is always the bringing to birth of parts of the etheric man.

Again the physical larynx is only the external sheath of that most wonderful organ which is present in the etheric body, and which is, as it were, the womb of the Word. And here again we are confronted with a wonderful metamorphosis. Everything which is present in the human being is a metamorphosis of certain fundamental forms. The etheric larynx and its sheath, the physical larynx, are a metamorphosis of the uterus. In speech we have to do with the creation of man, with the creation of man as an etheric being.

This mystery of speech, my dear friends, is indicated by the connection which we find between the vocal and sexual functions, a connection clearly illustrated in the breaking of the male voice.

We have therefore to do with a creative activity which, welling up from the depths of cosmic life, flows outwards through the medium of speech. We see revealed in a fluctuating, ever-changing form that which otherwise withdraws itself into the mysterious depths of the human organization at the moment of physical birth. Thus we gain something which is essential for us in our artistic creative activity. We gain respect, reverence, for that creative element into which we, as artists, are placed. Theoretical discussion is useless in the realm of art. We cannot do with it; it merely leads us into abstraction. In art we need something which places us with our whole human being into the cosmic being. And how could we penetrate more deeply into the cosmic being than by becoming conscious of the relation existing between speech and the genesis of man. Every time that a man speaks he produces out of himself some part of that which existed in primeval times, when the human being was created out of cosmic depths, out of the etheric forces, and received form as a being of air before he acquired fluidic form, and, later still, his solid physical form. Every time we speak we transpose ourselves into the cosmic evolution of man as it was in primeval ages.

Let us take an example. Let us go back once more to the sound a, this sound which calls up within us the human being in a state of wonder. We must realize that every time the sound a appears in language there lies behind it the element of wonder. Let us take the word Wasser (water), or the word Pfahl (post), any word you like in which the sound a occurs. In every instance, when you lay stress on the sound a in speech, there lies in the background a feeling of wonder; the human being filled with wonder is brought to expression in this way by means of speech. There was a time when this was known. It was, for example, known to the Hebraic people. For what really lay behind the a, the Aleph, in the Hebrew language? What was the Aleph? It was wonder as manifested in the human being.

Now I should like to remind you of something which could lead you to an understanding of all that is really indicated by the sound a, all that the sound a really signifies. In ancient Greece there was a saying: Philosophy begins with wonder. Philosophy, the love of wisdom, the love of knowledge, begins with wonder.—Had one spoken absolutely organically, really in accordance with primeval understanding, with primeval instinctive—clairvoyant understanding, one might equally well have said:—Philosophy begins with a.—To a primeval humanity this would have meant exactly the same thing.—Philosophy, love of wisdom begins with a.

But what is it that one is really investigating when one studies philosophy? When all is said and done one is really investigating man. Philosophy strives after self-knowledge, and this self-observation begins with the sound a. It is, however, at the same time a most profound mystery, for it requires great effort, great activity, to attain to such knowledge of the human being. When man approaches his own being and sees how it is formed out of body, soul and spirit, when he looks upon his own being in its entirety, then he is confronted by something before which he may say a with the deepest wonder. For this reason a corresponds to man in a state of wonder, to man filled with wonder at his own true being, that is to say, man looked at from the highest, most ideal aspect.

The realization that man, as he stands before us as a physical being, is but a part of the complete human being, and that we only have the real man before us when we perceive the full measure of the divinity within him,—this realization, this wonder called up in us by a contemplation of our own being, was called by a primeval humanity: A. A corresponds to man in his highest perfection. Thus man strives towards the a, and in the sound a we are expressing something which is felt in the depths of the human soul. Let us pass over from a to b, in order to give at least some indication of that which might lead to an understanding of this primeval word, which is made up of the entire alphabet. Let us pass over to b. In b we have a so-called consonant; in a we have to do with a vowel sound. You will feel, if you pronounce a vowel sound, that you are giving expression to something coming from the inmost depths of your own being. Every vowel, as we have already seen in the case of the vowel a, is bound up with an experience of the soul. In every case where the sound a makes its appearance, we have the feeling of wonder. In every case where an e makes its appearance we have an experience which can be expressed somewhat as follows:—I become aware that something has been done to me.

Just think for a moment what creatures of abstraction we have become, how withered and lifeless our nature. Just as an apple or a plum may shrivel up, so have we become shrivelled up as regards our experience of language. Let us consider how, in speaking, when we pronounce the sound a and proceed from this sound to the sound e (which constantly happens) we have no idea that we are passing over from the feeling of wonder to the feeling: I become aware that something has been done to me.

Let us now enter into the feeling of the i-sound. With i we have, as it were, the feeling that we have been curious about something and that our curiosity has been satisfied. A wonderful and far from simple experience lies at the back of every vowel sound. When we allow the five vowel sounds to work upon us we receive the impression of man in his primeval strength and vigour. Man is, as it were, born again in his true dignity when he allows these five sounds consciously to work upon him, that is to say when he allows these sounds to proceed out of his inmost being in full consciousness. Therefore it is true to say:—We have become quite shrivelled up and think only of the meaning of a word, utterly disregarding the experience behind it. We think only of the meaning. The word ‘water’ for instance means some particular thing and so on. We have become utterly shrivelled up.

The consonants are quite different in their nature from the vowels. With the consonants we do not feel that the sounds arise from our inmost experience, but we feel that they are images of that which is outside our own being.

Let us suppose that I am filled with wonder, that I say a. I cannot make an outer image of the sound a, I must give utterance to it. If, however, I would give expression to something which is round in its form, like this table, for example, what must I do if I do not wish to express it in words? I must imitate it, I must copy its form, (corresponding gesture). If I would describe a nose without speaking, without actually saying the word ‘nose’ but still wishing to make myself understood, I can, as it were, copy its form, (corresponding gesture). And it is just the same in the forming of the consonants. In the consonants we have an imitation of that which exists in the external world. They are always an imitation of external forms. But we express these forms by constructing them in the air, producing them by means of the larynx and its neighbouring organs, the palate, for example. With the help of these organs we create a form which imitates, copies something which exists outside ourselves. This is even carried into the actual form of the letters, but of this we shall speak later.

When we form a b (it is, by the way, impossible to pronounce this sound without the addition of some vowel) when we form a b it is the imitation of something in the external world. If we were able to hold fast the air-form which is created by b (we must, of course, speak the sound aloud) we should have something in the nature of a shelter. A protecting, sheltering form would be produced. Something would be produced which might be likened to a hut or a house. B is an imitation of a house. Thus when we begin with a, b, we have, as it were, the human being in his perfection, and the human being in his house: a, b.

And so, if we were to go through the whole alphabet, we should, in the consecutive sounds, unfold the mystery of man. We should express the human being as he lives in the cosmos, the human being in his house, his physical sheath. If we were to pass from a, b to c, d, and so on, every sound would tell us something about the human being. And on reaching z we should have pictured in sound the whole of human wisdom, for this is contained in the etheric body of man.

We see from this that something of the very greatest significance takes place in speech. In speech the human being himself is fashioned. And one can indeed give a fairly complete picture of the soul life of man when one brings to expression his most fundamental feelings. I, O, A. These sounds represent practically the whole content of the human soul in its aspect of feeling: I, O, A.

Let us for a moment consider all that proceeds from the human being when he speaks. Let us suppose that somebody repeats the alphabet; when this is done the entire etheric body of man comes into being, proceeding from the larynx, as from the womb. The etheric body is brought into being. When we look at the physical body of man we know that it has come forth from the organism of the mother, it has come forth from a metamorphosis of the larynx, that is to say, from the mother’s womb.

But now let us picture to ourselves the complete human being as he comes into the world with all his different attributes; for that which is brought forth from the organism of the mother cannot remain unchanged. If the human being were to remain unchanged through his whole life, he could not be said to be a man in the true sense of the word; there must be a continual development. The human being at the age of thirty-five, let us say, has gained more from the universal, cosmic being than was his as a child. We may picture the whole human being in some such way as this. Just as speech proceeds from out of the larynx, the child from out of the womb, so the fully developed human being at about the age of thirty-five is born, as it were, from out of the cosmos in the same way in which the words which we speak are spoken out of us. Thus we have the form of man, the complete human form, as a spoken word.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

The human form stands before us,—that most wonderful of earthly forms,—the human form stands before us and we ask the divine spiritual powers which have existed from the beginning: How then did you create man? Did you create him in some such way as the spoken word is created when we speak? How did you create man? What really took place when you created man?—And if we were to receive an answer to our question from out of universal space, it would be some such answer as this: All around us there is movement, form, constantly changing and of infinite variety: such a form (a was here shown in eurhythmy), such a form (e was shown), such a form (i was shown)—all possibilities of form in movement proceed from out of the universe, every possibility of movement that we out of the nature of our being are able to conceive and to bring into connection with the human organization.

My dear friends, one can indeed say that these possibilities of movement are those which, becoming fixed, give man his physical form as it is when he reaches full maturity. What then would the gods do if they really wished to form man out of a lump of earth? The gods would make movements, and as a result of these movements, capable of giving form to the dust of the earth, the human form would eventually arise.

Now once more let us picture the eurhythmy movements for a, for b, for c, and so on. Let us imagine that the gods, out of their divine primeval activity were to make those eurhythmic movements which correspond to the sounds of the alphabet. Then, if these movements were impressed into physical matter, the human being would stand before us. This is what really lies behind eurhythmy. The human being as we see him is a completed form. But the form has been created out of movement. It has arisen from those primeval forms which were continually taking shape and again passing away. Movement does not proceed from quiescence; on the contrary, that which is in a state of rest originates in movement. In eurhythmy we are really going back to primordial movement.

What is it that my Creator, working out of primeval, cosmic being, does in me as man?

If you would give the answer to this question you must make the eurhythmic movements. God eurhythmetizes, and as the result of His eurhythmy there arises the form of man.

What I have said here about eurhythmy can indeed be said about any of the arts, for in some way or another every art springs from a divine origin. But in eurhythmy most especially, because it makes use of the human being as its instrument, one is able to penetrate most deeply into the connection existing between the human being and the cosmic being. For this reason one cannot fail to appreciate eurhythmy. For just suppose that one had no real conception of the nature of human beauty, as this is expressed in the outward human form, and then suppose that one had the opportunity of being shown how in the beginning, God created the beautiful human form out of movement, and one saw the repetition of those divine creative movements in the eurhythmic gestures, then one would receive the answer to the question: How did human beauty come into being?

Let us think of the child, the incomplete human being, who has not yet attained to his full manhood. How shall we help the gods, so that the physical form of the child shall be rightly furthered in its development? What shall we bring to the child in the way of movement? We must teach him eurythmy, for this is a continuation of divine movement, of the divine creation of man.

And when illness of some kind or another overtakes the human being, then the forms corresponding to his divine archetype receive injury; here, in the physical world, they become different. What shall we do then? We must go back to those divine movements; we must help the sick human being to make those movements for himself. This will work upon him in such a way that the harm his bodily form may have received will be remedied.

Thus we have to look upon eurhythmy as an art of healing, just as in ancient clairvoyant times it was known that certain sounds, uttered with a special intonation, reacted upon the health of man. But in those days one was shown how to affect the health by a more or less roundabout way, by means of the air, which worked back again into the etheric body. If one works more directly, if one makes the patient actually do the movements corresponding to the formation of his organs,—the point being, of course, that one knows what these movements really are,—(e.g. certain movements of the foot and leg correspond to certain formations right up in the head),—when one reproduces all this, then there arises this third aspect of eurhythmy, curative eurhythmy.

This introduction was necessary in order that all of you, as active eurhythmists, may gain a fundamental feeling and perception of what you are doing. You must not take eurhythmy as something which can be learned in the ordinary conventional way, but you must think of it as something which brings the human being nearer to the Divine than would otherwise be possible. The same applies indeed to all art. You must permeate yourselves through and through with this feeling. What then must be considered as an essential part of all eurhythmic teaching? The right atmosphere must enter into it, the feeling for the connection between man and the divine spiritual powers. This is essential if you would become eurhythmists in the true sense.

• 1. Owing to the fact that a number of German examples and quotations have had to be retained in the translation of these lectures, the German pronunciation of the vowel sounds has been consistently used throughout.

Yesterday I attempted to portray the general character of speech as such and the character of this visible speech of eurhythmy in particular. To-day I should like to describe the characteristics of the individual sounds, for only when the character and inner nature of these sounds reveal themselves to us shall we be able to understand the elements of eurhythmy. To begin with I should like to draw attention to the fact that in the life of humanity, in the course of human evolution, there has always been a more or less definite consciousness of these things. It is only in our time that, as I said yesterday, we have become so shrivelled up with regard to our attitude towards speech. There has always existed a certain consciousness of all that lies in the progression of sounds as they occur in language, an understanding of the fact that in the consonants there lies an imitation of outer forms and that an inward experience is contained in the vowel sounds.

This consciousness has been carried over more or less into the forms of the letters, so that in the formation of the letters in ancient languages,—in the Hebrew language, for example, particularly in the case of the consonants,—we may still see a sort of imitation of what takes place in the air, of what forms itself in the air when we speak. To a great extent this has been lost in all the more modern languages. (Among these I naturally include all those which, let us say, begin with the Latin language; the Greek language still retains something of what I mean.) Many things, however, still recall the time when an attempt was made to imitate in the forming of the letters that which actually lies in the formation, in the structure of the word; when a word was fashioned out of the consonantal element,—that is to say, the imitation of the external,—and out of the inner experience which had its source in the life of the soul. To-day it is only in certain interjections that we can still see dearly an instance of such imitation. Let us take an example which may serve to lead us more deeply into the real nature of eurhythmy.

When we pronounce the sound h,—clearly, not merely as a breath,—we have a sound which really lies midway between the consonants and the vowels. This is always the case with sounds which have a special relation to breathing. Breathing was always felt to be something in which the human being lives partly in an inner experience and partly in an out-going experience. Now the h-sound, this simple breath sound, may be felt,—and was indeed felt by primitive man,—as the imitation, the forming in the air of a wafting process, as the imitation of the way in which the breath is wafted into the surrounding atmosphere. Everything which is experienced as a wafting process is expressed through some word in which the h-sound is present, because the h itself is felt as the wafting process.

The vowel sound u can be felt as something which inwardly chills the soul, so that it takes on a certain rigidity and numbness. That is the inward experience lying behind u. U is the expression of something which chills, stiffens, benumbs; it is the sound which gives one the feeling of coldness. U, then, is the chilling, stiffening process.

And the sch,—that is the blowing away of something. It is the sound in which one feels that something is blowing past.

Now it is a fact that in certain districts, when an icy wind is blowing and one is numbed and stiff with the cold, people make use of the expression: husch-husch, husch-husch. In this interjection we still have an absolute experience of the h-u-sch: husch-husch. In primeval language all words were really interjections, ejaculations.

Let us take another combination of sounds. You all know the sound r. If one experiences the r-sound in the right way, one feels it as a turning wheel: r-r-r-r. Thus the r expresses a rolling, a revolving; it is the imitation of anything which gives the impression of turning, rolling, revolving. We must think of it, picture it, like this:

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

Yesterday I spoke already of the sound a. I told you that a expresses wonder. The sch-sound has already been described; it is the blowing past of something. And now we are able to feel the word ‘rasch’ (swift). It is easy to picture it. When anything rushes past it creates a certain wonder and disappears, is blown away: rasch.

So you see there is good reason for regarding the consonants as being an imitation. Here we have in the r the revolving, rolling, turning of something; in the vowel sound a the inner feeling of wonder: in the sch-sound something which goes away, which passes by.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

From these examples you can already see that there is a certain justification for speaking of a primeval language, for you can feel that if human beings really experienced the sounds absolutely truly they would all speak in the same way; they would quite naturally, out of their own organization, describe things exactly in the same way.

It is a fact, as Spiritual Science teaches us, that there was once upon the earth a primeval language. You all know myths and legends dealing with this, - but it is much more than a myth or a legend. There is really something which lies at the back of all languages, and which is, in the way I have described, the primeval language from which all other languages have been built up.

When one turns one’s attention to certain facts of life and sees how, out of an infinite wisdom, they have been given similar names, then one is quite overwhelmed with the wisdom which reigns in the whole evolution of man, indeed in the whole evolution of the world. Consider the following, my dear friends,—and what I am now going to bring forward is no mere triviality, but it proceeds from out of a true and fundamental perception of the nature of man.

For people who think deeply over the problems which present themselves to the understanding, certain things that bear somewhat intimate relationship to life itself become riddles,—riddles which are simply passed over by the more blunted sensibilities of the average man. The fact that there is a similarity between the words ‘mother-milk’ and ‘mother-tongue’ may well be looked upon as a riddle of this kind. It is clear that one would not say ‘father-milk’, but the reason for not saying ‘father-tongue’ is less apparent. Where are we to seek for this parallel between ‘mother-milk’ and ‘mother-tongue’?

There are always inner reasons for such things. It is true that the external reason may frequently prove deceptive, but for these intimate facts of human evolution inner reasons are always to be discovered. When the child comes into the world the mother’s milk is the best nourishment for the physical body. Such things do not properly belong to lectures on eurhythmy, but if we had the necessary time, and if we were to analyse the mother’s milk in the right way,—not with the dead methods of chemistry but with a living chemistry,—we should find out why it is that the mother’s milk is the best nourishment for the physical body of man during the first stages of life.—Indeed, speaking from the medical-scientific point of view, one may go so far as to say that the milk of the mother is the best means of building up, of actually giving form to the physical body. This is the first thing we have to realize. It is the mother’s milk which gives form to the physical body. And it is the ‘mother-tongue’,—we said yesterday that the mother-tongue corresponds to the etheric body,—it is the mother-tongue which develops and gives form to the etheric body. For this reason we have a similarity between the words. First there appears the physical body with its need for the mother’s milk and then the etheric body with its need for the mother-tongue.

A deep wisdom lies hidden in such things. We find the deepest wisdom, not only in these word formations which can be traced back to ancient times, but also in many proverbial sayings and ideas. We should not look upon the wisdom concealed in old sayings and proverbs merely as superstition, but should recognize that very often wonderful and significant traditions are contained within them.

Having said this, having made my meaning clear to you, let us now proceed to a description of the nature of the sounds. When we understand what the sounds represent, how the vowels are the expression of inward experiences and the consonants the imitation of the external world,—when we understand how this is the case in every, single instance,—then we are led to a threefold study of eurhythmy,—artistic, educational and curative. I shall make use of everything which could possibly serve to give you a vivid picture of the individual sounds as they really are, so that tomorrow you will be able fully to understand the plastic gestures which we make use of in eurhythmy.

In a there lies a feeling of wonder, astonishment. In b, as I told you yesterday, we have the imitation of something which protects and shelters us from what is outside ourselves. In b we feel that we are enveloped in something. This can even be seen in the way that the letter is formed, only in modern writing the sheath is, as it were, doubled: B. B is always an enveloping, a kind of shelter. To put it somewhat crudely b might be said to be the house in which one lives. B is a house.

In my characterization of the various sounds in speech-eurhythmy I shall take the German language as my starting point. I could just as easily take the sounds of more ancient languages, but we will make a beginning with the German sounds and see how these reveal themselves to us in their true nature.[1]

Coming now to the sound c (ts),—I shall naturally not go into the formation of the written letters as these have mostly become degenerate and in any case, eurhythmists do not need to interest themselves so much in language from this point of view,—coming now to the sound c you will feel it to be some-thing which is in movement. It would be impossible to feel that with the sound c one would try to imitate anything which is in a state of rest. There is a certain force in the sound c; nevertheless, when you really experience what lies behind it, you will realize how impossible it would be to picture anything heavy in connection with it. It would never occur to you that with c you would wish to imitate something which would make you get into a great heat if you tried to lift it. On the contrary, the feeling that one has is that here is the imitation of something which is the reverse of heavy, which is really very light. It is the quality of lightness that is really imitated in the sound c. Thus one can say quite simply: In c we have the imitation of lightness.

If you enter into the intimate nature of the different sounds, you will, in the case of c, have much the same feeling as if in a circus you saw weights,—apparently made of iron and marked so and so many hundredweight,—lifted up quickly and easily by the clown. Imagine that you were to approach such a weight, in the belief that it were made of iron and immensely heavy, and that you were to lift it up. You would approach it, and in suddenly raising it, you would produce a movement very similar to the sound c. We have the same thing in Nature; for sneezing is not at all unlike a c. Sneezing is a lightening process.

It was said by the old occultists that the sound c in primeval language was the Regent of Health. And in Austria, when a person sneezes, we still have a saying: Zur Gesundheit (Your very good health). These are feelings which must be taken into consideration when studying the sounds, otherwise we shall not be able to come to any understanding of them in their reality.

D,—how should we most naturally express d? d. d. d. If someone were to ask you where a thing was, and you knew, the movement you would make to show him would very nearly approach the eurhythmic movement for the sound d. And if you wished to indicate that you expected your questioner to be astonished at getting such a speedy answer, then you would say: da (there). If you leave out the astonishment, the wonder, then there remains just the d. In such a case you are not so conceited us to wish to call up in your questioner the feeling of wonder; you simply show him where the thing is. In expressing d in eurhythmy one makes what may be called an indicating movement raying out in all directions. It is not difficult to feel this. So that we may say: D is the pointing towards something, the raying out towards something. The imitation of this pointing, of this raying out, of this drawing attention to something, all this lies in the sound d.

E is a sound which has always been of very special interest. As you already know e is the sound which gives expression to the feeling that something has been done to us and that we have to stand up against it. E: me will not allow what has been done to trouble us.

Here it may be well to introduce the sound t, Tao, and to explain its significance. You are perhaps already aware that a deep reverence rises up in those who begin to understand what lies in this sound. This Tao, t, is really the sound which has to be felt as representing something of the greatest importance. We may even go so fir as to say that it contains within it creative forces, forces which also have a radiating, indicating quality, but with t it is more especially a radiance which streams from heaven down on to the earth. There is a weightiness about the sound, and at the same time also a radiance. Thus we can say: T is the streaming of forces from above downwards.

Now it is, of course, possible for something which under certain conditions has to be felt as having great and majestic qualities also to make its appearance in ordinary everyday life. Let us take three sounds. Let us first take e as we have learned to know it. E expresses the feeling: Something has been done to me, but I stand up against it and assert myself. T, Tao: Something has burst in upon me. Let us try to show what is contained in this experience: Something has been done to me but I stand up against it—e. An event has taken place; it has suddenly burst in upon me—t: but it is soon over, it passes over; the blowing away of something—st. In this way we get the following combination of sounds: etsch. When do we make use of this expression? We use it when, for instance, somebody makes an important statement, which is, however, false, and we immediately jump to the conclusion that it is false. Now when we are in a position immediately to get rid of what has affected us, when this statement or whatever it is has burst in upon us like a flash of lightning but we destroy it and blow it away, then we say: etsch. Here you have an explanation of this combination of sounds. One feels the e particularly strongly, the being affected by something. One could not imagine saying itsch or atsch in such a case. But in an experience of this kind, when one has been affected by something but has been able immediately to get rid of it, then one obviously must use the expression: etsch.

Now out of the way in which you form the movement for e, out of your knowledge of eurhythmy, you will be able fully to enter into the gesture that in many districts accompanies this expression. This gesture is really very similar to the eurhythmic movement for e. Etsch, etsch (showing the corresponding movement). Here we actually have the eurhythmic movement for e. Such movements are absolutely natural and instinctive.

Thus behind the sound e there lies the experience of being affected by something and of withstanding it. Naturally when one describes such things the description tends to be awkward and inadequate. Everything depends on being able to feel what is meant.

F is a sound which is somewhat difficult to experience in an age which has such a lifeless, dried-up conception of language. But it may perhaps be of assistance to us, my dear friends, if I remind you of a phrase which you will know and which is in fairly general use. People say, when somebody knows a thing upside down and inside out: Er kennt die Sache aus dern ff. (He knows it out of the ff.) An extraordinarily interesting experience lies behind this phrase. When one finds the man in the street making use of such an expression and compares it: with what was said in the old Mysteries the result is truly remarkable. (You remember I said that I should make use of everything which could help us to gain a true understanding of the sounds, whether my examples were drawn from a cultured or from a more primitive source,—the latter being the more fruitful, naturally.) In the ancient Mysteries there was still a living understanding of the words: ‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God’; there was still a living feeling for the creative power of the Word, of the Logos. (Logos is not to be translated ‘wisdom’; indeed, by doing so many modern scholars have betrayed their lack of understanding for these things. Logos must unquestionably be translated ‘Verbum’, ‘Word’,—only the word ‘Word’ must be understood in the right way, in the way in which I explained it yesterday.)

Now, in the old Mysteries of Western Asia, Southern Asia and Africa it was said, when speaking about the sound f: When man utters the sound f he expels out of himself the whole stream of his breath. It was by means of the breath that the Gods created humanity, and the whole of human wisdom is contained m the air, in the breath. So that all the Indian was able to learn when through Yoga Philosophy he learned to control his breathing and as a result was able to fill himself with inner wisdom,—all this he felt when he uttered the sound f. In the old Indian Yoga practices the pupil had the following experience: he practised Yoga exercises, the technique of which consisted in this, that he became inwardly aware of the organization of man, inwardly aware of the fullness of wisdom. In uttering the sound f he became conscious of the wisdom contained in the Word. F can therefore only be rightly understood when one tries even to-day to understand a certain formula, which is very little known in the world, but which nevertheless did once exist and in the old I? Egyptian Mysteries ran somewhat as follows: If thou wouldst proclaim the nature of Isis, of Isis who contains within herself the knowledge of the past, present and future and from whom the veil can never entirely be lifted, then thou must do this in the sound f.—

The making use of the process of breathing in order to fill oneself with the being of Isis, the experiencing of Isis in the out-going breath-stream,—this it is that lies in the sound f. So that f—not indeed exactly, but at any rate to some extent—can be felt as the expression of: I know.—But more lies in it than this. ‘I know’ is really only a feeble expression of what we should feel in the sound f. For this very reason the feeling for f was soonest lost. F may be felt somewhat as follows: Know thou, to whom I speak, when I say f to thee I would make thee aware that I can teach thee. Thou must know that I myself have knowledge.—

It would therefore seem natural to you, absolutely natural, if, someone desirous of putting another right were suddenly to approach him giving vent to a sound similar to f. There are many interesting words, words which would well repay study, in which the sound f occurs in some connection or other. This study, however, you can carry out for yourselves; and you will continually be reminded of all that I have told you about the inner nature of the sound f.

I have already spoken about the sound h; we know that it is the blowing, the wafting past of something.

And now i. It is easy to feel i as an assertion of oneself, as positive self-assertion. In the German language there is a very happy example of this. It is our word for the expression of the; affirmation or the assertion of something: Ja (yes). Here certainly there is the indication of a consonantal element, but the i is nevertheless present and is followed by wonder, by amazement. Assent, affirmation, cannot be better expressed than by an assertion coloured by wonder. We said yesterday that the quality of wonder really represented man in his true being; and when we add to this the assertion of oneself: Ja, then we could not have a dearer, more definite expression of the affirmative. Thus in i we have the assertion of self. We shall see how important it is for eurhythmists to understand that behind the sound i there is always a vindication of oneself, an assertion of oneself.

L is a very remarkable sound,—as I am pronouncing it now it contains a hint of e,—but I mean the pure sound l. Try to realize what you really do when you pronounce l. Try to, realize especially what you do with your tongue. You use your tongue in a very skilful way when you pronounce the sound l, l, l, l. You become aware of a creative, form-giving element when saying this sound. Indeed, if one were not too, terribly hungry, one might almost satisfy one’s hunger by, simply saying the sound l very distinctly and over and over again. We feel l to be something absolutely real, as real, for, example, as if we were to eat a dumpling—a specially nice, soft dumpling—and were to allow it to melt on the tongue with a feeling of great satisfaction. We can have a like experience, when we pronounce the sound l, l, l, very distinctly. There is: something creative, something form-giving in this sound. And the sculptor is very much tempted when working on the figures which he is creating to make a movement of the tongue similar to the movement which the tongue makes when forming the sound l. Though of course the sculptor does not say l aloud; he only makes a similar movement with his tongue. And anyone able to feel the shape of a nose, for instance, with his tongue,—where the feeling for form, the feeling of l is so strong,—such a one would undoubtedly be very successful in modelling noses! It was said in the old Mysteries that l is the creative, form-giving element in all things and beings,—the force which overcomes matter in the creation of form.

You will easily feel that the diphthong ei (German ri, English i (as in sight)) corresponds to an affectionate caress. When dealing with a child one often makes use of this sound. Ei, ei—an affectionate caress.

I shall next have to describe the sound m, and we shall see that m has the quality of entering right into something, of taking on the form of something outside itself. Let us now suppose, my dear friends,—and here again I am not merely trifling but what I have to say is drawn from out of the history of the ages,—let us suppose that we had some sort of substance and determined that this substance should be the means of transforming matter, of giving form to matter. Let us put the story together. In the first place we demand of this substance that it shall transform matters and give it form and shape. That la to be its main attribute. It is to give form to matter, but in such a way that it clings closely and lovingly to something other than itself, in much the same way as when one caresses a little child: ei, ei,—this is the expression of a caressing quality. The substance must cling to something. And this clinging quality must be retained; the substance must as it were take on a form which is foreign to it, so that it appears exactly the same as this external form; it imitates this form quite exactly. And now let us suppose that we express this transformation of matter into form by means of a combination of sounds. We say l. The clinging quality, ei. The taking on of some external form: m. Thus we have a word: Leim (putty) which is quite specially characteristic of the German language, quite apart from any other consideration. It is upon such combinations of sound behind which there lies hidden the active, evolving genius of language, that the life of this genius of language really depends. It occurs from time to time that when in some language or other a word already exists, although perhaps in a vague, indefinite form, that this word is metamorphosed and introduced again into a language of a later development. The original feeling: underlying the word, however, remains unchanged, and is retained by the people speaking the later language. An understanding of language is a much more complicated matter than is usually supposed. To-day people treat language in a really terrible fashion. In ordinary everyday life which rests upon superficiality and convention such a treatment of language is perhaps not out of place; but its effect upon the human soul is nothing short of devastating, how utterly devastating it is impossible to say. For instance, somebody wishes to translate a book or a poem. So he proceeds to hunt in the dictionary or to search his memory in order to discover the corresponding words. And having more or less transposed it in this way he calls it a translation. But it would really be more correct to call it a mistranslation,—for this is a wrong track altogether. Nothing is more appalling than this method of transferring something from one language into another.

Let us therefore study this question from the following point of view. Assuming that there was once a primeval language (alike of course for all men),—and there is no doubt that this language did exist,—assuming that there was once a primeval language, then the question naturally arises: How is it that the, many different languages came into being? How does it come about that if we take a German word, the word ‘Kopf’ (head) for instance, and translate this into Italian, we have to say ‘testa’? We have the German word ‘Kopf’ and the Italian word ‘testa’. When we begin to enter into the true nature of language we must ask ourselves the question: How is it that the Italian feels the sounds in ‘testa’ which are totally different from those felt by the German when he makes use of the word: ‘Kopf’? According to the rules of translation the two words should have the same significance. If the word ‘Kopf’ were really to be experienced, then the Italian, and even the Chinese would perforce have to say ‘Kopf’ also. How then can the origin of the different languages be explained?

What I am now going to say may make you double up with laughter, but it is nevertheless true. The German makes use of the word ‘Kopf’; the Italian would also make use of this word if he wished to designate the same thing. But he does not wish to do so. The German point of view lies outside his field of vision. What the German expresses in the word ‘Kopf’, that to which he gives the name ‘Kopf’ does not occur in the vocabulary of the Italian language. Were the Italian desirous of expressing the same thing, he, like the German would say: ‘Kopf’. What then does the German mean when he says: ‘Kopf’? He means to describe the form, the rounded form of the head. It is easy to feel this rounded form in the word ‘Kopf’. Later on when we have studied the sound k and all that we need in this connection, we shall be able to realize more dearly that it is the rounded form which is meant here. Now when the word ‘Kopf’ is shown in eurhythmy try to see how this rounding appears in the middle of the word. (Demonstration). The German describes as ‘Kopf’ the round form of the head as it rests on the shoulders.

Were the Italian to have the same experience, he also would say ‘Kopf’ not ‘testa’. What then does he experience? The Italian does not experience the rounded form, but he feels what is implied in a statement, in a testimony; he is more aware of what underlies the word ‘testament’. Thus the act of making a testimony, making a declaration, an affirmation, this it is which is felt by the Italian and for this reason he says: ‘testa’. He means something totally different from the German. The words ‘Kopf’ and ‘testa’ only appear to describe the same thing; in reality they are fundamentally different. In the one case, in the German word, the form of the head is described as it rests upon the shoulders. And in German, if one wishes to lay emphasis upon the roundness of the form one can make use of an expression which has in it at the same time a certain element of contempt and say: ‘Kohlkopf’. (Cabbage-head. Block-head.) You will agree with me that here there can be no shadow of doubt that the rounded form is meant.

But the head as it rests upon the shoulders is not felt as a round form by the Italian; he feels it to be something which makes an assertion, a declaration. For this reason he says: ‘testa’, and feels in this word all that I have described.

This lack of understanding is very general among translators. As a rule we translate without paying any attention to the fact that we should transpose ourselves into the whole atmosphere of the other language in order to catch its exact shades of meaning. Just think how external it is when one translates according to a dictionary. One misses just those things which are most essential and passes them by in sublime unconsciousness.

Let us now return to the sound m,—that sound which makes such a wonderful ending to the sacred Indian word Aum. M contains within it the element of comprehension, of understanding. In the way in which the sound is carried on the stream of the breath we feel that it conforms itself to everything and understands everything. M signifies that which is deeply felt and understood. I remember that my village schoolmaster said mhn when he wanted to show that I had answered a question rightly. At such times he always said mhn,—i.e., he understood; it, he agreed with it; the hn was only the expression of his satisfaction. M, therefore, may be said to be the expression of, agreement. It clings to something and is in agreement with it, as the m at the end of the word Leim.

It is clear from these few examples that in each sound there lies concealed a whole world of experience. And we can easily:, realize that if we were to express ourselves by means of sounds only, instead of using our ordinary words, we should indeed have a simpler and more primitive language, but it would be one which would combine with this simplicity a much deeper intimacy and understanding.

As eurhythmists it is very necessary that you should gradually feel your way into the real nature of the sounds; for eurhythmy does indeed consist of a plastic formation of movement and gesture. Such movements are, however, in no way arbitrary nor transient. On the contrary the movements of eurhythmy are cosmic in their nature, they are full of significance, they, could in no way be other than they are.

In the next lecture I shall describe to you the other sounds which I have not touched upon to-day, and then gradually we shall consider the main characteristics of the actual movements which we use in eurhythmy. We shall see how these movements express in their very essence exactly the same as is expressed by the sounds themselves as they are breathed into the air, as they take shape in the air.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

To-day it is my intention to describe those sounds which have not yet been considered. To begin with I shall take s and z, for the nature of these sounds is such that they may almost be said to be in a category by themselves. Later, as opportunity arises, I can deal with any of the sounds which up to now have been omitted.

S was always felt, at a time when such things had not yet been lost, as a sound penetrating specially deeply into the very essence of language. The experience of the s-sound is connected with the feelings and experiences which, in the earliest times of human evolution, were bound up with the symbol of the serpent, and also, from a certain point of view, with the symbol of the Staff of Mercury,—not with the symbol of Mercury itself, but with the symbol of the staff of Mercury. We must look for the Mercury symbol itself in the sound e. On the other hand the symbol of the staff of Mercury, which plays so great a part in certain Eastern writings, is very closely connected with the sound s; and the s-form which we still preserve to-day in our written letter reminds us strongly of the symbol of the serpent. The feeling lying behind the curved and sinuous line of s is really extraordinarily complicated, but primarily it may perhaps be said to consist of a peace-bringing element. Behind s there lies a power capable of bringing calm and peace into that which is in a state of unrest, and this force carries with it the feeling of certainty, the feeling of being able to penetrate into the hidden nature of some—: thing and in so doing to bring about a state of calmness and rest.

The S-symbol, and the z which is closely related to it, were always referred to in the Mysteries with great solemnity. Such things, as we saw yesterday when studying the sound t, Tao, were always spoken of with a fitting ceremony and reverence. S, on the other hand,—and here I am bound to express myself very inadequately,—s always produced an element of fear in, those who were being instructed in the nature of this symbol. There was a feeling of fear; it was felt as something before which one had to protect oneself, but which was nevertheless essential to life, something which could not be dispensed with. The s-symbol is so complicated that I cannot easily tell you how it was spoken of in the Mysteries. The most I can do is to try and describe it for you in other words.

People to-day would be astonished if they could know how entirely free from sentimentality the true pupils of the old Mysteries really were. They had a sense of humour and although none knew better than they how to pay reverence where reverence was due, they knew also how to clothe such things in humoristic form. Thus, when a pupil of the Mysteries was once asked by one not initiated about the nature of the sound s—(naturally such questions were often asked, for people of those earlier times were not without curiosity any more than they are now)—when this question was put, the pupil replied somewhat humorously: Well, you know, when one understands the secret of the s-sound, then one can perceive the hidden qualities in the hearts of men and one can fathom the hearts of women: such a one can bring calm to the restlessness of the human heart, and can at the same time penetrate into its hidden depths.—That was, as I said, a very exoteric explanation, but it nevertheless gives some indication of what lies in the sound s. S —a bringing of calm into that which is agitated, and the certainty that the means employed will have the desired effect.

When all that I have just described is carried over into gesture, then we get the eurhythmic movement for the sound s. We have still to consider the sound z, and the feeling, the experience, that it expresses. The movement for z is naturally somewhat similar to the movement for c (ts), but with more of an attack behind it. You will be able to feel for yourselves, if you try to do so with the necessary earnestness and enthusiasm, that this sound induces a certain feeling of gaiety, for the very reason that it is not heavy and can be taken lightly; it is, however, gay with a certain intention.

We ought now to have realized to some extent the meaning of most of the sounds, and to have reached a point at which it should be possible for each individual sound to call up in our souls a corresponding experience. I said earlier that these first lectures were to be in the nature of a recapitulation in order to establish a tradition which may be regarded as permanent. Now once again let us call up in our minds each separate sound in its eurhythmic significance.

It is above all things important that everything I have said about the nature of the various sounds should be experienced artistically as gesture.

There is one thing about which we must be quite clear: the human being is formed out of those cosmic elements which I have mentioned in connection with the sounds of speech. If you take all that we have connected with these sounds, you will get, roughly speaking, in a perfectly natural way, those impulses which lead the human being out of the pre-earthly existence into, earthly existence, and which guide him further until he reaches mature age, that is to say until about his thirty-fifth year.

This whole process, with the forces which separate one human being from another, which urge him forward and bring him to the point he finally reaches as an adult human being,—all this lies in the gestures expressing the sounds. That is why the Word, the spoken sound, must be felt as of such tremendous significance.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

Now let us begin by referring once more to that quality, which is most intimately bound up with the human being, and which was described by the Greeks when they said that it was experienced by man when he was confronted by the riddles of existence, when they said that Philosophy, love of wisdom, could only proceed from a feeling of wonder and amazement. Let us think of this and remind ourselves that the human feeling of wonder is something purely human and belongs to those qualities which raise man above the level of the animal. And when we ask ourselves: What faculty is it in the human being which raises him above the level of the animal?—then we must say: It is the possibility, inherent in the human being, of influencing matter, of bringing movement into certain substances whereas the same substances impose upon the animal its definite form. Man must therefore be looked upon as a centre towards which certain forces gravitate and in which they are finally merged. There would be a sense of monotony in the idea that the origin of man, which should call up in him a feeling of wonder and awe, must be looked for as proceeding from one single point of the universe,—which is indeed the case with the plants and, the animals. That which calls up in man the feeling of wonder with regard to his own being can only be felt by him as coming from different directions of cosmic space. And we only understand ourselves as men, in our true human dignity when we begin to realize that the Gods are radiating their forces into us, from the surrounding cosmos.

Let us make some sort of diagram of the cosmic sphere (see drawing) showing how forces are streaming from the circumstances towards the centre, towards the earth (arrows).

We can only feel our own dignity as human beings on the earth when we understand how these forces are flowing into us from out of the different directions of the cosmos.

Make the eurhythmic movement for a. The fundamental nature of this movement lies in the fact that you reach out, as it were, with your hands and arms into two different directions of space. A does not really consist in making a free, swinging movement, but one has to imagine oneself as man coming from two different directions of cosmic space,—nay, more, as being created, differentiated, determined, as it were, by forces proceeding from these two directions. In the movement for a one reaches out towards these two directions, and it is this reaching out and grasping at something which is the essential feature of the a as such.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

This feeling is inseparable from the true experience of a. The way in which one holds the arms is of no consequence; the point is that one should reach out into these two directions, at the same time stretching the muscles so that a certain tension is induced. One must have the feeling of going right out into these two directions. This feeling must be brought down into the muscles themselves, and the stretched movement of the arms must be made as soon as possible after the preceding sound. This is the a as such.

Thus the essential nature of the a-movement could be expressed somewhat as follows: O man, you have derived your being from two different points of universal space. You must stretch out your arms in order to lay hold of the forces streaming from these two directions, and in so doing you take into yourself that which gave you birth. You must feel how these forces are streaming through your arms, meeting together in your breast. This will give you a real experience of the sound a.

From this we see the nature of the eurhythmic movement for a. And taking all I have said into account, it will not be difficult to feel that in this movement we have embodied the sound a in its relationship to man.

We have already said that e may be explained somewhat in this way: Something has been done to me, but I hold myself erect and confront it.—What lies in this experience? In this experience we really have the polar opposite of the a-experience. Man feels a as coming to him from out of the cosmos. A totally different experience lies behind the e. With e we feel that something has happened, and the effects of this happening we experience in the eurhythmic movement. One can only experience the e when something has happened and one feels its effect. This experience is shown in the movement when one part of the organism is brought into direct contact with another part.

Now this cannot be done in very many ways. Man is differently built from the elephant, for instance, and is therefore not able to make his nose so long and flexible that with its tip he could touch his own back. Were he able to do this it would be a most excellent example of the movement for e. He cannot do it, however. And so the movement for e, as it occurs in our eurhythmy, can only be made by one limb actually touching the other, laying a certain emphasis on this contact. This at the same time expresses the feeling of confronting something and resisting it. The touching indicates the feeling that something has happened to one; the holding the position which must be in the nature of two crossed lines, corresponds to the feeling of resistance. With e one arm is laid upon the other; or one finger can be laid upon the other; or the possibility exists, if one is able to manage it, of so using the eyes that the direction of the gaze of one eye crosses the direction of the gaze of the other. Any movement, therefore, in which this experience of touching one part of the organism with another is really present, may be said to be the eurhythmic expression for the sound e. When, however, the gesture is held fast, thus showing that something has been done to one and one gathers one’s forces together in order to withstand it, then the complete experience is brought to visible expression. Just consider what an immense difference there is between the a and the e-sounds as these are expressed in the movements of eurhythmy.

The a-experience carries with it the necessity of a conscious stretching of the muscles. It is essential that you really feel this tension. The e-experience carries with it the necessity of resting one arm upon the other; and here the consciousness should mainly be centred at the point where the arms cross.

Thus it is not the stretching of the muscles which is the chief thing about the experience of the e-sound, but the resting, the pressing of one arm upon the other. Of course it is also possible to form the e by crossing the right leg over the left, at the same time pressing one against the other. In this way we experience the e, we feel the movement for e.

Now, in our modern civilization one may easily get the impression that the world is always ‘doing something’ to people, is always affecting them, for they usually sit with crossed legs, and by so doing are of course continually making the movement for e! This attitude betrays the fact that the great majority of people believe that the world has indeed done something to them and that they must stand up against it. It is in such ways as this that one may learn to understand the artistic nature of the movements.

When we now pass on to the movement for o, to the gesture for o, we shall feel what a world of experience is contained in this sound. A is the absolute expression of wonder and amazement. O expresses the feeling which we have when we, place ourselves in an intelligent relationship to something which at the same time calls forth our wonder. And indeed, if we are human beings in the true sense, everything which enters into our field of vision must call up in us a feeling of wonder. But o brings us into a more intimate relationship with our perceptions. So that the essential nature of o can be shown in eurhythmy when the human being does not only feel himself, but, going out from himself, feels some other being or object which he wishes to embrace.

You can most clearly get a picture of this when, out of love for another person, you put your arms around him. You get the absolutely natural movement for the sound o when, in embracing another person, the arms are rounded and bent, each taking on the form of a half-circle.

Thus, in the movement for a, we feel that we receive something. We reach out towards those regions of the cosmos from which man derives his being. In the e we have an indication of a direct experience. The human being experiences something coming from the outer world. In o we have the movement whereby the world experiences something through man himself, for in this movement man lays hold of something belonging to the outer world. You must try to make the movement for o in such a way that, from the very beginning, and right through to the very end, the arms are really rounded. The arms must be very flexible; they must really be rounded. This is the true movement for o. We have to feel the rounded form from the very beginning.

Now we come to that sound which makes a still more direct impression on man than does the sound e,—we come to that around which is the absolute expression of the assertion of self, that is to say the i-sound. I is self-assertion pure and simple, I have often drawn attention to the fact that in the every day speech of educated people we find the word ‘ich’ (I). In this word we have the feeling of self-assertion as expressed in the i, and to this is added a breath-sound (eh) whereby an indication is given that we, as human beings, live in the breathing. But in certain districts where the simple people speak in dialect things are not carried as far as this. Such people remain satisfied with plain, straight-forward self-assertion. For this reason, in the place where I was brought up, people said, for instance, not ‘ich’, but ‘i’. There it would have occurred to nobody to say ‘Ich haue dich durch’ (I will give you a jolly good thrashing);—this expression occurs to me because in the place where I grew up one heard it on all sides, and because, with certain people, it really sums up their conception of the ego:—in my birth-place people do not say ‘Ich haue dich durch’, but ‘I hau di durch’! Pure self-assertion! This is a real example of pure self-assertion. Now, as we know, with a, forces stream from two points of the circumference inwards; with i they stream from the centre outwards. With the i-sound we do not feel as if we are grasping at something, but we feel the stretching, we feel that the stream has its source in us, starting, as it were, from the heart and flowing through the arm, or through both arms, or through the: legs. We can also feel i with the eyes, when we consciously look more through one eye, leaving the other passive. This gives us a very definite feeling of i.

There is nothing of the a-character about i, but both the arms should as a rule be used in such a way that one is the continuation of the other, although of course we can also make use of one arm only. The chief thing to remember is that with i the main feeling must be that of stretching, whereas with a there is more the feeling of grasping at something. These nuances are of importance if we are to get the right inner attitude towards the individual sounds.

It is only when such shades of feeling are brought into the abounds of speech,—and indeed into the tones of music also, as I made clear in the course of lectures on tone-eurhythmy which I gave here recently,—it is only then that eurhythmy becomes truly artistic. The point is not so much, my dear friends, that you merely imitate the form, but that you inwardly experience the form; that is to say you must really get the feeling In both your arms that a is the taking hold of something which comes towards you, while you must feel i as a stretched movement, as a stretching out away from yourself.

Then again we have the u-sound about which I have already spoken. U is not the assertion of self; on the contrary, behind u there is the feeling of becoming smaller, of being chilled and stiffened with cold. There is the feeling of drawing back into, oneself, of holding fast to oneself. Whereas with the sound e the principal thing is that one limb touches another quite precisely, with u the principal feeling is one of holding back.

The u is most clearly expressed by holding the arms as near together as possible, but this need only be indicated. There need only be an indication of this pressing together of the arms. When we stand with our legs together, touching one another we are also expressing the sound u. And, as we have already, seen, all the movements can be made backwards as well as forwards.

Ei,—the ei-sound can best be felt—and this will also throw light on what I said yesterday—when one realizes that behind this sound there lies the same caressing, affectionate feeling that one has for a very little child: ei, ei,—it is as if one were stroking something, as if one were becoming intimate with something through one’s feeling. (Frau L....will show us a beautiful e-i.) Hold the body quite still; do not move the body in any way, but hold it quite still. You will notice at once that in this gesture there is expressed the feeling of becoming intimate with something, but you will notice at the same time that our manner of writing, the way in which (in the German language) we form the ei out of the e-i, does not naturally lie in the ei-sound itself. On the contrary the ei-sound must be felt as a unity. We enter into the nature of ei when we join together e and i, but in fact lies midway between the two, and the connection between them is not really organic. I shall speak later about the more subtle nuances of feeling lying in this sound.

Let us now proceed to the consonants, and let us try to feel the consonantal element as this comes to expression in movements. You will remember that I said: b is the sound which represents everything of an enveloping nature, it expresses the wrapping round of something and its corresponding movement is one of protection. Naturally the gesture as such does not express this fully; there must also be the actual experience of which the movement is the copy, is the imitation. (We ask Frau F... to show us the movement.) Now we have the true movement for b; let us hold it fast.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

Thus we have the true movement for b, and in this movement we feel what really lies behind the position of each arm. Anyone experiencing what is contained in this movement might well say: I will picture to myself that I have something before me, something that I wish to take hold of,—let us say a little child. I will imagine that I have such a little child sitting before me and that I wish to take it up. I shall be able to do this most easily when I take hold of it so, drawing it to me with a protecting gesture (movement for b).—What then must one really feel here if one would have the true experience? One must really feel that one holds something—here, in the space enclosed by the arms. If at this juncture I may introduce a point of educational interest, I would say that the best way to make the sound b comprehensible to small children in the eurhythmy lesson is to take something or other and let the child clasp it in its arms. In this way you can teach the little child to understand that it should feel that its arms are the protecting shelter for the animal or object which it holds, and in this way it will learn fully to comprehend the nature of the b-movement.

All this is really essential to eurhythmy. The forms, the movements, must not be imitated in a purely abstract manner, but the corresponding experiences must be felt; the experience is inseparable from the movement.

Now, I told you yesterday that c (ts) is a specially interesting sound. C, as it were, raises matter into the realm of the spirit. I said that it contains within it a feeling of lightness; it indicates that matter can be conquered by spirit and raised to a higher level. Fundamentally speaking we may say that c can best be experienced when one observes a child who is learning to stand, to raise itself from the crawling to the upright position. One could wish always to connect this wonderful experience—(for it is indeed a wonderful experience)—with the sound c. In this sound one approaches very nearly to what takes place in the child when it lifts itself from the crawling into the upright position, c, c, c: this lightening process, this raising of matters by means of spirit,—how beautifully it is expressed here! Try to feel all this in the sound c; feel that it has a lightness that matter is raised up by means of spirit. You will most easily have the right feeling for the movement c when you imagine that in some inexplicable way something is lying on the surface of your arms and in making the movement you toss it upwards. When you have the feeling that something is lying on the surface of your arms, and that it flies up into the air when you make the movement for c, then you have something which can lead you to a more or less true experience of the c-movement.

D, as I told you, is a pointing downwards, or indeed a pointing in any direction: d; if one now adds to this sound the sound a, so that wonder is aroused by that towards which one points, then, one gets the word da.

Now imagine for a moment that we wished to express the nature of the Oriental teacher. The Oriental teacher—particularly the older Oriental teacher—is indeed quite different from the European teacher. To-day, in the case of the European one always has the feeling that his whole educational system is based on the idea of pumping his pupils, of drawing all manner of things out of them. He meddles with them. To-day people talk about the necessity of ‘developing’ the pupil, although this idle talk for the most part. When one hears these mode educators expounding their pedagogic theories, one gets the feeling that one is, to use an Austrian expression, a Zmirnskhauer (a ball of thread), and that one is being unwound. Indeed when education is spoken of to-day one feels as if one were being absolutely torn to pieces. One is driven, crammed, in short, there is no end to what is being done to those who are being educated. The European educator feels that he must make the human being into something utterly different from what he really is. If it were possible to carry out all that one hears talked about on all sides by those interested in the art of education, then the human being who finally emerged from the hand would indeed be a strange being! The attitude of Oriental towards the teacher is different. He feels that the teacher, the educator, is one who points things out to his pupils, who draws their attention to things and says: ‘Das ist das’ (That is that). The Oriental teacher leaves his pupils unmolested because he assumes that they develop out of their own being and may, therefore, safely be let alone. Things are only pointed out to them. For this reason the Oriental teacher is one who, whatever he is doing, always says, as it were, ‘da’; da-da—der Dada. And this is what he is called. The oriental teacher is called the ‘Dada’. It is his mission to point everything out: da-da!

Now looking at modern civilization,—which, from a certain point of view, is progressing in a way that I can only describe as opposite to Darwinism,—we see that humanity, having satisfactorily arrived at the theory of man’s descent from the ape, desires to return to the ape once more, thus progressing quite clearly in a contrary direction to Darwinism. The tendency is to return once again to the primitive, to the primeval. In consequence there has arisen a sort of ‘Dada-ism’. Some years ago, when I was in Berlin, I received a letter in which the writer signed himself ‘Der Ober-Dada’ (the Head Dada). This is a retrogression, a principle of imitation, such as is found in this inverse Darwinism, this returning once more to the ape. You see how it is; one just imitates. And so, in founding this sort of ‘Dada-ism’ in Europe one is really imitating the more primitive methods of the Oriental.

In the word ‘dada’, however, there does actually lie some expression of this educating gesture, of this drawing attention to something, pointing to something. (Frl. S.... will you show us the movement for d? Try to enter right into the nature of the d-sound.) What is really the nature of the d-sound? In it there lies the indicating movement. Thus you must have the feeling: There is something; there is some-thing else; d,—when you finally land on it.—For this reason you must carry out the movement in such a way that there is a certain harmony between the two arms. One arm must reach a definite point just a moment before the other. The arm that starts later, however, must follow on quickly as though being drawn by the arm which started earlier. The direction of the movement may be either towards the left or towards the right. It is very necessary to study these things in detail, and you must learn really to feel this indicating, this pointing towards something. But first, in order to express the d-sound successfully, you must accustom yourselves to this pointing; you must introduce this pointing. The hands must be held in this way; (pointing with the finger).

I told you yesterday that f is really Isis. In f there is the consciousness of being permeated with wisdom. When one first feels one’s own inner being and then experiences this inner being in the process of out-breathing, in the out-going breath stream,— f,—then one has the true f. Man experiences the wisdom of his own being, that is to say, of his own etheric body in the out-breathing process. This feeling must be present in the movement which represents the f-sound. (Frau P.... will you make an f.) This movement corresponds exactly to the movement which the utterance of the f-sound produces in the air as it is breathed outwards. You must make the movement: for f in such a way that there is a break in it; then only will you feel what I have indicated with regard to the nature of f. You must show that there is, as it were, a second attack in the sound. But do not make the movement so quickly; it must be gentler. That is the f. In the movement for f we have a very exact imitation of this conscious out-breathing process which is of such great significance.

Now I have already told you that in the l we have the sound, which actually forms something, the sound in which we feel the form-giving process with the tongue. l-l-l. In order to make this clear I took the word leim (putty) as an example; I pointed out the adhesive quality of this substance, its formative quality in the capacity it has for imitating form, in other words, the way in which it strives to represent the fundamental nature of the: l-sound. L was looked upon in the Mysteries as a sound possessing special magical qualities, for when one gives form to something it follows that one has power over it. And it was just this aspect of l, this quality of mastering something, of gaining power over something which, in the Mysteries, caused this sound to be looked upon as one containing demonic forces. All this must be embodied in the movement for l. And when added to this, you feel as if your arms are quite supple, flexible in themselves; when you feel that something takes place in the arms which is similar to the movement of your tongue when, you say l,—then you will experience l in the right way, and you will discover that there is something truly fascinating in this movement.

Then we have the sound m. I said yesterday that m signifies the understanding of something, the capacity for entering into something with intelligence. I told you that in the place where I was brought up it was customary to say mhn; hn, when one had heard something said and wished to emphasize the fact that one had understood it. Mhn; hn—we will discuss this further; it expresses the feeling of joy and satisfaction aroused by having understood something. And one really has the feeling of being absolutely devoured by the intelligence and understanding of the person to whom one is speaking when he says mhn. Hence, in the m of the sacred Indian word Aum, m, we have a marvellous expression of the understanding of the universe. Thus m may be said to signify the grasp of a thing: first there is the feeling of grasping something, then there is the penetration into it and lastly there follows the understanding of it. The position should be held for a moment so that this intelligent comprehension which comes about as a matter of course is shown by the movement. (The arms should be held slightly in front of the body.)

It would indeed be wonderful if this movement could also be taught to the elephant. The elephant could make a wonderful m by stretching its trunk outwards and then turning it under. One could not have a more perfect example of an m. An m carried out in this way would really be the best m one could possibly imagine. I mention all these things as they may help you really to experience the sounds.

The uneasy sort of feeling which one has when meeting a person with a nose like an eagle’s beak will not be unknown to you. You will realize that a nose of this type really is the unconscious expression of the m-movement. The nose takes on the form of m. People with such a nose often cause a certain embarrassment to their fellows, because they give the impression of an absolute understanding of those with whom they come in contact, and it is not always pleasant to feel that one is being so completely understood. We get this feeling with people having an eagle-like nose for the simple reason that such a nose is really the m-movement held fast and frozen into a set form.

But there is another kind of understanding, an understanding mingled with a feeling of repulsion, an understanding tinged with irony. Here one comprehends the matter in question, at the same time, however, revealing this attitude of mind: Why make such a fuss about it? Of course, it is absolutely obvious!—n. If you should happen to be in Berlin you could not fail to notice this. The impression that one has in Berlin is that people are not altogether pleased with one’s affairs, but that they understand them perfectly! They immediately put everything on one side: ne. Indeed, the people of Berlin, if they know you well, say precious little besides ne! They really have not much else to say. This expression gives some indication of the attitude of mind of those who have a tendency to despise anything and everything which they feel they can understand as a matter of course.

One feels at once, when seeing this movement: The thing is of no importance. I understand it perfectly. And the eurhythmist also must have this feeling. In order to get into the right mood for the n-movement, you should imagine that you are dealing with someone who is quite stupid, someone who in his conversation keeps laying great emphasis upon the most ordinary things. You want to make him realize that he really is too stupid, that you can understand the matter very quickly and wish to get away from the whole thing as soon as possible. That is the experience.

I have already told you that r is the sound which expresses the complete turning over of something; it is the expression of something which is not itself round, but which takes on a rounded form. One always has the feeling that this is difficult, to imitate, because the most natural way to make the movement for r would be to turn a complete somersault, and this, of course, we cannot do! Frl. S... will you show us the movement for r? That is a very strenuous r. It is one way of doing it. Now Frl. S.... will you show us another r? That is another way of doing it. So you see there are various ways of expressing the movement very beautifully; it is a turning, revolving movement, which takes place in the breath-process also, for there is indeed a rolling movement when the sound r is uttered.

Such, then, are the things which I believe may show you to some extent, and in an introductory way, how the feelings and experiences lying behind the gestures may through eurhythmy be carried over into plastic movements, into movements which really have form and shape.

I think that in yesterday’s lecture we reached the point at which we were considering the sound r, and I had previously unfolded before you the inner nature of most of the other sounds.

It is important above all that we should learn to understand the s-sound. S as we learned yesterday, was always looked upon in the Mysteries as a sound of the very highest importance. Indeed, it was looked upon as possessing magical qualities; for it can be felt as a sound which brings with it surety and certainty, a feeling of calm, a quietening element. This is induced by the fact that, with the impulse lying behind the sound s one can penetrate into the inmost nature of another being.

For this reason I said that when a pupil of the old Mysteries was asked by someone from the outer world what he had learned through the s-sound, he answered, as was customary at that time, in a somewhat humorous vein, and said: He who is master of the s-sound can see into the souls of men and into the hearts of women. There can be no question that in both cases this insight entails the necessity of bringing about a feeling of calm. And this led quite naturally to the more or less humorous use of a sentence such as the one I have described.

Now if in the f-sound we have the feeling: Wisdom lives in me, wisdom created me, I breathe out wisdom, wisdom is ever present within me,—then behind the s-sound we may say that there lies a slight element of fear, something before which we feel that we must protect ourselves. This is why in those ancient scripts,—in which, as I have already told you the s, or the snake-like curved line is to be found in the various letters,—writing was felt to be something uncanny, something which threw light into hidden depths. And to-day—using this word ‘to-day’ in the sense of an historical epoch—certain peoples still exist (though naturally very few) who, unaccustomed as they are to the art of writing, regard the written characters as being distinctly uncanny. When the Europeans, these ‘superior people’ of civilization, went to the North American Indians, the North American Indians found much that to them was unpleasant in the ways of these ‘superior people’, and the written characters were among those things which produced in them such an unpleasant sensation. They made it quite clear that in their opinion these ‘Pale Face’, as they called them, these strange, foreign ‘Pale Face’ conjured ‘little demons’ on to the paper. And as late as the nineteenth century there were certain Indian tribes who still regarded the printed letters as being the embodiment of little demons.

Let us consider these two sounds, these two letters, the f and, the s. They must be formed in eurhythmy in such a way that the onlooker can perceive a tremendous difference between them. When the movement for f is made, it must express the quiet sense of power over that which has been conjured up in the world by its means. The movement is created out of an element of peace. The hands must bend over a little towards the arm, but in an active manner.

They must not hang passively, but must be held as if covering something and protecting it.

Now s. You see in the s-sound how something is, as it were, moved out of its course with a sense of mastery. (The movement was demonstrated.) The cause of this feeling really lies in the relationship which arises between the two arms as a result of the movement.

Now let us pass on to sch. One could hardly fail to recognize the blowing past, the blowing away of something, as this is expressed in the sound sch. I made this quite clear to you when, I gave as an example the feeling lying behind the word husch-husch: the breeze wafts by and passes away: husch-husch.

But everywhere in words of an interjectional character you will observe how this sch sound conveys this feeling of blowing past. There are indeed many words which in this connection, are extraordinarily characteristic.

You must now consider the deep significance of something which I have already spoken about during these days, I mean the fact that in different languages things are called by different names. The reason for this is that the different languages are really describing different things. For instance, when in German, I say the word kopf, this indicates the form, the plastic form of the head; when, on the other hand the word testa is used in Italian it signifies what takes place by means of the head, it signifies a process of corroboration, of affirmation. Thus the two languages are describing completely different things. That which is called kopf in German would also be called kopf in Italian, if the Italian wished to express the same idea.

In this way languages differ very much from each other. When we take the German language we find that it is of a plastic nature. The genius of the German language is really a sculptor. This must not be overlooked. The peculiar characteristic of the German language is that it is plastic: the genius of the language is a sculptor.

The genius of the Latin language has, on the other hand, something of the lawyer about it, something of the advocate, of one who affirms, confirms, testifies.

This is in no way intended as a criticism, but merely as a description of certain characteristics. Each language contains within it the temperament and character of its genius. One may actually carry this so far as to say that when one hears Hungarian, Magyar or Finnish spoken, one cannot fail to have the feeling that something is really lacking. It is impossible to listen to the Magyar language without feeling that after every third word something is lacking. When the Hungarian or Magyar language is spoken one feels that after every third word a stag should be slain. The reason for this is that the genius of the Hungarian language is a hunter. In the Magyar language all words which have not arisen out of the activity of the hunt are in reality borrowed. The Magyar language has absorbed many such words, and when one arrives in Budapest one finds at once among the names written up in the streets such strange words as, for example: Kavehdz. (From the German: Kaffeehaus: Cafe). Such words as these have not, of course, the characteristic I have described; the Magyar language has adopted many such borrowed words. But when one listens to the Magyar language, it is certainly imbued with the element of the hunt, of the chase. Naturally there is nothing bad about this; the tiller of the soil, the hunter and the shepherd are invariably the source from which the whole human race has arisen. There still lives a primeval force in such a language as that of the Magyars. And the genius of the Magyar language is undoubtedly a hunter, or, if ye will, a huntress, Diana.

So we can say, in the German language we have the plastic formative element; that is a feature which is very much in evidence. For this reason we find many interjections, which are uncommonly characteristic. Well, it does not even need to be a snake,—even if a restless, agitated mouse is hidden under some leaves, we have already something moving and rolling about, and it gives us an uneasy sensation, we are astonished: r-a—now it scampers away: sch. The feeling of astonishment is not all, however; something is done to us, but we bear up under it: e. Now whatever is moving in this way clings to its surroundings, it adapts itself to them, burrows its way through; where there is a hollow space it makes its way through, creeping now lower, now higher: l. And when it emerges, then we understand what it was all about: n. rascheln (to rustle). Here you have the whole story of rascheln in plastic form.

The remarkable feature of the German language is that one can find in it so much that really corresponds to plastic art that really makes up the plastic element of language. Hence: it is perhaps not without significance that eurhythmy, in the first instance, could most easily arise within the German language, for eurhythmy may be said to be sculpture brought into the realm of movement, and it is from out of the German language that this living sculpture can be most easily developed at the present day. In ancient times all languages possessed a living, plastic element. It is true that other languages are more musical in their nature, as is the case, for instance, with the Magyar language. The German language cannot be said to be musical, but for this very reason the plastic element is all the stronger.

And it is just in this word rascheln, as also in the ‘husch- husch’, that we have the blowing away, the blowing past, the scattering of something.

The Hebrew man of ancient times experienced in the sch the presence of Jehovah in the blowing of the wind: sch.: Naturally this also may be felt as lying behind the plastic, eurhythmic movement for the sound sch. The movement must be rapid, then it has the true ‘rustling’ effect, (rascheln), and really gives the feeling that is expressed in the word. It is no; exaggeration to say that one actually hears the rustling in the form of the movement.

Yesterday I spoke to you also about the way in which the sound z is to be understood. I said then that there is a certain lightness in the experience of s. And this experience, together with its plastic, eurhythmic expression, is derived from this feeling of lightness, from something which is essentially light. Thus, when we turn our attention to z, we shall regard it in much the same way as one might do a child, who, having lost a new toy which has been bought for it, cries and is inconsolable. One would not wish to scold the child, but to comfort it. Let us suppose that it is not the mother or the father who is dealing with the child, but an aunt or grandmother, whose manner towards the child (who has been up to some mischief) is aunt-like, or grandmotherly. The gesture, especially with the right hand, suggests: Never mind, little one.... It would be quite good if we were to bear this little story in mind. You must feel the z more especially in the arm; not in the wrist, but in the downward movement of the arm.

Up to now, my dear friends, we have mainly considered the nature of the individual sounds as such. At this point it will be necessary for us to discover the right way of expressing the connection between the sounds; and in order to lead over gradually into this somewhat different sphere, I shall from time to time take the opportunity of making certain observations. As occasion offers I shall deviate from the purely artistic side of eurhythmy and refer to educational, and also to curative eurhythmy. Thus, when I pass over to educational eurhythmy, you will see how this aspect of eurhythmy must be derived from the inner nature of the sounds as we have studied them in these lectures. It is quite obvious that in the beginning, when teaching the movements, one should as far as possible choose words expressing a definite mood or feeling. So that one enters into the spirit of eurhythmy by means of the feeling contained in the sounds, and by this means we are able to conjure up a right attitude towards eurhythmy, a realization that eurhythmy is a language, a language which may indeed be understood if only approached without prejudice. Now everything is contained for us in this word rascheln, if you make the movement as clearly as possible, and with great precision; only you must never lose sight of the fact that it is not the external process only which is of importance, but that the movements must be permeated by feeling. When this word is shown now in eurhythmy I shall be able to tell you what is really contained within it just at one particular point,—and then you will indeed perceive what is hidden in this word... ! (The word was demonstrated.) Now, for instance, the person who has been disturbed by the rustling pokes his nose in the direction from which it comes!

So you see, when we take into account the subjective element of feeling, we find that absolutely everything is contained in eurhythmy.

We will now take another very characteristic word. You will remember my description of the sound c (ts); k is similar, but stronger. In the sound k we have matter governed, mastered by spirit. Suppose for a moment that you are confronted by a regular termagant, by somebody who appears all physical strength and of whom you are somewhat afraid. It is not easy to deal with such a person; but, although you have to brace yourself against his behaviour, you, nevertheless, wish to get rid of him,—as it were to ‘blow him away’. You say to him then, But in eurhythmy, kusch. In this word you have every possibility of feeling these things; there is the repulsing of the person in question, the feeling of gathering one’s self together in order to confront him, but there is also the mastery over him. In practising the word do it in such a way that you have a very clear sch at the end. For the pacifying element in the word kusch lies in the fact that one intends to get rid of something.

Now, in teaching eurhythmy, it is important to choose those words in which one can on the one side still feel the plastic formation of the sounds, and on the other side the inner life that is thereby developed.

Now these sounds make up in themselves the separate elementary parts of eurhythmy as a whole. From these parts words are then put together. When in a word, let us say for instance, the word rascheln, you simply make the sounds in an intellectual manner one after another, the result will not be a word in the true sense. It is an undeniable fact that a word is much more of a complete whole than one usually thinks. If this were not so, we, as speaking human beings, could never have become so dried up and lifeless as we unfortunately are. When we read aloud, we do not read the individual sounds quite distinctly; we glide over the whole word and only touch lightly upon the single sounds. The one sound passes over into the other; and in ordinary speech also, the one sound passes over into the next. In eurhythmy, therefore, we must not only pay particular attention to the forming of the single sounds, but above all to the movement which expresses the transition from sound to sound. A word can only become beautiful in eurhythmy if one succeeds in obtaining a natural transition from one sound to the next.

And so it becomes necessary to turn our attention to the way in which one sound proceeds out of the other. One should try to discover how this takes place, and for this reason it is good to take characteristic words, which occur very often; practising them, not so much from the point of view of the individual sounds, but as a whole.

Take, for instance, the word und (and,) the simple word und and try to show it in one continuous, unbroken movement. Try, before you have quite finished the u-sound, to begin the n. This lends itself very well to eurhythmy. Before the movement for u is really completed, let it pass over into n: u-n ,—and from this immediately make the transition into the d: und.

From a study of eurhythmy it is really possible to discover the inner intentions of the genius of language. I told you that d is the indicating movement. This is shown dearly in eurhythmy. Now how does the word und end? It ends with d, with the indicating movement. What purpose does the word und really serve? We say, for instance, ‘sun and moon’, There is the sun. We turn from the sun to the moon, indicating the moon by means of the ‘and’. Thus through eurhythmy one is able to rediscover the primeval gestures underlying speech. All this must be felt and experienced.

Bearing this in mind, let us take a word that even in the German language has long lost its plastic form, which, however, it once possessed to a very high degree. When I say ‘once’, that does not mean centuries ago; I refer to a not so very distant past. At that time this word had a plastic form. It is true that the word as we now know it is comparatively modern, but as it emerged from the dialect it still had its plastic character. And as dialect it still retains this character to-day. As I said before we must not allow our feeling for such things to be disturbed by a philology which in its own place is fully justified. Let us take this German word Mensch (human being), and let us express it in eurhythmy, somewhat shortening the final sch-sound: Mensch. Here we have a distinct feeling of the blowing past at the end of the word.

How do the eurhythmy movements for this word acct us? They give us the impression of the transience of human life; they give us a picture of the fleeting nature of man. Carrying this somewhat farther, we are shown the insignificance of the human being; this is what the eurhythmic gestures say to us when showing the word Mensch as a whole.

Now in dialect the word Mensch signifies a woman of completely trivial character. The word is not used in any bad sense, but simply indicates a woman who is quite uninteresting: das Mensch. Here the element of insignificance is strongly emphasized, and the tragic conception which one has regarding der Mensch is carried further and coloured with contempt when one says: das Mensch.

Thus in the plastic gestures and movements of eurhythmy we have the possibility of learning to feel deeply the meaning and true nature of words.

There is one thing, however, about which we must be perfectly clear. Eurhythmy, by means of the sounds which make up the different words, necessarily leads us into the inner nature of that to which the sounds themselves refer. When you see words for apparently the same thing shown in eurhythmy, you will nevertheless perceive, by the character of the movements, the difference in the character of the words. Will Frl. B.... and Frl. W.... now stand side by side, and we will ask Frl. B.... first to show the word kopf, and afterwards Frl. W.... will show testa. Now with the word kopf you have the feeling that the eurhythmist wishes to form something round, wishes to be a sculptor. The eurhythmist who is showing the word testa is determined to be in the right! In this way you see visibly expressed the essential characteristics of any particular word.

These things must be borne in mind. Then you will discover how, through eurhythmy, the character of the different languages is revealed in a most subtle and marvellous way. You can feel how the character of the different languages rises up, as it were, before your very eyes.

In order that this may be more fully illustrated, let us now see a German, an English, a French, and possibly also a Hungarian and a Russian poem interpreted in eurhythmy; in such a way, moreover, that by emphasizing as far as possible all: the sounds, the character of the poem in question is clearly shown. (The poems were then demonstrated by representatives of the different nations.) You will at once perceive how, for instance, the English language reveals its connection with the waves of the sea. And the mastery of the waves, which lies so strongly in the English language, comes out extraordinarily clearly in eurhythmy.

In the Magyar language, the feeling, the mood which is brought to expression is that the Magyar can only picture himself, as being planted firmly on the earth, and having to force his way through thicket and forest. This, too, you can see in the interpretation of the Magyar poem.

Russian, again, is a language which is merely suggestive, which only gives a faint indication of the inner nature of the word. It is a language which has not yet found its true being, but is following the tracks leading it towards this being, and is pointing on all sides towards the future.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

And now I should like you to compare two things which will give you an insight into the marked way in which this difference of character reveals itself. One must learn to feel this, otherwise one cannot find one’s way into the nature of eurhythmy. A purely theoretical, intellectual explanation will not suffice; we must be led to a true feeling and understanding of what eurhythmy really is. Let us then compare the eurhythmic interpretation of a Russian poem with that of a French poem. Try to realize the great contrast between the two. (The Russian poem was here demonstrated.) Now with the Russian poem you see how one follows on the tracks of the word, and try now with the other poem, the French poem, to observe how there is, as it were, a tripping away from the word. (The French poem was then demonstrated.) Here there is the feeling of always being in front of the word. You see these two languages may really be compared to day and night, to the opposite poles, their characteristics are so different.

When you consider all these things, which are really quite apparent, you will feel bound to say: In eurhythmy there is the possibility of bringing clearly to expression the living spirit which is embodied in language, and above all the character of the language. For this reason eurhythmy is particularly well fitted to express all that lies behind language. And one must, of course, be able to express what lies behind language.

Let us now pass on to a quite concrete point.

Suppose we wished to show in eurhythmy a strong feeling of affirmation.

A young man leaves his parents’ house. They declare, as he bids them farewell, that he will come back again: You will come back to us again, says the father. Try now to express in eurhythmy this phrase: You will come back to me again,—and in doing so show clearly the feeling of affirmation. How do we express this? By a step; When we wish to affirm something we take a step forwards (towards the right) and in this step there must be the feeling, as it were, of the i-sound, of assertion. Thus affirmation is expressed by a movement of the fact from the back forwards.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

Negation,—let us suppose that somebody tells a child he is not to do something: You must never do that again.... you wish to emphasize this feeling of negation, you must do so by taking a step backwards (towards the left). These things are, of course, quite elementary.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

Thus we can pass over from what is revealed as to the nature of the single word to the inner logic which is contained in language. And in this way the character of the language becomes still more evident. If one considers the single sound as such, when expressing a poem in eurhythmy in any language, then the character of the language is emphasized. When, on the other hand, we take into consideration things which we shall be studying presently, when we pass over to logic as it is express in language, then more emphasis is laid on the character of the people.

Let us pass over now to this logic of language, and to begin with take the feeling of wonder. When a passage occurs in which the feeling of wonder is expressed, you will make the movement for wonder (movement for a) and you must merge the movement in to the other sounds, so that both mood and sounds are shown. Much study is required before one succeeds in expressing the succession of sounds, together with the indication of the logic of language, of the emotional content.—Ach wie schön (O how beautiful)!—Try here to put the two things together, the movement for wonder and the sounds contained in the words: ‘Ach wie schön!’¹

The movement expressing wonder must be united with the actual single sounds; wonder must lie in the formation of the sound.

To-morrow we will analyse other similar movements.

• 1. According to feeling and mood other vowels might of course also be chosen to add colour to the whole; these would likewise have to be blended in with the actual succession of sound.

My dear Friends,

To-day we will continue our study of those things with which we have already made a beginning in the previous lecture took as our starting point the inner feeling and mood of the individual sounds, and from this we passed over to the more general characteristics of speech. In so doing we considered not only the sounds as such, but also the feeling lying behind them, and their logical content.

In this lecture I shall not be dealing so much with the single sounds, but I shall speak about the mood and feeling which may be called up within us by a poem taken as a whole. In the first place,—later we shall gather the different threads together,—in the first place, we have something which can serve to bring out the finer nuances and shades of feeling which arise out of the word, out of the way in which the different sounds are put together. We can, for instance, say something aloud, and, by emphasizing one word more than another, show by our manner of speaking the feeling lying behind the actual words. It is obvious that much depends upon emphasis, and in writing, this emphasis is shown by such things as question marks, exclamation marks, and so on.

The simple little example which follows will give you an insight into the importance of correct emphasis. If I remember rightly, in Szegedin, in Hungary, there was once a company of actors who were giving a performance of Schiller’s Räuber, in a barn, of all places, next door to a cattle shed. One of the actors did not know the text perfectly, and was also unable to under stand the prompter. The prompter’s text may have been inaccurate; in any case, the whole affair was somewhat primitive.

And the amateurish effect was not lessened when a regular dispute took place in the presence of the audience. This dispute arose owing to the fact that one of the oxen suddenly broke through the wall and gazed around, so that its horns and muzzle were visible on the stage. At this moment the actor, who was somewhat alarmed, said, looking in the direction of the cow: ‘Seid Ihr auch wohl mein Vater?’ (Are you indeed my father?) The prompter corrected him, saying: Should he not say: Seid Ihr auch wohl, mein Vater? (Are you well, my father?) And that did not please the stage manager, who made the following correction: Here he should say: ‘Seid Ihr arch wohl mein Vater? (Can you be my father?)

So you see everything depends upon emphasis. And as we must be able to express in eurhythmy all the fundamental elements of language, it must also be possible to express what in speech would be brought about by means of emphasis, and in writing by means of the question mark, the exclamation mark, or something of that kind. To fulfil this need we have a movement which gives rise to a feeling similar to that called up in written language by the exclamation or the question mark. This movement must be carried out in the following way.

The eurhythmist places both the right and left arms in the position indicated in the diagram, the left hand being turned slightly inwards and the fingers held loosely. (See figure 1)

This then is a movement which should be made use of as occasion offers. I shall speak about colour in eurhythmy later on. Now, of course, the eurhythmist must only make use of this movement at suitable moments, and the way in which it is used must be very carefully studied. For instance, the eurhythmist must come to an understanding with the reciter, so that a slight pause is made in the reading. And it must be done in such a way that the onlooker can see clearly that the eurhythmist is here passing over from the movement, first into a relative, and then into a complete state of rest; so that the movement brings about a distinct break in the poem. For example, if I say: ‘How lovely the sunshine is to-day! We must make the most of it.’—the point would be to express the exclamation adequately. Therefore, at the point where the exclamation mark is, you would bring the movement, which otherwise is in constant flow, to a standstill. You would take up this position quite quietly, and then proceed. Such an example offers a good opportunity for the clear expression of this movement.

An excellent opportunity for applying this movement is to be found in such a poem as Goethe’s Zauberlehrling, where many exclamations occur. In this poem the movement would serve to bring out what may be called humour in the truly artistic sense of that word. For instance, at the end of the, line: ‘In die Ecke, Besen, Besen, seid’s gewesen!’—the movement for the exclamation is strongly called for; and again at the end, of the next line: ‘Denn als Geister.... !’ When the magician himself is speaking, the movement would not be suitable, for he is a stately personage. But it would be particularly good if the eurhythmist who is interpreting the part of the pupil would introduce this movement quite frequently. Again it could be made use of after: ‘brav getroffen’, and also after: ‘ ich atme frei!’

There is another gesture expressing mood, which we may use when we wish to show Liveliness or Mirth (Heiterkeit). You must carry out this gesture in such a way that you try, when making it, to stand on tip-toe. Thus, when the mirth is at its height, you must rise on the toes; and then, supposing this to be your head (See diagram) proceed to take up this position with your arms, spreading out your fingers as widely as possible. In this way we get the movement for Mirth or Liveliness.

When in addition to spreading out your fingers you move them about, the feeling of gaiety will be particularly well expressed. Such a movement gives the effect of merry laughter and possesses very great charm.

Let us take the following sentence: ‘He went up into the reading desk, but before he could begin his lecture a fly settled’, on his nose! General consternation!’ (The movement should be made after the word ‘nose’.) You see, even you who are behind the scenes and know all about it – (addressing one of the eurhythmists present) – have succumbed to a very natural expression of mirth. And this feeling of mirth, as it seems to me, is expressed remarkably well by this movement.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

There are many opportunities in dialogue, in poems of a dramatic nature, where you wish to make a dramatic effect, when you can use another movement which is extraordinarily expressive picture the upper arm drawn downwards, with the forefinger pointing upwards, while the left arm is held pressed against the side. Picture this movement to yourselves. And now imagine that somebody says: ‘I could have done that much more cleverly than you’ – This could be expressed in eurhythmy by the movement for ‘confoundedly clever’ (Verflucht gescheit). This movement must be shown by making a sharp angle with the left arm, and pointing upwards with the right.

In these eurhythmy figures you see before you the movements for the Question or Exclamation, Mirth and ‘confoundedly clever’.¹

Here (indicating the next figure), you have a movement which requires the closest study. The movement consists in bringing the hand and lower arm into this position (see diagram), with the first anger pointing upwards; for the characteristic feature of this movement is that it always indicates insight, discernment.

Whenever this movement makes its appearance it expresses insight; the finger, however, must not actually point, but it must be held in an upright position. In this way something of the movement for Cleverness is contained in this solemn gesture expressing Knowledge (Erkenntnis).

When, therefore, you hold the right arm in an upright position, in the way I have described, and when you separate the rhythmic system and the head, which are chiefly concerned here, from the lower part of the human being, by holding the left arm across the body with the hand turned upwards as if to support the right; elbow, then you have the complete movement for Knowledge. There are many opportunities for making use of this movement, for every word which indicates that one has perceived something, that one has absorbed something into one’s being, can certainly be regarded as coming into the sphere of knowledge. The mood of a poem can be greatly enhanced when at the end of a line this gesture is used to show that the content of the poem has been absorbed and understood. Many poems, – as for example Uhland’s Des Sängers Fluch:

‘Es stand in alten Zeiten Ein Schloss so hoch und hehr...’ gain very much if the eurhythmist makes this movement for Knowledge before actually beginning the text. How much has been added to the interest of a poem by introducing such a movement at the beginning, will become apparent as the poem proceeds. From any natural, simple position pass over into the gesture for Knowledge. By so doing, you develop the poem out of a mood which in itself at once gives the key-note to the poem, showing that its character is reflective and thoughtful.

There is another gesture of mood which rightly claims our attention, one which lays special stress on the mood otherwise shown by the gesture for i – that is to say, the mood of self-assertion. I is always the assertion of self. But when the self-assertion does not lie in the sound, when it goes beyond the round into the general mood and feeling of the poem, then it can be expressed in another way, by another gesture. In this gesture one must stand on the left leg, with the right knee bent. Both arms must be held in front of the body, but in such a way that they are bent somewhat backwards, especially the hands. Here we have the movement expressing exaggerated self-assertion (Starke Selbstbehauptung).

Frl. V... will you show the following sentence in eurhythmy, passing at the end into this gesture, the gesture expressing the wildest delusion: ‘Am I not the Emperor of China ...?’ Now for the movement! This is how life can be brought into what we have to express; and the essential, the all-important thing is that eurhythmy should be filled with life.

I wanted to-day to bring before you such expressive gestures as these, so that we shall be able in the following lectures to lead on without a break into a consideration of much that is of the greatest interest.

There is yet another gesture which consists, in the first place, of making oneself appear as broad as possible. Then one proceeds to make the movement for Insatiable Desire (Unersättlichkeit) (see diagram), a movement which indicates that one cannot get enough of something, – in other words the gesture for intense desire.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

Let us take, for instance, the following sentence, and when I have come to the end of it, pass over immediately, as you did before, into this gesture of craving for more. Let us now take this quite serious sentence, and follow it with the gesture: ‘Thou gavest me everything, everything that I asked of thee.’ But you must not turn your hands outwards, for that would express more the feeling of rejection. You want more; the movement showing the desire for more must be turned inwards, and you must make yourself as broad as possible, standing with both feet firmly on the earth.

One need not only apply this movement when one’s own feeling of longing is unappeased, but also when something occurs giving rise to the feeling of craving, of dissatisfaction, of the longing for more. Take the following sentence as I repeat it, and here also make the movement at the conclusion in such a way that no pause ensues but that you simply pass over into this movement at the end of the text: ‘Soll das ganze Haus ersaufen?’ (‘Is the whole house to be swamped?’) (Corresponding gesture). There is to be no end to it. Hence the feeling of a demand which can never be satisfied.²

Now we come to those things which lead us more into the inward part of man’s being. Here we have a movement which expresses inwardness of feeling, which is intended to express that mood of soul which manifests itself as inwardness of feeling. This may be shown by standing on the ball of the foot, the: heel slightly raised above the ground, but only very slightly, for if it is raised too high it does not give the feeling of inwardness. Thus with heels raised slightly above the ground, standing, on the ball of the foot, we should take up this position with both arms. The arms should be held in front of the body, the thumb touching the forefinger. This gesture expresses the feeling of Inwardness, of Tenderness (Innigkeit).

If you imagined to yourselves that you were holding a baby, and that you wanted to enter into a certain relationship with the guardian angel of this baby, you would hold it in this way, and you would then have the movement for Inwardness. Let us take a particularly solemn sentence and make this gesture at its close. Try to express in eurhythmy: ‘Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden....’ and now the gesture. This is purely lyrical. If now you wish to raise the whole thing out of the lyric mood and give a grander impression, you can pass over from the movement for Inwardness to that of the Exclamation. Thus: ‘Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden –’ now make the movement for Inwardness followed by that of the Exclamation. If these movements are carried out in the tempo which one feels to be suitable a very powerful impression will be created.

Something which in its feeling is closely related to the mood of Inwardness, but which at the same time is quite different is the feeling of Lovableness (Liebenwürdigkeit), the feeling of being charmed by somebody. This feeling is also expressed by raising the heels slightly from the ground; but the arms, while retaining to some extent the former position, are moved, the left arm being raised upwards, and the right arm drawn downwards. This then is the gesture for expressing the quality of Lovableness.

You must, however, feel that this really is the gesture which expresses lovableness. Very much depends upon holding the arms quite lightly, and in giving the feeling of really going out beyond oneself. I need only remind you how charming children can be when one coaxes them, and says: ‘Come and show me how big you are!’ – Children are never more delightful than at such a moment.

If we wished to show the following sentence in eurhythmy: I have to thank your smile for many a happy moment ’... then it would be very appropriate to finish with the movement for Lovableness.

At one time, when in Vienna, I knew a certain composer, who has since become very famous. He liked very much to be invited out, and one of his hostesses always exerted herself to provide him with the most delectable fare. She brought this to quite an art. This composer had a particularly fine appreciation for such things, and as a rule he said to this lady when taking his departure: ‘What a glorious symphony we have partaken, of to-day!’ – That was always the compliment he paid to his hostess. It was a stereotyped compliment enough, but – he was a great man! Let us take the sentence and at its end make use of the gesture expressing Charm, Lovableness. You will find that it goes absolutely by itself, and from this example you must see how it must be felt. But the composer who was responsible for this saying would hardly have been able to make the movement with the same ease as a eurhythmist, for it was no other than Brahms.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

Another gesture which brings us into relationship with the outer world, with other human beings, is the one which we can make use of when we wish to impart something, when we wish to make a Communication (Mitteilung). This gesture is carried out in the following way. You must stand quite naturally on the one foot, the heel of the other foot, which is further forward, resting lightly on the ground. The right arm must be lifted up, with the thumb, first finger and middle finger pointing forwards; the left arm must be held lower, and must also be stretched somewhat outwards, towards the front, the palm of the hand turned upwards. This movement indicates that something is given; not in this case an actual gift, but something is imparted by means of speech. There is, therefore, at the same time an indication of a gift, and here (in the left arm) the gesture of Communication: I communicate something. – This is the significance of the movement.

Let us take, for instance, the words: ‘Verily, verily I say unto you.’ Here we see very clearly the wish to impart something, to communicate something; and it is a wonderful opportunity for the use of this gesture of Communication.

Now we come to a movement, the character of which is shown when, at the appropriate moment, one stands firmly on the ground, the hands clenched, the arms stretched downwards and pressed against the body. The head should be held erect. In addition to this the eurhythmist should try to have the feeling that the eyes are not actually looking at anything, that they are not actually seeing anything, but that the gaze is rigid and fixed. Then the movement will be very expressive. It is one which can often be made use of during the text of a poem:

Blass lag der Kranke,
Sein Auge erlosch,
Scbluchzen umgab ihn.

(Pale was the sick man,
Dim was his eye,
Weeping friends surrounded him.)

The mood underlying such a sentence will be brought out particularly well if the eurhythmist succeeds in making use of this movement in the places which I will here indicate with dots.

Blass lag... der Kranke,
Sein Auge... erlosch
Schluchzen... umgab ihn.

You will easily see how individual eurhythmy can become when such movements are introduced, and how fine can be the nuances of its expression. This then is the movement for Sadness (Traurigkeit).

There is another movement which consists once more of standing firmly on both feet, with the arms held right back and the hands also right back. This is the movement for Despair (Verzweiflung); and you will very soon discover how strongly this feeling is expressed by the movement, particularly by the muscles of the inner arm. You will have the feeling: This is indeed the expression of despair.

Now we will try to do in eurhythmy the first lines of the monologue in Faust, and after the word ‘student’ we will make the movement for Despair:

Habe nun, ach! Philosophie,
Juristerei und Medicin
Und, 1eider ! auch Theologie
Durchaus studiert.
I’ve studied now Philosophy
And Jurisprudence, Medicine,–
And even alas! Theology,–
From end to end, with labour keen.

Here make the movement for Despair. You see, when a movement really expresses the corresponding mood of soul, it undeniably enhances the dramatic effect of what has preceded it. I should like to close to-day’s lecture by saying a few words which may help to throw light on these movements and the way in which they should be studied. Study all such movements, then, by making use of them, you will be able to bring to plastic eurhythmic expression many different shades of feeling. You will be able to enter more fully into the way in which a poem unfolds, and to study its dramatic, lyric or epic content you really feel your way into these movements, you will be able to bring a strong dramatic element into your eurhythmy.

• 1. The eurhythmy figures carved in wood were shown in this connection.
• 2. See Goethe’s poem Der Zauberlehrling.

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.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

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.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

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.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

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

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

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

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

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.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

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.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

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,

We must in speech eurhythmy, as we have already done in tone eurhythmy, differentiate between that which tends so carry the word, the tone, down into the physical world, and that which tends to raise it up into the spiritual world. We have until now paid very little attention to this difference. Yesterday, however, at the end of my lecture, I pointed out that when the vowel sound is changed into the diphthong the sense-world does not show itself in such sharply defined outlines, but appears more scattered, more diffused. And this at the same time brings us nearer to the spiritual. I pointed out that we easily see one brother (Bruder); when it is the case of one, we have a sharply defined sense-impression. Whereas several brothers (Brüder) make a collective impression. This gathering together of individuals brings us nearer to the world of imagination, of idea, and it is this ascent into the world of idea which is expressed in the diphthong.

These diphthong sounds do indeed show themselves to be essentially of a more spiritual nature than the actual vowel-sounds of which they are composed. For just as in tone-eurhythmy that which is essentially spiritual in the music does not lie in the actual tones, but between the tones, so also in speech-eurhythmy, that which rays upwards to the spiritual does not lie in the sharply emphasized sound, in the sound which is uttered strongly and upon which we rest, but it lies at that point where one sound passes over into the other—thus between the sounds. For this reason the movements of eurhythmy can never become really interesting as long as the eurhythmist merely concentrates upon the forming of the separate sounds. But eurhythmy can be made deeply interesting when one gradually learns to lead one sound over into the next. Thus we see that the truly spiritual element in eurhythmic movement is brought about by the way in which one sound arises out of the other.

To this something further must be added. Fundamentally speaking every word can be looked at from two aspects. On the one hand we have the aspect of external imitation, on the other hand the placing of that which is thus expressed into the general scheme of things. If to-day people were more disposed to study language from a spiritual point of view, realizing the way in which each language arises from out of its own genius, great stress would be laid upon the interesting fact that in the configuration of a word it is not merely the individual significance of a process or thing that is described but its relationship to a collective whole. All these things must be taken into account.

Thus we must realize that, in declaiming a poem, or merely endeavouring to give a word its true proportion in a sentence, the reciter must instinctively, by means of his artistic feeling, develop this attitude towards the sounds of speech: Such or such is the relationship of a word to its whole content. I shall speak about these things in detail later. Now, however, I am trying to show how, on the one hand, words have the descriptive element, and how, on the other hand, there is the possibility of going beyond the word itself and entering into the poem or sentence as a whole. We can see this best by taking definite examples. Let us first take a very characteristic type of word, the personal pronoun. Such words, in their very nature, place that to which they refer into some quite definite relationship, or—which is indeed much the same thing—they remove it right out of this relationship. We will take as an example the word ‘ich’ (I), and ask someone to express it in eurhythmy, standing still, (Frl. W, . . . will you do this ?) Now, in these movements for i and ch you have expressed the word ‘Ich.’

But to an unprejudiced observer there will be something lacking in these movements. In themselves they are quite correct, and certainly do express the word ‘Ich” in visible language; and yet there is something lacking. One has the feeling that here the ‘Ich’ is simply represented diagrammatically ; it is as if the only impression we had of a man were his portrait. Such a representation of the ‘Ich’ is not sufficiently living, for the spirit of man, which lies behind the manifestation of the ‘Ich’, is not fully expressed. What then is the spiritual essence of the word ‘Ich’? In this word there lies the pointing back to oneself, the concept of the self, but the concept of the self turned inwards towards the self. And if one wishes to express this backward turning into the self, it can he done excellently, not by standing still, but by moving. Let us suppose, therefore, that you take two steps forward end then two steps backwards, forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

Thus you will retrace your steps, going back over the same line and returning to your starting point. With the two forward steps do the i-sound, and with the two backward steps the ch. In this way movement enters into the expression of the word ‘Ich’, movement which finds its way back again into itself, just as the Ich’ conception contains the feeling of turning back into the self. If you carry out the movements in this way, taking two steps forwards with the i and two steps backwards with the ch, you will enter right into the form (see diagram), and this form is of such a nature that it grows directly out of the meaning inherent in this combination of sounds.

Let us pass over from the ‘Ich’ (I) to the ‘Du’ (Thou). Here we have quite another feeling. The whole relationship is different, indicating a connection with some other being. (Frl. S will you make the movements for ‘Du’, standing still as before d-u?) But in this simple expression of the ‘Du’ there is again a certain feeling of dissatisfaction, for here again we only have the picture of the ‘Du’, not the actual ‘Du’ itself. The movement is not living. The real spirit of the word is lacking. We must seek some means which will help us to find our way to this spirit.

In the case of the word ‘Ich’ it is quite clear that one turns back into oneself. With the word ‘Du’—when one really enters into the nature of the ‘Du’, thus coming into contact with somebody not oneself, the other,—then one goes out of oneself. Here one cannot go back on the same line and touch the starting point again, for this would lead one back into oneself. That is obviously impossible. On the other hand, one cannot go altogether out of oneself, for then one would not be expressing the word ‘Du’, but the word ‘Er’ or ‘Sie’ (He or She). You will easily feel this. Thus with ‘Du’ it is necessary to give some slight indication of one’s own being also. This can only be done when the line of the form turns back, touching itself at some definite point.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

This diagram shows the point at which you cross your previous line. When, therefore, instead of simply going forwards and backwards, you only touch the line of the form once on your way back, you have the complete movement for ‘Du’. The d should be made during the first part of the form, and the u on the way back; but the line must only cross itself at the one point. Now you have really brought the ‘Du’ into movement, and have done so in such a way that it has not become an ‘ Er’ or a ‘Sie’. You have retained a certain contact with yourself, even if this contact is but slight. It is, however, possible to strengthen the feeling of oneself. If we wish to do this, if we wish the going out from ourselves to become weaker and weaker, then, while making the u, the form can be carried out in this way:

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

This ‘Du’ would, however, in no way express a loving feeling. If you try the form for yourself you will notice that the effect is somewhat pinched, much less outgoing in character, Such things as these can, of course, only be realized through the feelings; they are, however, not difficult to feel.

I have already indicated the way in which the ‘Er’ can be shown. The impression of ‘Er’ is given by never allowing the second part of the form to touch the line taken by the first part of the form. Thus we find that the ‘Er’ form is the circle, where we have a line which is never touched again until the starting point is reached. The ‘Er’ must be expressed by a circular form, by a line which never turns back on to itself.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

Here we have another possibility.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

You do not come back to your starting point, and, were you to do so, the form would already be completed. Thus we have a line which never crosses itself at any point, and which expresses for us the word ‘Er’. (Frl. S . . . will you come and make the movements for ‘Er’ standing still? It is impossible to give the real feeling for ‘Er’ while standing still; one cannot even produce a pictorial impression. All that we have is the egotistical contemplation of the other person or thing. There is no going out of oneself. Now add this form to the movements ; simply make a circle, so that you come back to the point from which you started. Accompany one side of the form with the e and the other side with the r, and you will see how well the feeling of the ‘Er’ is expressed.

Some time ago I gave an exercise built up upon a special combination of sounds. It began with the word ‘Der’ (The), which is indeed similar in character to ‘Er’; and it was built up on the ‘Er’ feeling and carried out in such a way that the form never at any point came back and touched the previous line. (Frl. Sch, . . . will you show us this exercise, ‘Der Wolkendurchleuchter’; try and do it in such a way that you bring into it all that I have said.)

Der Wolkendurchleuchter,
Er durchleuchte,
Er durchsonne,
Er durchglühe,
Er durchwärme
Auch mich.

(He who illuminates the clouds,
May he illuminate,
May he irradiate,
May he inspire
And fill with warmth and light,
Even me.)

Formerly we did this in such a way that the character of ‘Er’, (He), upon which the entire poem is built, was shown in the exercise as a whole. There is, however, another way of doing the exercise. Every time the word ‘Er’, (He), occurs, make a circle; but also carry out the form of a circle in the course of the whole poem. Thus, whenever the word ‘Er’ appears make a circle, go a little further, make another circle, and so on. By this means the whole thing takes on a quite different character, quite another type of movement.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

In the old way of doing this exercise we felt that we must devote ourselves more to the mood of the poem as a whole.

In the new way we give ourselves up to the changing moods, to the illuminating, the irradiating, the inspiring with warmth and light.

Passing over from the ‘Ich’ (I) to the ‘Wir’ (We), that is to say from the singular to the plural,—for ‘We’ implies at least two people,—we are no longer dealing with a solo dance, but have come into the realm of the round dance. If there are two people taking part in the form, it can be done in the following way (see diagram). The working together, the losing of the self, is expressed by means of the circle. The ‘Ich’ is expressed by each individual taking a number of steps forward and at the same time saying aloud the word ‘Wir’ or ‘We’, and then going back over the same line,—forwards, backwards, forwards, backwards. In this way the two aspects of the word are shown quite clearly. Thus, if only two people are taking part, they stand opposite to one another, approach each other, draw back again, approach each other, draw back again, and in so doing express the inner feeling of the word ‘Wir’.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

If four people take part the circle becomes more complete, and by moving forwards and backwards over the same line the ‘Wir’ is very well expressed. The feeling of belonging together can be strengthened by taking hands, but this will hardly be possible with two people only. Here we have a very beautiful expression of ‘Wir’. Let four eurhythmists stand in a circle, saying the word ‘Wir’ or ‘We’ aloud, in the way I have already explained. Begin by joining hands; now take two steps forward with the w, passing over into the i when you have reached the centre; complete the backward journey with r, and again join hands. Care must be taken not to make the i too soon. In this way we really express the word ‘Wir’. Quite beautiful shades of feeling can be brought into such an exercise. One must, however, always experience the difference between ‘Ich’, ‘Wir’, and so on.

There is still another exercise which can be very beautiful. If four eurhythmists stand as indicated in the diagram, not taking hands this time, but making the movements backwards, what will this express?—‘Ihr’ (You). We have ‘Du’ (Thou) carried over into the plural. There can be no doubt about it; it is quite apparent. In this exercise we show the turning away from ourselves, the feeling of ‘Ihr’.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

The word ‘Ihr’ must also be spoken aloud. And from the very beginning the arms must tend in a backward direction. In this way much that is of significance can be brought into the exercise. These things should also be taken into account when studying the structure of a poem, for they are exceedingly characteristic. All that can be felt and experienced in, the single words, particularly in such characteristic words as the personal pronouns, must be sought for and experienced in the structure of language as a whole. Very much more could be said on this subject, but for the moment we will pass on to another exercise.

Let us ask three eurhythmists to place themselves in a triangle, and then carry out this form:

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

If you wish to give characteristic expression to the word ‘Sie’, you will do so most easily when you all three move the forms in the same direction, all towards the same side. (You must all start from the same point and reach the same point at the end of the form.) Thus Sie, Sie, Sie. Here we have the direct expression for the word ‘Sie’.

Now the question naturally arises : How can I apply these things?—for in the ordinary way it will certainly not be possible to carry out such a form in the case of each separate word. Although of this you may be quite certain something very beautiful would grow out of the dexterity and skill which would be achieved by the diligent practice of all I have indicated for such single words as ‘Du’, ‘Er’, ‘Wir’, ‘Ibr’, ‘Sie’. It would lead to something very beautiful.

In the case of certain poems we have quite definitely the Ich’ (I) character. In other poems, especially in love poems, we have the ‘Du’ (Thou) character. And in the case of quite a number of poems,—here I am reminded particularly of nearly all the poems of Martin Grief,—we have a most pronounced ‘Er’ (He) character. One can enter right into the whole mood of a poem when one is able to perceive in a poem itself the ‘I’, ‘Thou’ or ‘He’ character, and then express the poem by means of a form which has been drawn from out of the very nature of the ‘I’, ‘Thou’, ‘He’, ‘We’, ‘You’ or They’. A specially beautiful effect may be attained when the objective mood, the mood of ‘He’, the mood of going out of oneself, is carried over into what is more subjective in its feeling. Let us take as an example that poem from which we have learned so much already, for from whichever point of view we look at it, it seems as if specially written for the study of eurhythmy. I refer to Goethe’s famous poem so well known to us all;

Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh;
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde,
Warte nur, baide
Ruhest du auch.
(O’er all the hill tops
Is quiet now;
In all the tree tops
Hearest thou
Hardly a breath;
The birds are asleep in the trees
Wait, soon like these
Thou too shalt rest.)

Let us analyse this poem quite objectively:

Über allen Gipfeln
Ist Ruh,

We will give this the ‘He’ character,

In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch.

Here we pass on to the ‘Thou’

Die Vögelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Now we must ask: Should this be in the ‘I’ or the ‘Thou’ character? For Goethe is here speaking to himself. You could try it both ways. Let us first try it in this way

If we do so we shall see how the form arises out of the whole mood of the poem. Personal pronouns, such as ‘Ich’, ‘Du’ and so on, are, when uttered, in reality nothing else than a crystallization, a condensation of a mood or feeling otherwise spread over a whole passage. In this particular poem the first lines are permeated by the ‘He’ mood, the next lines by the ‘Thou’, then comes the ‘He’ once more, then again the Thou’, or, as we shall presently see, the ‘I’, which is the mood of the last lines,

Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Now let us do the whole poem in this second way: He, Thou, He, I

Uber alien Gipfeln
Ist Ruh;
In allen Wipfeln
Spürest du
Kaum einen Hauch;
Die Vogelein schweigen im Walde.
Warte nur, balde
Ruhest du auch.

Now, by giving the form the ‘I’ character, you have seen how entirely different it becomes. If we try both forms one after the other, we shall certainly decide that the second is the better. This will undoubtedly prove to be the right way. From such a poem you can gain the most wonderful perception of how the form develops right out of the poem itself. You must learn to feel the relationship existing between a certain combination of sounds and the meaning of the word thus formed—a personal pronoun, for example.

Consider for a moment how beautifully some such short poem as the following can be worked out if we study its meaning and make use of all that we now know:

Schlummer und Schlaf, zwei Brüder, zum Dienste der Götter berufen,
Bat sich Prometheus herab, seinem Geschlechte zum Trost.
Aber den Göttern so leicht, doch schwer zu ertragen den Menschen,
Ward nun ihr Schiummer uns Schlaf, ward nun ihr Schiaf uns zum Tod.

Here the words ‘Uns’ (Us) occurs twice; we will, of course, treat it in the same way as ‘Wir’ (We), and make use of the ‘Wir’ form. If we now look more closely into the poem we shall be able to analyse it as follows

Schlummer und Schiaf, zwei Brüder zum Dienste der Götter berufen,
Obviously an ‘Er’ form.
Bat sich Prometheus herab, seinem Geschlechte zum Trost.

Now in the word ‘Bitten’ (to ask) there is necessarily a turning towards some other person, there is an indication of the ‘Du’ ; we feel the underlying character of ‘Du’.

Aber den Göttern so leicht, doch schwer zu ertragen den Menschen.

With these words we pass over to something which leads us into the depths of our own being. Such knowledge can only be attained by entering into the very nature of the thing in question. Here, therefore, an opportunity presents itself of making use of the position I have already shown you, the position for Knowledge,

Ward nun ihr Schiummer uns Schlaf,

The light sleep of the Gods becomes deep sleep for man, and the deep sleep of the Gods becomes death for man,

Ward nun ihr Schlaf uns um Tod.

Here we come into the region of destiny, common to all men by reason of their humanity; we have the ‘Wir’. We shall be able to make a form which really brings life into the poem if we make use, in the first place, of those forms which we have gained from a study of the personal pronouns, add in the second place,—where the whole thing is brought into the realm of the spiritual,—of the movement, the position for Knowledge. We shall get good results if we regard these forms as really fundamental forms, and make use of them quite freely, but with due regard to the sense and correctness of the way in which they are applied.

Frl. S. . . . will you do the first line to an ‘Er’ form, fitting in the whole line to the one form. With the second line make a ‘Du’ form. With the third, or rather in the pause between the second and third lines, and again at the end of the third line, take up the position for Knowledge, finally using the ‘Wir’ form for the last line. You will, however, not be able to make the ‘Wir’ form alone; two other eurhythmists must therefore make their appearance on the stage, one coming from the left wing, the other from the right. By this means the last line will be coloured with the feeling of ‘Wir’, (We) This example shows you how such forms may be worked out. They are developed from out of the poems themselves.

From all that has been said, and from these simple examples, I hope you are beginning to understand the spirit in which the study of eurhythmy has to be undertaken. With eurhythmy one has really to study the poem; it is not enough merely to learn the sounds, but one must enter right into its whole content, into all the nuances of feeling and fine shades of mood contained within it. And no one should attempt to express a poem in eurhythmy who has not first put to himself the question: What is the fundamental character of this poem ?—upon what artistic foundation is it based?

Let us take another example by Goethe

Seid, O Geister des Hains, o seid, ihr Nymphen des Flusses,
Eurer Entfernten gedenk, eueren Nahen zur Lust!
Weihend feierten sie im Stillen die ländlichen Feste;
Wir, dem gebahnten Pfad folgend, beschleichen das Glück.
Amor wohne mit uns; es macht der himmlische Knabe
Gegenwärtige lieb und die Entfarnten euch nah.

Now as a preliminary study we must begin carefully to examine the poem. These things, which I am necessarily treating in a somewhat sketchy way at the moment, must be gone into thoroughly and in detail when one is working out a poem with a view to doing it in eurhythmy.

So we have:

Said, O Geister des Hains, o seid, ihr Nymphen des Flusses.

What is this but the ‘Du’ mood, a form of address. If you are working out the poem with several eurhythmists, as we mean to do now, you will, of course, begin with the ‘Ihr’ form.

Eurer Entfernten gedenk, eueren Nahen zur Lust! Once more ‘Ihr’.
Weihend feierten sie im Stillen die ländlichen Feste; ‘Sie’.
Wir, dem gebahnten Pfad folgend, beschleichen das Glück, ‘Wir’.
Amor wohne mit uns, es macht der himmlische Knabe. Er’,
Gegenwärtige lieb und die Entfernten euch nah. ‘Ihr’,

In the second line we repeat the ‘Ihr’ form, in order to express ‘Euch’ (your). The example consists of six lines.

I will now ask three eurhythmists to group themselves together and express the whole poem in the way I have indicated. Before beginning you must be quite clear about what it is you have to do. You must make the form according to the rules given. In this case, therefore, ‘Ihr’, ‘Ihr’, ‘Sie’, ‘Wit’, ‘Er’, ‘Ihr’,—each form to spread out over a whole line.

There are, of course, other ways of doing it. Two of the eurhythmists can remain standing, and the third do the ‘Er’ form alone; then we should have:

Amor wohne mit uns; es macht der himmlische Knabe—
done as a solo line, after which all three would join together in the ‘Ihr’ form.
Gegenwärtige lieb und die Entfernten euch nah.

In this way we learn to realize the possibility of studying a poem by means of the eurhythmic forms.

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.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

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.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

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.