The Rudolf Steiner Archive

It is through declamation and recitation that the art of poetry is accorded its true value. So I shall allow myself – not, however, out of allegiance to any abstract principle or any wish to claim that a world-view which springs from the needs of our time must cast its reforming light in some way or other over everything – I shall allow myself on quite other grounds to say a little about recitation and declamation from the vantage-point of the life- and world-conception represented at this Congress. We shall only recapture an inner, a genuine soul-understanding of poetry when we are in a position to find our way to the real homeland of poetic art. And this real homeland of poetic art is in fact the spiritual world – though it is not that intellectual, that conceptual or ideational factor in the spiritual world particularly cultivated in our own time. For this more than anything else has a paralysing effect on poetry.

We shall see most clearly what is meant by this when we are reminded that one of the most significant products of this art resounds to us out of the revolutions of time along with a particular avowal on the part of its creator, or perhaps creators. The Homeric epics invariably begin with the words “Sing, O Muse...” Nowadays we are only too inclined to treat such a phrase as more or less a cliché. But when it was first coined it was no cliché – it was an inner experience of the soul: whoever it was that conceived the poem out of the spirit, whence this phrase was also drawn, knew how he was immersed through his poetic faculty in a region of human existence and experience different to that in which we stand in immediate

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I hope you will permit me to insert into today’s proceedings at this Pedagogical and Artistic Congress an example taken from the art of recitation and declamation, and to make some observations of an interpolated nature.

Art is always a particularly difficult theme on which to speak, in that art is conveyed through immediate sensation – through immediate perception. It must be received as a direct impression. We are thus in a quite special position in speaking about art at a Congress where our aim is a clarification that is reached both through knowledge and through a whole style of education and teaching-practice. Certainly all the lectures that have been held here have stressed the necessity, in the case of Waldorf education, of introducing an artistic quality into the art of education and teaching in general. But when confronting art itself, one would prefer, as I hinted in a former lecture, to preserve a chaste silence. Now every argument, every show of feeling, every human volition ultimately passes over to form the ongoing stream of human civilisation. They are contained in the three greatest impulses behind all human evolution and all historical events: the ideals of religion, art and knowledge. And in our day an attempt is quite justifiably made to make art the bearer of our ideal of knowledge, so that some possibility may once more be found of our rising upward with our understanding from the realm of substance, of matter, into the spiritual. I have tried to show how art is the way to gain a true knowledge of man, in that artistic creativity and sensitivity are the organs for a genuine knowledge of man. Nature herself becomes a true artist the moment she ascends from the multiplicity of facts and beings of the universe to bring about man. This is not said merely as a metaphor, but as a deeper knowledge of the universe and of man. And again, confronted with art, it may be said that it is an intrusion when we want to speak artistically about art. To speak about art is to lead what is spoken back to a sort of religious perception. Thereby religion is grasped in its widest sense, in which it does not only embrace what we today rightly regard as explicitly religious – the quality of reverence in man – but also includes humour, as understood in the highest sense. [Note 29] A sort of religious feeling must always prepare the mood for art. For when we speak about art we must speak out of the spirit. How can we find words for works of art of the sublimest kind, such as Dante's Commedia, if our language does not embody moments of religious insight?

This was indeed felt, and rightly felt, when art came into being. Art originated at a time when science still formed a unity, a common whole along with religion and art. At the beginning of certain great works of art we hear words which, I would say, seem like a confirmation of these comments from world-history. It is truly out of a cosmic awareness that Homer begins his poem with the words:

Sing, O Muse, of the anger of Peleus’ son Achilles.

Homer himself does not sing: Homer is conscious that he must raise his soul to the superhuman, the super-sensible; that he must place his words as a sacrificial gift before the higher powers he serves, if he is to become a truly artistic poet. (Of course, the question of Homer’s identity has nothing to do with this.) And if we survey a longer period, and come to one of the modern poets, we hear how Klopstock begins his Messiah with words that are indeed different, but formally sound quite similar:

Sing, immortal soul, of sinful man’s redemption,

Which the Messiah on earth in human form accomplished.

When we begin from the one poem and progress to the other, we pass through the period in which man traversed the great, immeasurable distance from complete surrender to the divine spiritual powers, whose earthly sheath he felt himself to be, to the point where man in his freedom started to feel himself a sheath only of his own soul. But there too, at the beginning of the great epoch of German poetry, Klopstock appealed to the invisible – as Goethe constantly did, even if he did not overtly say so. Thus among poets themselves we can observe the consciousness of a sort of translation into the super-sensible.

The super-sensible, however, does not speak in words. Words are in every instance prose. Words are in every instance components of a discourse, components of a psychic act which submits to the conditions of logic. Logic exists in order that we may become aware of external beings and occurrences in their external sense-reality; logic must not, therefore, intrude upon spiritual reality. The moment we arrive by means of logic at a prose sentence we must feel the solid earth under our feet. For the spiritual does not speak in human words. The spiritual world goes only as far as the syllable, not as far as the word. Thus we can say that the poet is in a curious position. The poet has to make use of words, since these are after all the instruments of human speech: but in making use of words he necessarily deserts his proper artistic domain. He can only achieve his aim if he leads the word back to syllable-formation. In the quantities, metres and weight of syllable-formation – this is the region where the word has not yet become word, but still submits to the musical, imaginative and plastic, to a speech-transcendent spirituality – there the poet holds sway. And when the poet has to make use of words, he feels inwardly how he has to lead word-formations back to the region that he left under the necessity of passing from syllable to word. He feels that through rhyme, through the entire configuration of the verse, he must again make good what is lost when the word abandons the concrete quantities and weight that belong to the syllable, and round it out artistically, imparting form and harmony.

Here we are vouchsafed a glimpse into the intimacies of the poet’s soul. This disposition is truly felt by a real poet. Platen is not alone in having left us some remarkable comments on what I have just attempted to describe:

Only to rambling dilettantes

Are formal strictures ‘senseless’. Necessity:

That is thy sacrificial gift, O Genius.

Platen invokes Genius, observing that it is inherent in Genius to fashion the syllables in accordance with quantity, metre and weight. Rambling off into prose is merely the foolishness of the half-talented. (Although, as I have mentioned, these make up ninety-nine per cent of our versifiers.) And not only Platen, but Schiller, too, puts it rather beautifully when he says:

It is the peculiar property of an untainted and purely quantitative verse that it serves as the sensible presentation of an inner necessity of thought; and conversely, any licence in the treatment of syllable quantities makes itself felt in a certain arbitrariness. From this perspective it is of particular importance, and touches upon the most intimate laws of art.

It is to the necessity inherent in syllable-quantities that Schiller refers in this pronouncement.

The declaimer or reciter, as the interpreter of the poet’s art, must give special attention to what I have just described. He has to conduct what comes before him as a poetical composition, which obviously communicates through words, back to quantity, metre and the weight of the syllables. What then flows out into the words has to be consciously rounded out so as to accord with the verse-structure and rhyme. In our own age, with its lack of artistic feeling, there has arisen a curious kind of declamatory-recitative art – a prosaic emphasis on the prose-sense, something quite unartistic. The real poet always goes back from the prosaic or literal to the musical or plastic. Before he committed the words of a poem to paper, Schiller always experienced a wordless, indeterminate melody, a soul-experience of melody. As yet without words, it flowed along melodically like a musical theme, onto which he then threaded the words. One might conjecture that Schiller could have conjured the most varied poems, as regards verbal content, out of the same musical theme. And to rehearse his iambic verse-dramas, Goethe stood in front of his actors with a baton, like a conductor, considering the formation of sound, the balance of the syllables, the musical rhythm and time-signature to be the essential, rather than the literal meaning. For this reason it has become necessary for our own spiritual stream to return to a true art of recitation and declamation, where what has been debased through the means of expression imposed upon the poet to the level of mere prose can once again be raised, so as to regain the level of a super-sensible formative and musical experience.

This work was taken in hand by Frau Dr. Steiner, who over the last decades has tried to develop an art of recitation and declamation in which something that transcends prose to become inwardly eurythmic, the imaginative and musical configuration of syllable-quantities, the imaginative quality of the sound, whether plastic or musical – in which all this is once more made apparent. This comes out differently in lyric, epic and drama – I shall deal with that presently. But we would first like to show how what is indicated here can in general be derived from poetry that is truly artistic.

As a first example you will hear “Ostern”, by Anastasius Grün, a poem particularly suited to such a passing-beyond-the-content and approach to the aesthetic form. It is a somewhat old-fashioned poem that is (in a rather narrow sense) topical, in being a poem dedicated to Easter. On the other hand it is not topical, in the sense that it dates back to the first half of the nineteenth century, an age when the poet still felt bound to acknowledge the necessity of plastic and rhythmical formative power. Let us accept the poem as it is – though it will nowadays be found tedious by those who attend to the prose content alone, as being rather antiquated in its imagery. Even allowing for its tediousness as prose, however, a genuine poet has here attempted to comply with the inner aesthetic necessity of the poem.

We shall then continue with a modern poet, with “An Eine Rose”, a sonnet by Albert Steffen. It is precisely in the sonnet that, with good will, we can discern how the verbal presentation is compensated by the strictly bounded form – this atones for the sin committed with regard to the words, and the whole is then rounded out and rendered euphonious. In the case of a poet like Albert Steffen, whose explorations extend into the hidden depths of his view of the world, it is interesting to observe how he simultaneously feels the necessity of transmuting what comes to light as a way of knowledge into the strictest aesthetic forms.

In the “Terzinen” of Christian Morgenstern we shall see how a peculiar poetic form – free terzetti – subsists on the basis of a feeling for continuity, for openness of form, in contrast to the sonnet which is based on a rounding-off of feeling. We shall see how the terzetti, albeit towards the end of the poem, have a quality of openness, while yet constituting a bounded whole from what flows into the words.

And then perhaps I may adduce three poems of my own: “Frühling”, “Herbst”, and “Weltenseelengeister”, in which I have tried to bring into strict forms the most inward experiences of the human soul – not the forms of conventional prosody or metrics, but forms which stem from the actual emotion, while at the same time they try to contain the amorphous, fluctuating, glittering life within the soul in internally strict forms.

Frau Dr. Steiner will now demonstrate these six, more lyrical poems. (“Ostern” is, of course, a long poem of which we will present only Part V.)

OSTERN

Und Ostern wird es einst, der Herr sieht nieder

Vom Ölberg in das Tal, das klingt und blüht;

Rings Glanz und Fühl’ und Wonn’ und Wonne wieder,

So weit sein Aug’ – ein Gottesauge – sieht!

Ein Ostern, wie’s der Dichtergeist sieht blühen,

Dem’s schon zu schaun, zu pflücken jetzt erlaubt

Die Blütenkränze, die als Kron’ einst glühen

Um der noch ungebornen Tage Haupt!

Ein Ostern, wie’s das Dichteraug’ sieht tagen,

Das überm Nebel, der das Jetzt umzieht,

Die morgenroten Gletscherhäupter ragen

Der werdenden Jahrtausende schon sieht!

Ein Ostern, Auferstehungsfest, das wieder

Des Frühlings Hauch auf Blumengräber sät;

Ein Ostern der Verjüngung, das hernieder

Ins Menschenherz der Gottheit Atem weht!

Sieh, welche Wandlung blüht auf Zions Bahnen!

Längst hält ja Lenz sein Siegeslager hier;

Auf Bergen wehn der Palmen grüne Fahnen,

Im Tale prangt sein Zelt in Blütenzier!

Längst wogt ja über all’ den alten Trümmern

Ein weites Saatenmeer in goldner Flut,

Wie fern im Nord, wo weisse Wellen schimmern,

Versunken tief im Meer Vineta ruht.

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Before we essay the second part of our programme, I shall permit myself to point briefly to the genesis of poetry – in man’s inner nature. For what ought to lie at the foundation of a knowledge of man is the following perception: in the first instance, the world, the universe, the cosmos is artistically active in man; but man then brings forth from himself again what the aesthetic activity of the cosmos has inlaid in him, as art.

Two elements must collaborate in a man, working through the powers of his spirit and soul, in order for poetry (in the general way of things) to be engendered and given form. It is not thought – even in the most intellectual poetry it is not thought as such – that is shaped by the artist. It is the collaboration, the wonderful interaction between breathing and blood-circulation. In breathing, the human being is entirely conjoined with the cosmos. The air which I have just breathed in was formerly an ingredient in the cosmos, and it will afterwards become an ingredient in the cosmos once more. In breathing I absorb into myself the substantiality of the cosmos, and then release to the cosmos once more what was briefly within me. Anyone who experiences this – anyone with a real feeling for this breathing-process – will find in it one of the most marvellous mysteries of the whole formation of the world. And this interchange between man and the world finds its inner formation in something closely bound up with the breathing-rhythm: the rhythm of blood-circulation. In a mature man the ratio expressed in the relation between respiration and pulse beat is an average one to four: eighteen breaths (or thereabouts) and seventy-two pulse-beats per minute. Between the two is generated that inner harmony which constitutes man’s entire inner life of plastic and musical creativity.

The following remarks are not advanced as exact knowledge, but by way of a picture. We see engendered before us a spirit of light who, on the waves of the air, plays into man through his breathing. The breath takes hold of the blood-circulation, as of the occult workings of the human organism. We see Apollo, the god of light, carried on the billows of air in the breathing-process, and in his lyre the actual functioning of the blood-circulation. Every poetic act, every forming act of poetry ultimately rests on this ratio between breathing, as inwardly experienced, and the inner experience of the circulation of the blood. Subconsciously our breath counts the pulse-beats; and subconsciously the pulse-beats count the breaths dividing and combining, combining and dividing to mark out the metre and the syllable-quantities. It is not that the manifestations of poetry in speech adapt themselves so as to conform either to respiration or to the circulation of the blood: but rather the ratio between the two. The configuration of syllables may be quite irregular, but in poetry they stand in a certain ratio to one another, essentially similar to that between breathing and circulation.

We can see this in the case where poetry first comes before us, in what is perhaps the most congenial and readily comprehensible form – the hexameter. Here we can see how the first three verse-feet and the caesura stand in a mutual ratio of four to one. The hexameter repeats this ratio of blood‑circulation to breathing a second time. Man receives the spiritual into his own inner processes and inner activities when he creates poetry out of what he is at every moment of his earthly life: a product of breathing and blood-circulation. He articulates this artistically through the syllables in quantity and metre. And we approach intensification and relaxation, tension and release, in a properly artistic way when we allow fewer or more syllables to the unit of breath. And these will then balance each other out in accordance with their inherent natural proportions. In other words, we must adjust the timing of the verse in the right way.

If we let the verse proceed according to the proportion ordained by the cosmos itself, which subsists between breathing and blood-circulation, we arrive at epic. If we ascend towards an assertion of our own inner nature; i.e., let the breathing recede, refrain from activating the life of the breath, do not allow it to count up the pulse-beats on the ‘lyre’ of the blood-circulation – when we recede with our breathing into ourselves and make the pulsation of the blood the essential thing, reckoning up the notches (so to speak) scored onto the blood-stream, we arrive at an alternative form of metrical verse. If we are concerned with the breathing, which calculates, as it were, the blood-circulation, we have recitation: recitation flows in conformity with the breathing-process. If the pulsation of the blood is our criterion, so that the blood engraves its strength, weakness, passion, emotion, tension and relaxation onto the flux of the breath – then declamation arises: declamation pays more attention to the force or lightness, strength or weakness of emphasis given to the syllables, with a high or low intonation. Recitation, in accordance with the quietly flowing breath-stream, reckons only the blood-circulation, and this is communication in poetry – whereas declamation is poetry as description. And in fact everyone who practises speech-formation must ask himself when confronted with a poem: Have I to recite here or declaim? They are two fundamentally different nuances of this art-form. We realise this when we see how the poet himself differentiates in a wonderful way between declamation and recitation.

Compare in this respect the Iphigeneia Goethe composed in Weimar, before he became acquainted in Italy with the Greek style. Observe the Iphigeneia he wrote at that time: it is entirely declamatory. Then he comes to Italy and grows absorbed in his own way in what he terms Greek art (it was not really still Greek art, but he does feel in it an after-effect of Greek art): he rewrites his Iphigeneia in the recitative mode. And while declamation, as stemming from the blood, passes over into recitation, which stems from the breathing, here that inwardly more Nordic, that Germanic disposition of feeling comes to adopt an outward artistic form that works through quantities and metre in this play which Hermann Grimm has aptly christened the “Roman Iphigeneia”. For someone with artistic sensibility there is the greatest conceivable difference between Goethe's German and his Roman Iphigeneia. We do not wish today to manifest a special sympathy or antipathy for one version or the other, but to indicate the tremendous difference, which should be apparent upon hearing a passage from the Iphigeneia either in recitation or declamation. Examples from both versions are now to be presented.

As for the hexameter, we shall encounter this in Schiller’s “Der Tanz”. A correct, regular metre – not necessarily the hexameter – we will come upon this in some poems by Mörike, a lyricist who inclines toward the ballad-form.

If we survey the aesthetic evolution of mankind, we may experience decisively how in ancient Greece everything became recitative and man lived altogether more in his natural surroundings. The life of recitation lies in the breathing-process, in quantitative metres. The declamatory emerges out of the northern sense of inwardness, the depths of feeling we find in the soul and spiritual life of Central Europe. It relies more upon weight and metre. And if, in his process of creation, the Divinity holds sway over the world through quantity, weight and proportion, then the poet is seeking through his declamatory and recitative art to hearken to the regency of the Divine – to do so in a poetic intimacy, through observing the laws of quantity and metre in recitation, and through an intimate feeling for metre and weight in the high and low tones of declamation.

In this context we will now present Schiller’s “Tanz” to exemplify the hexameter; then Mörike’s “Schön – Rohtraut” and “Geister am Mummelsee”, which are in a ballad-style; and lastly a short passage from Goethe’s German and Roman Iphigeneia. [Note 30]

DER TANZ

Siehe, wie schwebenden Schritts im Wellenschwung sich die Paare

Drehen! Den Boden berührt kaum der geflügelte Fuss.

Seh ich flüchtige Schatten, befreit von der Schwere des Leibes?

Schlingen im Mondlicht dort Elfen den luftigen Reihn?

Wie, vom Zephyr gewiegt, der leichte Rauch in die Luft fliesst,

Wie sich leise der Kahn schaukelt auf silberner Flut,

Hüpft der gelehrige Fuss auf des Takts melodischer Woge,

Säuselndes Saitengetön hebt den ätherischen Leib.

Jetzt als wollt es mit Macht durchreissen die Kette des Tanzes,

Schwingt sich ein mutiges Paar dort in den dichtesten Reihn.

Schnell vor ihm her entsteht ihm die Bahn, die hinter ihm schwindet,

Wie durch magische Hand öffnet und schliesst sich der Weg.

Sieh! jetzt schwand es dem Blick; in wildem Gewirr durcheinander

Stürzt der zierliche Bau dieser beweglichen Welt.

Nein, dort schwebt es frohlockend herauf; der Knoten entwirrt sich;

Nur mit verändertem Reiz stellet die Regel sich her.

Ewig zerstört, es erzeugt sich ewig die drehende Schöpfung,

Und ein stilles Gesetz lenkt der Verwandlungen Spiel.

Sprich, wie geschiehts, dass rastlos erneut die Bildungen schwanken,

Und die Ruhe besteht in der bewegten Gestalt?

Jeder ein Herrscher, frei, nur dem eigenen Herzen gehorchet

Und im eilenden Lauf findet die einzige Bahn?

Willst du es wissen? Es ist des Wohllauts mächtige Gottheit,

Die zum geselligen Tanz ordnet den tobenden Sprung,

Die, der Nemesis gleich, an des Rhythmus goldenem Zügel

Lenkt die brausende Lust und die verwilderte zähmt.

Und dir rauschen umsonst die Harmonien des Weltalls?

Dich ergreift nicht der Strom dieses erhabnen Gesangs?

Nicht der begeisternde Takt, den alle Wesen dir schlagen?

Nicht der wirbelnde Tanz, der durch den ewigen Raum

Leuchtende Sonnen schwingt in Kühn gewundenen Bahnen?

Das du im Spiele doch ehrst, fliehst du im Handeln, das Mass.

Friedrich Schiller.

[Though by different means, Sir John Davies also managed to devise a highly-polished, regular metre to reproduce in English the classical _.stateliness of a courtly dance. The following section treats of “The Antiquitte of Dancing,” and is taken from his “Orchestra, or A Poeme of Dauncing”:

Dauncing (bright Lady) then began to be,

When the first seedes whereof the world did spring,

The Fire, Ayre, Earth and Water did agree,

By Loves perswasion, Natures mighty King,

To leave their first disorder’d combating;

And in a daunce such measure to observe,

As all the world their motion should preserve.

Since when they still are carried in a round,

And changing come one in anothers place,

Yet doe they neyther mingle nor confound,

But every one doth keepe the bounded space

Wherein the daunce doth bid it turne or trace:

This wondrous myracle did Love devise,

For Dauncing is Loves proper exercise.

Like this, he fram’d the Gods eternall bower,

And of a shapelesse and confused masse

By his through-piercing and digesting power

The turning vault of heaven formed was:

Whose starrie wheeles he hath so made to passe,

As that their movings doe a musick frame,

And they themselves, still daunce unto the same.

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Permit me to turn now to a consideration of something that might be couched in more learned terms – though then I should need more time. I should like to make a point about the art of poetry by means of an illustration. It must, however, be more than an illustration: it should point to the reality. Everyone whose sense for true knowledge can extend to the artistic will grasp what I mean.

We refer to the Fall of Man. We speak of how man broke away from those regions he inhabited while still under the direct influence of the Godhead, where the Godhead still held sway in his will. It is true that we speak of the Fall of Man as a necessary preparatory stage of freedom: but we also speak of the Fall in such a way that, to the extent that he became man forsaken by God, man lost that divinely inwoven strength in the interweaving of his words. We refer to the Fall of Man because we feel that there is something in our present thoughts that was not there for the humanity of primordial times. At that period there was still to be found in the weaving and undulating of human thoughts the presence of a divine-spiritual potency. In thinking, man still felt that God was thinking in him. With the attainment of human independence, especially in its preparatory stages, came about what we call the Fall of Man. But humanity was forever longing to return to its primal innocent state. Particularly when man felt himself raised into the super-sensible, in a sacred, but also in an artistic experience of exaltation, he felt that this was simultaneously a reversion to the primal innocent state. And when Homer says:

Sing, O Muse, of the anger of Peleus’ son Achilles

this is an invocation of the time when man lived at a cosmic level, and had immediate access to the world of the gods, being himself a psychic-spiritual entity. All this corresponded, indeed, to the reality. And in art man saw a vivid reminiscence of that primaeval period of innocence. This takes us right into the details of art – and especially poetry, which is interwoven so intimately with human experience.

Let us now survey a later time. Let us look, for example, at the time of our own poets. Their inclinations are toward rhyme: Why? It is because man, if he were to weave and live artistically and poetically with the divine-spiritual in the original state of innocence, would have to adhere to the syllable, and its quantity, metre and weight. But he cannot do this. Man has passed from the uttering of syllables in his primal state, to the fallen condition and the speaking of words, where he is drawn to the outer physical world of the senses. To create poetry means to long for a return to primitive innocence. We have still to “chant and sing” in the time of the Fall, but we have, so to speak, to do penance. We must go through with the transition to the word and the prosaic; but we have to do penance, and this we do in terminal rhyme and organization in stanzas. If we go back to ancient times, however, when mankind lived in closer proximity to the primaeval innocent state, things were quite different – at least as regards many peoples, particularly the Germanic peoples. They did not at first return to the primaeval state of innocence with a chanting of end-rhymes and strophic organization, in penance for the prosaic word. They drew to a halt before the word and, before the word came into being, they diverted their sensitivities in the direction of the syllable; they did not return to the primaeval state of innocence through an atonement, through an expiation, as it were, but retained a vivid memory of it in their alliterations.

Alliterative poetry expresses man’s yearning to stop at the syllable and not proceed to the word, to hold on to the syllable and, in uttering it, to achieve the inner harmonies of a poetic mode of speech. We might say that alliteration and terminal rhyme are comparable in the sphere of sensibility to the recollection of the state of innocence that we have in alliteration; and that they represent an atonement or expiation for the Fall into the word, through terminal rhyme and stanzaic organization.

It is indeed the case that art and poetry take to themselves all-embracingly whatever is universally human. This is why it is so congenial to return to the age of Nordic poetry. Here we see the poetic urge of a people wishing to attest man’s recognition of his divine-spiritual origin through not proceeding from syllable to word, but holding on to the syllable in alliteration.

In the nineteenth century Wilhelm Jordan tried, as you know, to revive alliteration, when our language had advanced far beyond all possibility of reverting to the earlier state of innocence. From a certain point of view it is indeed a praiseworthy undertaking, provided one is always conscious of the fact that it was an attempt to raise a sacred treasure at a time when man had been long alienated from the gods. This attempt by Wilhelm Jordan is still informed by a good – indeed by the best of aesthetic intentions: an understanding of how to conduct art to the universally human. I was myself still able to hear how Jordan wanted his alliteration spoken; in particular, I have heard it done by his brother. All the same, I think it best to speak the alliteration only in so far as it is still appropriate to our more advanced language. This was attempted, too, in the field of recitative art as cultivated over the last decades by Frau Dr. Steiner. She will therefore endeavour to give you an example from the poems of Wilhelm Jordan, showing how alliteration holds its place in the whole field of poetic creation, and how we must try (in terms of either declamation or recitation) to interpret the alliterative poet. Though it may seem a trifle impertinent to say so, we shall not find what is wanted along the lines followed by Jordan’s brother. We must defer more to the genius of the language, rather than to a poetic intention – albeit an extraordinarily well-meaning one – which does not always accord with the genius of the language. I refer here, of course, not to the poetry, but to the brother’s way of reciting. On the other hand it does show how much strength – how much primaeval strength, as Johann Gottlieb Fichte once said of the German language – still remains in the German language today, if one knows how to handle it. What emerges with particular force in this poem is just how much of that primaeval strength Wilhelm Jordan could wrest from the language with his alliteration. And in these hard times, the still unharnessed strength of the language, notably in Central Europe, can prove a comfort to us – a comfort in that it fills our hearts with the conviction that whatever external or material fate may befall Central Europe, the German spirit will not wither away; the German spirit still holds its reserves of original, archaic energy and primordial power in readiness, and when the right moment comes it will find them. [Note 31]

In the best sense, I would say, they were sought by the poet who wished to enter again into the poetic innocence of former times through a revival of alliteration. Let us now conclude with a performance of an alliterative poem. [Note 32]

[Modern English efforts in alliteration are largely confined to reproducing in contemporary language the older sagas and poems. This is another version of Beowulf, and our extract is the climactic episode of the slaying of Grendel:

From the stretching moors, from the misty hollows,

Grendel came creeping, accursed of God,

A murderous ravager minded to snare

Spoil of heroes in high-built hall.

Under clouded heavens he held his way

Till there rose before him the high-roofed house,

Wine-hall of warriors gleaming with gold.

Nor was it first of his fierce assaults

On the home of Hrothgar; but never before

Had he found worse fate or hardier hall-thanes!

Storming the building he burst the portal,

Though fastened of iron, with fiendish strength;

Forced open the entrance in savage fury

And rushed in rage o’er the shining floor.

A baleful glare from his eyes was gleaming

Most like to a flame. He found in the fall

Many a warrior sealed in slumber,

A host of kinsmen. His heart rejoiced;

The savage monster was minded to sever

Lives from bodies ere break of day,

To feast his fill of the flesh of men. But he

was not fated to glut his greed

With more of mankind when the night was ended!

The hardy kinsman of Hygelac waited

To see how the monster would make his attack.

The demon delayed not, but quickly clutched

A sleeping thane in his swift assault,

Tore him in pieces, bit through the bones,

Gulped the blood, and gobbled the flesh,

Greedily gorged on the lifeless corpse,

The hands and the feet. Then the fiend stepped nearer,

Sprang on the Sea-Geat lying outstretched,

Clasping him close with his monstrous claw.

But Beowulf grappled and gripped him hard,

Struggled up on his elbow; the shepherd of sins

Soon found that never before had he felt

In any man other in all the earth

A mightier hand-grip; his mood was humbled,

His courage fled; but he found no escape!

He was fain to be gone; he would glee to the darkness,

The fellowship of devils. Far different his fate

From that which befell him in former days!

The hardy hero, Hygelac’s kinsman

Remembered the boast he had made at the banquet;

He sprang to his feet, clutched Grendel fast,

Though fingers were cracking, the fiend pulling free.

The earl pressed after; the monster was minded

To win his freedom and flee to the fens.

He knew that his fingers were fast in the grip

Of a savage foe. Sorry the venture,

The raid that the ravager made on the hall.

There was din in Heorot. For all the Danes,

The City-dwellers, the stalwart Scyldings,

That was a bitter spilling of beer!

The walls resounded, the fight was fierce,

Savage the strife as the warriors struggled.

The wonder was that the lofty wine-hall

Withstood the struggle, nor crashed to earth,

The house so fair; it was firmly fastened

Within and without with iron bands

Cunningly smithied; though men have said

That many a mead-bench gleaming with gold

Sprang from its sill as the warriors strove.

The Scylding wise men had never weened

That any ravage could wreck the building,

Firmly fashioned and finished with bone,

Or any cunning compass its fall,

Till the time when the swelter and surge of fire

Should swallow it up in a swirl of flame.

Continuous tumult filled the hall;

A terror fell on the Danish folk

As they heard through the wall the horrible wailing,

The groans of Grendel, the foe of God

Howling his hideous hymn of pain,

The hell-thane shrieking in sore defeat.

He was fast in the grip of the man who was greatest

Of mortal men in the strength of his might,

Who would never rest while the wretch was living,

Counting his life-days a menace to man.

Many an earl of Beowulf brandished

His ancient iron to guard his lord,

To shelter safely the peerless prince.

They had no knowledge, those daring thanes,

When they drew their weapons to hack and hew,

To thrust to the heart, that the sharpest sword,

The choicest iron in all the world,

Could work no harm to the hideous foe.

On every sword he had laid a spell,

On every blade; but a bitter death

Was to be his fate; far was the journey

The monster made to the home of fiends.

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

When at the present time a Madonna, when a goddess addresses us from the stage one can hardly believe one’s ears. Not the faintest attempt is made to set the language apart from the ephemera of common life, and not the slightest effort to attain with the aid of speech to a higher sphere. The spirit is barred every way from admittance to the stage, and not an opening, not even the least pretentious of openings into its alien, inaccessible worlds can be found. Absolutely no one undertakes to allow any light to infiltrate from that hinterland of speech whence celestial forms may shine through. The reality of spirit is a concept cast by the wayside. A washerwoman at her sink is quite up to any one of these Madonnas perched on a pedestal in some miracle-play – and quite devoid of anything divine and spiritual in her language. The speaking is so uncultivated, so rough, so painfully prosaic. It is positively offensive. I do not mean this as a snub to washerwomen and the way they speak, which in their case is quite justifiable. Hard work makes the voice hard and rugged, and her struggling with material tasks must have a coarsening effect unless there happens to be religion or anthroposophy to restore the balance. But a Madonna is hardly likely to be subjected to such physical labours in the heavenly heights: A certain aura should always hedge her about – even on the pedestal. There should be a certain translucence, a luminosity, a spirituality that sounds in her voice. The speaker should be able to produce the effect of a voice sounding from afar, free and floating. The figure thus presented is an image of something that reaches for the heavens and brings us down her gifts, catching us in the effulgence of her beams and the music of the spheres.

And what about the heavenly hosts: Have you ever heard them speak, either on stage or behind the scenes? What about Goethe’s archangels, for instance, or the Lord in the same scene? They sound like a real lot of stay-at-homes, or a chorus of sales executives: dry, dun, getting-down-to-business, quite down-to-earth. As for the spiritual background, the circling tread of the dance, the course of the aeons – all absent.

The sun makes music as of old

Amid the rival spheres of heaven

Of the poetry there is hardly a trace.

Yet this is what we ought to pursue, to capture, today.

We have to feel our way towards it, step by step, listening, responding, continually wrestling, never relenting, until we burst out of our intellectual constraints, the barriers directed by material life across our path; until we transcend our restrictions and emerge into the open on the other side, liberated, saved. Anyone who is “happy discovering earthworms” will never succeed in getting beyond himself, will not make the discovery that he is also a being of air who can master the physical man, and make use of him without being chained to him. For him there will be no encounter with the word’s healing power, its life-giving power, or the power of illumination which enables him to grasp the core of his being and carries him over into the realm from whence he came. Borne on the wings of the word, he can endeavour to seek out his way along these paths. He has a presentiment of them whenever he gives himself over to the primordial powers of the word. The “I” – the vital breath – the divine centre: along such a path may the word lead one back to the beginning.

And let us explore the realms of that less expansive spirituality that opens up for us in poetry. Let us take the elemental world. Does modern art, like a child of the gods, hand us the key to unlock these kingdoms? Not at all! Cleverness, and a dash of temperament, are enough to be going on – absolutely rattling along, with no feeling at all for a wise disposition of aesthetic resources, such as comes from knowledge of our human organization. No knowledge of the laws that are manifestations of divine-creative forces in art, of which for us both man and the world are representations. Should not our ultimate aim be to trace the routes that the gods have taken in creating works of art after their own image, and into which they have breathed the breath of life? Let us embark with our tentative consciousness on those paths, beginning quietly and reverentially by experiencing the breath of life that furnishes the ground of our existence – here, in speech, as there, in creation. It is when we immerse ourselves in the word, when we fathom its being, that we enter upon those paths. What more marvellous prospect could there be?

Only we must begin by learning to spell. We must concern ourselves with the fundamentals, the speech-sounds themselves, and not with projecting our own one-sided personality.

I once saw in Germany a large-scale production of Shakespeare’s Tempest. But of the elemental world and its spiritual nature, there was nothing to be perceived. There was certainly a lot of noise, temperamental outbursts and screaming. The Caliban scenes were exorbitantly overdone, and protracted in the realist manner far beyond anything Shakespeare apportioned them. And Ariel? There was nothing in him of aerial lightness and strength: a heavy, booming voice, hard as bone; the figure thick-set. There was much bouncing up and down and shrieking. But the bouncing did nothing to dispel the heaviness of that little, earth-bound, dumpy figure with its anti-halo of tousled, dishevelled hair. An Ariel! Is not the word itself pure lightness and radiance – a soaring, sounding, hovering delight in the air? Shortly afterwards, I saw the same actress as Salome in Hebbel’s Herodes and Mariamne. It struck me then that she was talented. Her constitution lent support to her in that role: the dark, heavy voice, the hard, watchful, furtive glance; rooted to the earth and stocky in stature, she was the most interesting figure in Hebbel’s darkly-coloured piece, brooding on disaster as Salome-Herodias. Mariamne, on the other hand, seemed too cool and self-conscious, too keenly intelligent and concerned with women’s rights. A Maccabee? – no, a north-German down to the ground.

When will the actors find the escape route from this one-sidedness of the intellect, and reach the sources that will open up for them the culture-epochs, the races, the elements and the spirit-world? Desiccation is the only alternative to finding this way. In extremity, nerves fray. The breathless, consumptive approach soon loses its fascination – and is anyway not productive. If once the practice spreads, it becomes frankly objectionable. It is increasingly being rumoured that the theatre will be ousted by the film.

I once saw an Iphigeneia performance that acquired for me the status of an event. It was something of a turning-point, for things just could not continue like this. They had already been taken to breaking-point. And perhaps it was exactly here, where lay the driving powers behind such excesses as these, that the counter-forces could be evoked. I refrain from saying much about Iphigeneia herself. She was terribly tedious and common-place, expressing the boring and blasé inanities of a salon-lady – the kind who has nothing to do but parade up and down in her park and be pestered by her (solitary) insufferable admirer. Nor will I dwell upon the prize-fighter’s figure of King Thoas, the admirer in this case – though, with a neck like a bull and swinging his bare, muscular arms, he seemed to be saying: Just take my measurements, you won’t find anyone who can size up to me! I do not recall that anything else was conveyed in what he did say; certainly nothing faintly regal.

But then Orestes – Orestes: He was obviously sustained by one idea alone: that of being different from any Orestes that ever was. He was out to excel in triviality. Now if one is supposed to be a tramp, one must have the proper attributes: a skin as red as copper, an unkempt, tangled head of hair (of an indeterminate mousy colour), and a voice that is hoarse and flat, with a tinny ring. Orestes is supposed to be possessed. And so the intellect is set in motion to work out what a possessed person should look like: his thoughts will be incoherent, his nerves sensitive, making him nervous and wary of being touched; he finds everything repellent. Inwardly, such a concocted product of the head’s “realism” possesses about as much truth as a billiard ball that is made to speak. And outwardly it looks like a sort of uncared-for vagabond one might encounter on the highways of Russia ... but wait, that might actually be an inspiration: Tauris – the Crimea – Russia – a possessed vagabond it yields analogies: Modern interpretations are scarcely drawn from farther afield than this. As for Orestes, the accursed descendent of Tantalus, the Greek hero, on the other hand – such ideas are long out of date, far too hackneyed. And the same goes for iambics, for the metres and noble harmony of speech: we got beyond such things years ago.

It is said that Maximilian Harden’s journalistic career began in the following way. The editor of the Monday edition of the Berliner Tagblatt instructed a number of his young employees to “do nothing for the whole week except sit in coffee-houses, read all the papers you can lay hands on, and for next Monday write me an article that is different from everything else you have read on the subject.” Maximilian Harden is said to have done the best job.

If the motive-power behind the player of Orestes was something on the same lines, this might explain his grotesque whim and bad taste – otherwise quite inexplicable. His novelty consisted, in effect, only in pushing the tendencies of intellectualism and naturalism to an extreme, obsessively debasing this culminating achievement of the German spirit by his nervous brand of realism. The noblest, flawless, perfect product of German poetry, the Roman version of Goethe’s Iphigeneia, was quite ruthlessly and brutally trampled upon, and anyone who felt in sympathy with the play felt himself trampled upon too. We came away from the performance with a burden of responsibility: to rescue the most exalted values of the spirit.

It was about this time, as well, that our Shaper of Destinies was taken from us, he who had done so much for art, too, and pointed out the path of recuperation. He spanned the “shimmering arch” which bridges over the spirit-abandoned abyss of modern times to the other side. He was the builder, he did the moulding, he kindled and scattered the sparks, bequeathing us in his work myriads of precious stones. It is with a profound sense of responsibility that we now put together these precious stones from his spiritual wealth.

They will ennoble human beings, and fill them with bliss for thousands of years to come; and they will serve today as a magic key to open closed doors, to revive what is dead and heal what is sick, to atone for what is evil. We must only have good will. All these far-flung gems can become a magic key – even though, as in the case of these transcripts, they lie before our eyes in fragments. The notes of these three splendid lectures are very inadequate, and for all of seven years they lay hidden from the public at large because these deficiencies seemed too obvious. But so much of their richness remains that, on the foundation they lay, a rebirth of the theatre can come about.

Every word that was uttered must indeed be given its full value, and taken in all its interconnections. A foundation must be furnished for an understanding based on the will to an all-round knowledge of man and the world in their cosmic dimensions. Rudolf Steiner refers to what is adumbrated here as being “guiding principles”. With them he has opened new worlds for us.

These lectures can be our signposts to those more subtle reaches of art to which access has presently been lost, barred by materialism. The intimacies of the soul-life, the mysteries of man’s organization in conjunction with the mysteries of the cosmos form the basis of our considerations. They are intended only as points of departure for further advances, which will be achieved through steady work and inner experience. Limitations of time meant that they could be carried out only cursorily; but they may serve as prompters and awakeners to rouse the artist’s powers to independent life. They were given as part of a whole complex of lectures, which were aimed in a single direction: away from the nihilistic forces at work in our age, towards new light and recuperation. This was the deed which Rudolf Steiner performed. And if, to some hostile powers, his life’s work seems to have been checked or even annulled through the crippling of his public activities, the burning of the Goetheanum, his physical death – they are mistaken. The seeds, sheltering the future within them, are there. They are sprouting everywhere, even though external forms may be disrupted.

The task of preparation and re-edification for the future demanded unflagging effort, superhuman strength; and their affirmation could only be achieved through sacrifice. In a lifetime of indefatigable labour, one of the high points of Rudolf Steiner’s work was the opening of the Goetheanum as a Spiritual Scientific University (Hochschule). It was a time of subversive acts, of social dissension and economic collapse. Even though the art work was not entirely finished, the building could be committed to its proper function, the work for which it was intended. For three years the building served this purpose: the spiritual renewal of mankind. Then, on Sylvester Night, it was destroyed by fire. The solemnity of the festival gave way to the act of destruction; the vast framework of the completed year passed over into history. And thus, when it was rent away from earthly effectiveness, the building was impressed like a seal into the cosmos and the course of the ages.

The lectures formed part of the course for this university, and were not to be omitted from their context in the whole opening ceremony, of which they formed an integral part. For Rudolf Steiner the word stood at the foundation of everything that took place. The word was his point of departure, the central and directing force behind every development that unfolded and every seal that was opened. It was not Rudolf Steiner’s way to shroud great words in the secrecy of the occult: he paved the way for them through genuine understanding and inner apprehension. What he laid open to us became a matter of perception, something consciously grasped, an activity consciously undertaken. We were able, under his guidance, to scale the first rungs of the ladder. Then he gave us our freedom. In us his word was to become a courageous venture and accomplishment.

Art was never lacking in any of the projects inaugurated by Rudolf Steiner. We were to approach art with understanding, and practise it with reverence, being mindful of its origin. In the celebration of the cosmic rite, art played a vital role. It sprang from the threefold Logos; it officiated and performed the sacrifice at the altars of truth, beauty and power. In the course of the age of rationalism, it has for the longest time preserved its links with the divine. In the age of triviality, this heaven-born child was sunk in physical nature: the triumph of mechanics tore her away from her spiritual origins and fettered her to the machine. She must be redeemed again!

The House of Speech (as Rudolf Steiner called the Goetheanum) was intended to lead art, science and religion, which had grown apart from their original unity into threefold isolation, back together. Rudolf Steiner saw in a spiritual deepening of art, science and religion and in their mutual fructification an effective remedy for the social ills of mankind. Barbarity might be avoided and, in place of the twilight of European culture that has already been confirmed by science, there might rise out of affliction, misery and delusion the light of a new dawn.

He expressed the object of his strivings in profoundly penetrating words, which allow us to realize the significance he attributed to a spiritualized form of art in the rebuilding of a higher culture for humanity.

The house which served this end, freely and openly bidding welcome to every guest, is no longer standing. But in its place there rises a building made, like a stronghold, in the hard material of our time – concrete. Life from its departed creator was still breathed into it, ennobling it and giving it its special significance. It is there that the Mystery Plays are to be performed. These dramatic creations of Rudolf Steiner, which put man in connection again with the spiritual cosmos and make him once more a “citizen of the universe”, explaining his present personality in terms of his earlier lives an earth – these productions will enable mankind to attain to self-knowledge, self-realization and self-renewal. And there above all, eurythmy must be cultivated: Rudolf Steiner added this new art, where speech-movement takes an externally visible form, to the series of already existing arts; and this leads to the compelling, the imperative demand for a renewal of the art of speech – the word artistically spoken. Concerted interaction between spoken word and eurythmic gesture was what Rudolf Steiner called for and this had to be attained in practice. When the performance corresponded with his demands, he gave us a conscious insight into our actions and shed light on the mysteries of the art of speech and poetry, thereby redeeming us from the insufferable state into which they had degenerated.

We are under no illusion that the world will bring any but a meagre understanding to bear on our endeavours. We shall be understanding, even if some honest student at first casts this book impatiently and despairingly aside. A metamorphosis of consciousness is necessary to pass this way, and art has been held back from any permeation by consciousness. A perceiving, a hearing, a willing consciousness: today these alone can bring us genuine aesthetic experience and wrest the language of poetry away from the abstractive intelligence and mechanization to which it has now fallen prey.

We have grown accustomed to what the modern stage puts before us and thus have little notion of the suffering that can be inflicted when the noblest works of poetic drama are brought before the soul mutilated, maltreated and desecrated, as is only too often the case today.

It is as if the gods have turned away in anger from what we have made of their gifts. They gave us everything, held nothing back. Works of unbelievable stature, purity and perfection of form have come into being. The German language has been moulded into an instrument of subtlest strength and pliancy, to grasp the breadth and profundity of existence, to unfold the inner essences of things. It is still capable of transformation, of pliancy; it still has the ability to grow beyond itself, bearing mankind onward and upward in its progress. But whoever leads it on to its destination resolutely and imperturbably will be stoned – while those who make it banal, who reduce it to the level of the feuilleton will be venerated.

The German language’s potentialities for concrete delineation and for the transcending of conceptual formulations are also to be found in another way: in the plasticity and translucence of its speech-sounds. It is not in the usual sense musical – not superficially. One has to have an ear for it. But it does have so many lights and shades, such capacities for veiling the sound or for brightening, flashing, that with its help we can break through the bounds of the senses. The world beyond sounds through in its modified vowels and its diphthongs, whispers through its clusters of consonants and rings out in the freely-suspended vaulting of its syntax. We do not realise what an artistic experience language can be until we have learnt to listen inwardly, until psychic-spiritual sound has been transposed into tone-formation and soaring movement.

The world of today is sheer intellect rendered actual. It does not go beyond the mechanical and mathematical; it cannot find the way into imagination and the creating of myths. We are unable to produce images any more, because we have grown abstract and hollow. It is much easier to be clever in one’s thinking than it is to form imagery, since the intellectual stems from our personality, while aesthetic creation makes much greater demands an our selflessness. It immerses itself in the object rather than reflecting upon it, lets itself be drawn along rather than seizing hold of it. Through living in intellectualism we lose our real connection with the world. We deprive human beings of their immortal part. The forming of images affects not only the intellect, but the whole man, entering into much deeper strata of the soul-life than does conceptual thinking. In attempting to speak in imagery, we bind the atoms sundered in the course of study, and divided amongst the conventional categories of learning, into a new synthesis. It must all be raised into the sphere of Imagination, where the plasticity of the language is released into movement and its musicality becomes ensouled. In this it draws near to the eternal in the soul which stands behind everything intellectual. Through imaginative, ensouled speech we can lead man to the substantial content of the word, to the super-sensible, to the creative word that flows from the super-sensible. The immortal life of the soul is roused to awakening when we speak artistically, out of the image; immortal life is smothered when we work out of intellectualism.

With Rudolf Steiner the educationalist, the scientist, the philosopher, even the sculptor and the architect of the Goetheanum, we already enjoy the degree of familiarity that translations of his books and lectures afford. We enjoy it too where, as a result of his observations and discoveries, new beginnings have been made in a host of other fields. But Rudolf Steiner’s literary work remains for the most part unfamiliar. Of course, there are grave and ominous difficulties: here more than anywhere else the barriers of language and tradition are tightly defended, hard to traverse. Yet we should not too readily turn away and admit defeat in the face of these literary problems. We might remember, after all, that the scientist-philosopher to whom the young scholar in Vienna and Weimar devoted so much sympathy and scrupulous attention, the Johann Wolfgang von Goethe who wrote the Farbenlehre and The Metamorphosis of Plants, was better known to the world as one of the darlings of literature, the Poet of Faust and a great novelist and dramatist into the bargain. It is true that for Steiner the many-sidedness of the poet and artist was to be the new ideal for the philosopher too, but art, or man’s faculty of “aesthetic judgment”, was never to lose its central position or its claim to be – as the Romantics of England and Germany had argued with alternate reason and intuition – the highest and most perfect form of knowledge, because the most human. The apprehension of beauty, as Steiner once put it, “comprises truth, that is, selflessness; but it is at the same time an assertion of self-supremacy in the soul-life, giving us back to ourselves as a spontaneous gift.” [See The Wisdom of Man, of the Soul, and of the Spirit (New York 1971), p.114.] In our own day Owen Barfield has taken up the Romantic argument anew, with renewed passion and a new sense of precision, in Poetic Diction and certain of his essays elsewhere. In all Rudolf Steiner’s later, anthroposophical work, moreover, we seem to see everything tending to assume an artistic, poetic form.

He had, of course, his period of quite straightforwardly literary activity, dating back to the last decades of the nineteenth century. He was for some years the editor of the Magazin für Literatur, a well-established literary review founded in the year of Goethe’s death, and contributed to it pieces of his own criticism on literature and drama. [These are collected as Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Literatur (Dornach 1971).] He mingled in Vienna with many literary and some rather Bohemian figures, both prominent and obscure, and later recalled how deeply this cultural atmosphere had influenced The Philosophy of Freedom. [In From Symptom to Reality in Modern History (London 1976), pp. 132ff.]

He also edited and furnished with introductions several of the German “classics”. The occasion for his own venture into drama, however, was to come somewhat later and far from the conventional stage. This was in 1910, when his The Portal of Initiation was produced in Munich for the Annual Congress of the Theosophical Society, which Steiner was even then on the point of leaving. His work in this sphere was to be continued in the more congenial framework of the newly founded Anthroposophical Society. The Portal of Initiation was followed by a further three poetic Mystery Dramas.

It was around that time, too, that he first began to include in his lectures more detailed discussions of the working of language and “speech-formation”—the concrete substance (vowels, consonants, diphthongs, etc.) by means of which language evokes its astonishing range of sensual, emotive and poetic effects. It was in a lecture of 1911, in fact, that he first expounded one of his fundamental conclusions about the basic constituents of language. By that time his researches had reached a stage which enabled him to look back to a period of pre-history, near the very beginnings of language, when, as he says, there existed a kind of primitive human language, a manner of speech which was the same all over the earth, because “speech” in those days came much more out of the depths of the soul than it does now.

At that remote period, he continues, people felt all outward impressions in such a way that if the soul wished to express anything outward by a sound, it was constrained to use a consonant. What existed in space pressed for imitation in a consonant. The blowing of the wind, the murmur of the waves, the shelter given by a house were felt and imitated by man in consonants. On the other hand, the sorrow or joy which was felt inwardly, or was observed as feeling in another being, was imitated in a vowel. From this we can see that the soul became one, in speech, with outer events or beings. [The Spiritual Guidance of Man, Lecture II]

He adds the following example of this kind of intimate relationship between experience and the particular sounds of speech:

A man drew near a hut, which was arched in the ancient fashion and gave shelter and protection to a family. He noticed this, and expressed the protective arch by a consonant; and by a vowel he expressed the fact, which he was able to feel, that within the hut embodied souls were comfortable. Thence arose the thought shelter; “there is a shelter for me – shelter for human bodies.” The thought was then poured forth in consonants and vowels, which could not be otherwise than they were, because they were a direct impression of experience and had but one meaning. This was the same all over the earth. It is no dream that there was once an original human root-language. And, in a certain sense, the initiates of all nations are still able to feel that language. Indeed there are in all languages certain similar sounds which are the remains of that universal language. [The Spiritual Guidance of Man (New York 1970), pp.35-36. Compare the earlier (1904) discussion of this stage of language in Cosmic Memory (New York 1971), p.50. Cf. Swedenborg, Heaven and Hell Nos. 236, 241.]

This was a discovery from which a great deal could be made, in opening up the way to a wide-ranging investigation both into the nature of language in general and, especially as regards that immediate and necessary link “in the depths of the soul” between certain specific sounds and types of experience, into the foundations of poetry and poetic speech-formation.

As so often in Rudolf Steiner’s career, however, he put himself at the disposal of those around him, and developed his ideas as circumstances seemed to demand, rather than as he himself might have found it easiest to elaborate them. In any event, the lecture-courses embodying his contributions to the subject in depth do not come until virtually the last years of his life – commencing around 1919. Some of these lectures, together with a sprinkling of aphorisms and notes, have been usefully gathered together and published in English as Creative Speech: The Nature of Speech-Formation, translated by Winifred Budgett, Nancy Hummel and Maisie Jones (London 1978). Others, notably concerned with broader and less technical issues in poetry and artistic speech, are presented in this volume. In our notes we have made some effort to indicate the points at which the two books may shed light upon each other or provide the inquisitive reader with further details on a particular topic.

Both earlier and later, one of Rudolf Steiner’s main inducements to develop his work in this direction was undoubtedly the interest, the practical help, the enthusiasm and the talents of Marie von Sivers (later Marie Steiner). Whilst still in Russia, as a promising young actress in St. Petersburg, Marie von Sivers had studied under Maria Strauch-Spettini, one of the prominent figures on the stage of the German Imperial Theatre. There were later hopes that she might have returned there to help make a stand for the traditions of French classicism against the all-engulfing trend towards naturalism. For in the meantime she had spent two years in Paris studying under the direction of Madame Favart, the first lady of the Comédie Francaise, then at the end of her theatrical career, and had been attending at the Conservatoire the classes of several other notable actors of the time. But she decided against returning permanently to St. Petersburg, and her connection with the Theosophical Society soon opened out quite different avenues for her future work. In his autobiography, The Course of My Life, Rudolf Steiner describes their collaboration in those early days, and the importance it assumed for the germinating Anthroposophical Movement:

In the Theosophical Society artistic interests were hardly cultivated at all. This was understandable in a certain sense – but had to change if a proper attitude toward the spirit was to flourish. The members of such a society tend to focus all their interests in the reality of the spiritual life; man in the sense-world seems to them merely a transitory being, severed from the spirit. And art appears to concern only that severed existence, as if it were divorced from the looked-for reality of the spirit.

In view of this, artists did not feel at home in the Theosophical Society. To Marie von Sivers and me it seemed important for an artistic life to be engendered in the Society. Knowledge of the spirit, when it becomes an inner experience, takes hold of the whole man. All the powers of the soul are roused. And the light of this inner spiritual experience will shine into man’s creative imagination.

But there may be difficulties. The artist, when his imagination is illumined by the spiritual world, may feel a certain uneasiness. He finds it preferable to remain unconscious of the spiritual that rules within the soul. And so long as it is a question of his imagination being prompted by that intellectualizing which has dominated spiritual life since the opening of the consciousness-soul era, this feeling is quite justified. Such a stimulation by human intellect does have a deadening effect on art.

When a spiritual content is perceived directly, however, and lights up in the imagination, the opposite result is brought about. This leads to a resurrection of all those creative powers which have ever brought art into being in the life of humanity. Marie von Sivers was genuinely accomplished in the art of speech-formation, and had a real feeling for drama. Thus there was represented within the Movement an art-form on which the fruitfulness of spiritual perception for the arts could be tested.

The evolution of the consciousness-soul exposes the “Word” to danger from two directions. On the one hand it is made the vehicle of social understanding, and on the other it serves to communicate logical, intellectual knowledge. In both spheres the “Word” loses all value of its own. It has to be adapted to the “sense” of what it expresses. That the tone, the sound and the formation of the sound possess a reality of their own has to be forgotten. The beauty and luminous quality of the vowels, the unique character of the various consonants, are lost in speech. The vowel is drained of soul, the consonant of spirit. Speech deserts utterly the sphere of its origin – the spiritual sphere. It becomes the slave of intellectual knowledge and of a social life that shuns the spirit. It is divorced entirely from the domain of art.

True spiritual perception is also instinctively an “experience of the Word”. Through it one learns to enter into the soul-quality that resonates in the vowel, and the spiritual power of depiction that resides in the consonant. One gradually begins to comprehend the mystery of speech and its evolution: how divine-spiritual beings could once speak to man’s soul through the Word, whereas now it is merely a means of communicating in the physical world.

To lead the word back to its own sphere requires the enthusiasm kindled by such a spiritual insight. Marie von Sivers had this enthusiasm. Through her personality there entered the Anthroposophical Movement the possibility of cultivating the art of speech and speech-formation. Thus to the activity of imparting spiritual knowledge was added cultivation of the art of recitation and declamation, and this played an ever-increasing part in the events that were organized within the Anthroposophical Movement.

Marie von Sivers’ recitations on these occasions formed the point of departure for the impact of art on the Anthroposophical Movement. From them, beginning as supplements to lectures, the drama productions later staged in Munichside by side with anthroposophical lecture-cycles were directly descended.

Since, along with spiritual knowledge, we could also unfold artistic work, we entered more and more upon an experience of the spirit appropriate for our time. For art did indeed grow out of man’s primaeval, dream-image experience of the spirit. And when this experience receded in the course of man’s development, it was left alone to find its way; therefore art must find its way back to the experience of the spirit, when this is once more becoming, in a new form, a part of man’s cultural evolution. [The Course of My Life, Chapter XXXIV]

The present volume is a fragment of the work that resulted from their collaboration. It consists for the greater part of lectures held in several places by Rudolf Steiner, and these are punctuated by regular recitals of poetry, illustrating the points that the speaker has just made. The poems were recited or declaimed by Marie Steiner – generally introduced with impeccable courtesy as “Frau Dr. Steiner” – and constitute an integral part of the lecture’s meaning. Indeed the lecturer often relies entirely on the effect of her reciting to make some literary characteristic or contrast immediately obvious. And this, of course, makes for certain difficulties in point. A case in point is the basic distinction, adumbrated in the opening lectures and running all through the book, between recitation and declamation. Rudolf Steiner naturally makes no attempt to define for us what the differences between them are. A definition, after all, is not what is finally wanted. And it becomes totally superfluous when we can hear the difference through a concrete demonstration of things being recited and declaimed. Even the most precise definition would pale in comparison.

The situation with the printed poem (at least for those who cannot call upon the resources of some trained speech-formationist) is a little more difficult. Yet for all its force and vividness, even the oral demonstration would have resolved itself only gradually in our minds into a clear grasp of the distinctions involved, enabling us to discern the essentials of both modes of speech. All the more must the serious reader be content to work his way slowly and patiently forward before he can attain to a clear experience, and, excellent introduction though these lectures may be, he will certainly find himself in need, if he is to progress beyond a certain point, of contact with the living tradition of anthroposophical speech-formation. In England this is represented above all by the London School of Speech Formation, headed by Maisie Jones. Those who wish to learn for themselves the detailed methods of the art of speech which has developed on the basis of Rudolf Steiner’s investigations will there find qualified instructors, with practical experience of its complexities.

For those who simply want to approach literature and poetry with a more awakened sense of its spiritual depth, however, these lectures remain a valuable and relatively accessible source of illumination. But either way, practical or appreciative, the student must be wary of the intellectual short-cut and the neat definition as a substitute for experience. He must gradually progress along a path of knowledge, and so ultimately develop a sensitivity for the multifarious and elusive ways in which poetry, all-mysteriously, contrives to operate. It is one of the central arguments of this book that such a process is also one of increasingly definite self-knowledge – not only in the vague, Johnsonian sense of general human psychology, but even as regards one’s own deeper spiritual resources, at a level where these are continuous with the forces of organic life itself.

Perhaps we may be permitted to say a little on the subject of one of the difficulties that is likely to arise from a first perusal of the lectures that follow – a difficulty connected with the polarity between recitation and declamation. Rudolf Steiner characterises them in the opening lecture-cycle in terms of the contrast between the plastic arts and music. Recitation and metrical, regular poetry are brought into connection with music; energetic declamation is connected with a kind of powerful visual experience. In the later lecture on “Speech-Formation and Poetic Form”, however, he apparently contradicts himself by presenting recitation as a visual, plastic art, as opposed to declamation which is musical and melodic. We would suggest that, as always with Steiner’s observations, the key to understanding is to descend from the level of abstractions, and take a concrete look at which aspects of the arts are involved in these contrasts. We do not, of course, propose to discuss the question in detail. But it may prove helpful to the reader to be reminded that both music and the plastic arts are themselves very varied things, and that each at their extremes may invite comparison with the other. Within music, for example, the classical style stands at the opposite pole to the baroque. Mozart’s music is eminently metrical and regular: yet, precisely because it reaches us in a series of perfectly defined and clearly differentiated structures of sound, it can easily be compared to an exactly delineated picture, where the artist has sharply rendered every detail. With Bach, on the other hand, we are engaged by the driving-force of the music, its tremendous energy and unflagging will: and yet there is even here a certain kind of painting with which it can very appropriately be compared – as in baroque art, where we have a visual experience that, rather than lingering over every detail of form, catches us up in a single powerful movement or effect of light. When Steiner contrasts recitation and declamation as opposite poles in the art of speech, therefore, we must remember to ask which features of music and the plastic arts he is appealing to in order to explain the contrast, and realize that he might elsewhere appeal to very different ones.

Edwin Froböse, in his “Nachwort” to the German original of this work, has adduced an extract from the papers left by Marie Steiner, possibly drafted in the ’30s, where she describes the high seriousness of their undertaking, as it was carried on by her continuing work at the Goetheanum:

The endeavour of the Section for Speech and Music at the Goetheanum is to approach more nearly the riddle of language and the foundation of a spiritual knowledge of man and the universe, as uniquely expressed in the anthroposophical Spiritual Science of Dr. Rudolf Steiner, and to grasp the nature of sound-formation in connection with man and the cosmos. Through abstract understanding we have lost the secret of the creating word. This creating power of the word can be reawakened and experienced, however, through a conscious activity of thought – a thinking that is not simply a mirror of the external, but wells up vitally from deeper strata of the soul. In association with music, colour, and the new art of eurythmy (a speech made visible through the medium of the body), it is possible to instil new life into the works of our great poets, and also into works for the stage. This, at a time when interest in and understanding for the idealistic struggles of our ‘classic’ authors is on the wane, is one of the tasks that the Goetheanum has set for itself. [Die Kunst der Rezitation und Deklamation, p.246.]

This passage may also remind us, among other things, of the remarkably wide implications of what the Germans so conveniently and all-embracingly term a Geisteswissenschaft, which comes rather sadly truncated into English either as cultural or spiritual science. In these lectures poetry and the other arts are all viewed from the perspective of such a science, as the several manifestations of the human Spirit. And conversely, the rediscovery of the spiritual is seen as something with consequences across the whole range of human culture.

But how are we to coax this book into English? Poetry is traditionally defined as what gets lost in translation between two languages, and a work such as this might in the end look like nothing so much as a sort of stranded whale when once removed from the native element of German poetry to which it makes minute and constant reference. Certainly we could see little point in offering the reader the dubious assistance of the German poems in translation. But we were convinced that the principles of Steiner’s poetics could be applied, with the appropriate adjustments, to English – or any other – poetry. The only valid way of translating the book, we therefore decided, was to furnish it with a repertoire of suitable examples from the vast wealth of English verse or, in one case, poetic prose. In this way we hoped to present Steiner’s work on poetry to English readers with some semblance of its having been genuinely domiciled in English literature. How far we have succeeded it is for our readers, and particularly those pioneers who have already taken up anthroposophical speech-formation in English, to judge.

As for the examples themselves, they are no more than suggestions on our part. They lay no great claim to finality, nor indeed any authority save that we took some pains in the choosing of them, and tried conscientiously to find extracts which exemplified as precisely as possible the points made in the lecture to which they belong. Predictably, we were not always as successful as we might have wished. In some areas, German and English literature simply do move in incompatible directions: poets here in England, for instance, do not feel the apparently perennial attraction that alliterative verse has for the German poet. But at the same time the poem we eventually included (by W. R. Rodgers), besides confessing to the gulf which lies between the two languages, is indirectly valuable in pointing to something essential in the differences that divide them. It shows that alliteration in English is essentially distinctive and in important ways unlike its German counterpart, whilst sharing certain fundamental qualities with it.

We have enclosed all our editorial intrusions within square brackets, adding the briefest of explanations as to our intention in each case. It was obviously necessary, too, to preserve the original German poems employed as examples and recited when the lectures were given. Furthermore, we have on some occasions availed ourselves of a poetic licence to be frankly inconsistent, and supplied an English translation where the interest of the poem’s content seemed to merit it, or, as in the brilliant example of the two versions of Iphigeneia used in the first lecture, where nothing exactly comparable could be adduced from English. Conversely, where the German poem was a translation, and as such no nearer to the original than an English version, we have of course simply substituted the latter for the German piece. (However, the observant reader will in one case here find us guilty of double inconsistency.) In general we have tried to make the selection as interesting as we could. We have had the advantage, in cases where Steiner used the same example on more than one occasion, of being able to offer more than a single analogy from our own literature. This, too, has broadened the range of our anthology.

We have followed the lead of the German choice of examples in selecting works from the mainstream of literature. Some of our instances are in fact old favourites; some of them not so old; and some of them, perhaps, not such favourites. But they are all drawn from the central, deep channel along which the history of English literature has been directed more or less from the days of Chaucer and Langland to the present day. Only one large omission may provoke the raising of an eyebrow or two: we therefore take this opportunity of pledging our boundless admiration for William Shakespeare, even though we have chosen to represent him by a mere fourteen lines. Here, with the poet who more than any other is in himself an entire world, a microcosm within the literary macrocosm of our language, we suffered from a sheer embarras de richesse. Any choice seemed like a concession to the arbitrary or a personal whim. It seemed best, therefore, to exclude him (with entire good will) from our little republic of poetry, only erecting within it the monument of a lone sonnet to commemorate his kingly greatness.

A further disparity which may strike the reader stems from another of the differences between German and English literary history. Steiner drew a good many of his examples from the so-called “classic” period, the age of Goethe and Schiller, one of the high points in the development of German literature and poetry. But England’s equivalent of the classic period falls earlier, with the blossoming of poetry and drama in the Renaissance. Our Goethe is, so to speak, Shakespeare. In order to do justice to the splendours of our literature we have accordingly delved back a little further into the past for the bulk of our examples, and by way of compensation broadened their range to show some of the almost infinite variety of forms which have sprung up since. We soon ran into certain difficulties, however, over the language of our poems. The German “classics” are written in what is virtually modern speech; many of the highlights of English literature, contrastingly, are in a slightly archaic language. Even though the pronunciation of Shakespeare’s day was not too far removed from what it is now, there are nuances – and these are reflected in the spelling. This confronted us with the problem of whether or not to modernize our texts. Easy intelligibility argues for modern spelling and punctuation. But in poetry, as Steiner continually emphasizes, the sound and articulation of the words is all-important. Indeed, in the last of the lectures in this volume he says explicitly that “the spiritual does not speak in human words. The spiritual world goes only as far as the syllable, not as far as the word.” The preservation of the syllables of each word as nearly as possible in the way the poet envisaged them therefore seemed the only justifiable policy. Now the relation between spelling and the spoken sound, particularly in an eccentrically written language like English, and particularly in times when spelling was much less hidebound by orthodoxy than it is nowadays, is a subtle and complex one. But in those flexible circumstances a poet’s spelling obviously will form a valuable guide to the particular sound he wanted. In the superbly musical case of Miltonit is now known that the poet developed a highly refined notation for the pronunciation of his works. And we may take a more simple and blatant case: if a poet transcribed the sound he envisaged as thorough, this is plainly unlikely to be exactly what we get if we insist upon writing through. Often the difference is no more than a shade or nuance – but these are the special province of the speech-formationist, who must be thankful for any of the poet’s hints on the formation of sound that underlies his poem.

In the case of pre-Elizabethan texts we have supplied a few (hopefully judicious) critical signs, notably where a final -ed is to be sounded in defiance of later usage. It is assumed that the later conventions of pronouncing this syllable, extending to the Romantic period but abandoned in the modern, are generally understood. In our couple of mediaeval texts we have marked the final -e where it is to be pronounced for the benefit of the rhythm. It should be said very short, just suggested rather than as a full vowel. Otherwise, alterations have been confined to editing out the old orthography and adding a few helpful capitals.

The English language is at a later stage of development than is German, and has lost many of those qualities which make for a ready, spontaneous poetic effect in speech. The English poet has very much to mould a language of his own to achieve what he needs to express. And in the same way there are difficulties for the reciter who must wrestle with what Blake called the “stubborn structure” of this language. But we are far from wishing to conclude from these gloomy observations that there are limits to the future potentialities of an English speech-formation. We may therefore be forgiven for taking this opportunity to quote the vision of our “English Blake” of what speech may ultimately become. It is taken from the last, apocalyptic pages of Jerusalem:

And they conversed together in Visionary forms dramatic which bright
Redounded from their Tongues in thunderous majesty, in Visions
In new Expanses, creating exemplars of Memory and of Intellect,
Creating Space, Creating Time, according to the wonders Divine
Of Human Imagination throughout all the Three Regions immense
Of Childhood, Manhood & Old Age; & the all tremendous unfathomable Non Ens
Of Death was seen in regenerations terrific or complacent, varying
According to the subject of discourse; & every Word & Every Character
Was Human according to the Expansion or Contraction, the Translucence or
Opakeness of Nervous fibres: such was the variation of Time & Space
Which vary according as the Organs of Perception vary; & they walked
To & fro in Eternity as One Man, reflecting each in each & clearly seen
And seeing, according to fitness & order.

We turn finally to the more immediate difficulties of rendering this book into English. That certain of these are notorious does not make them easier to resolve. Particularly with regard to philosophical or semi-philosophical terms, where the original distinguishes between inner processes with a Germanic nicety, we have retained its precision at slight expense to natural English usage. “Representation” appears uniformly for Vorstellung – occasionally “mental representation”; vorstellen as “form a representation” or “represent”. For Steiner’s argument it is important to realize that what is being contrasted in one context with “concept-formation”, for instance, is the same activity of “representation” referred to less technically elsewhere in the book; consistency was thus essential. In addition we have resorted to “psychic” to fill the lack of an English adjective from “soul” for man’s subjective and emotional nature; and we have sometimes been slightly devious in getting round the problem of ordinary “imagination” (Phantasie) and Steiner’s technical use of Imagination for the more highly developed spiritual faculty.

Our translation is based on the second, enlarged and improved edition of Die Kunst der Rezitation und Deklamation (Dornach 1967), edited by Edwin Froböse. This omits the introductory lecture included in the first edition, but adds the lecture here called “Poetry and the Art of Speech”. The German book also contains a seminar by Marie Steiner and a series of short discussions of individual poets: several of them are not known at all in England, and it seemed best to leave them out of an English version altogether.

Every translation is in some sense a collaborative effort. But we have more than the common number of acknowledgements for help and suggestions to record. Work on this volume began some years ago, having been originally undertaken by Maud Surrey for the benefit of her pupils, but she was regrettably unable to complete it before her death. We inherited from her a draft of the earlier lectures, whose renderings we have not infrequently adopted, even though we have subjected it to a thorough revision, mainly in the interests of a uniform style. We were aided in the first stages of this process and for all too brief a time by Olga Holbek, who made some fine contributions and has continued to take a beneficent interest in the work's progress. We were also encouraged from the very beginning by the warm support of Maisie Jones, of the London School, herself a leading figure in the struggle to develop a speech-formation for the English language. We also have good reason to thank Valerie Jacobs and Winifred Budgett for their help at various points, and their continued good will towards our project. In moments of difficulty or desperation in the face of the German text we have benefited incalculably from the knowledge and friendly exhortations of Edwin Froböse, who also made several excellent proposals for the preface and has been in general, as they say, a mine of information. For the manifold imperfections which remain we hold ourselves solely responsible.

Cambridge, E. J. W.

It would have been nice if we could have opened our art room earlier and brought today closer to the anniversary of Ludwig Uhland's death on November 13. Since this was not possible, today at least we want to recall his life with some sounds that came to us from the great poet Ludwig Uhland. If one wanted to describe what is essential for his poetry, one could characterize Ludwig Uhland with a single word. One need only say: Uhland is one of those poets who are thoroughly healthy in every respect. Healthy in his feelings, in his thinking, healthy in his head and heart, that was Ludwig Uhland. And if you want to get to know him, if you want to feel your way into what inspired him to write poetry, you can see that there were two things that constantly filled his heart insofar as he was a poet. The first was a deep, emotional love of nature. However uplifting it might be for him to look at works of art that perhaps proclaimed the beauties of ancient times, he preferred to admire the great art of the forces of nature. And so it is spoken from the bottom of his heart when he says, as if in a creed in a poem:

Not in cold marble stones,
Not in temples dull and dead,
In the fresh oak groves
Weaves and rustles the German God.

And this was not just an artistic sentiment for him, but from his boyhood on, this feeling of being at one with nature was something that took hold of his entire being. He could say of himself:

There was no better pleasure in those days
than to penetrate the forest
where the thrush sings and the hawk cries,
where deer and roe deer leap.

Then his heart opened up to nature, and he felt the warmth in his soul, which is expressed in his strong, healthy poetic sounds.

The other thing was his preference for the times in European life when the great events of the people were told in legends, not just experienced in an external way. Today's man can no longer really understand these times of the Middle Ages. One must try to revive a little in oneself, before all observation, the soul that lived in people at that time, in order to feel what a person in Central Europe felt about the great deeds of world history, on which the weal and woe, the elevation and happiness and suffering of people depend. In those days, people did not learn history from schoolbooks; it was quite different from what it is today, when we sit down in school and the schoolboy begins to tremble when the teacher asks: When did Charlemagne reign? and he then says, sweating: Then he lived – and so on. It was not like that at all back then, but rather more like the way in which one is more likely to get an idea if one is still lucky enough to let the last remnants take effect on oneself, how people back then spoke to each other about such great people who were much involved in the weal and woe of history, as, say, about Charlemagne. And since personal experiences are always the most vivid, I would like to start with a little story that represents something like a last remnant of the way people in earlier centuries spoke of history.

When I was a boy, I knew an elderly man who was employed in a bookshop. He was from Salzburg. There is the Untersberg mountain there. And just as people say that Barbarossa is in the Kyffhäuser, they say that Charlemagne is still in the Untersberg. And that man once said to me: Yes, it's quite true, Charlemagne is sitting in our Uhntersberg. I said: How do you know that? He said: When I was a boy, I went to the Untersberg with a firm stick, and I found a hole. And since I was a bad rascal, I immediately let myself into this hole. I let my staff down and then let myself down. Right, I came down very deep. And there was a large palace-like cave, all lined with crystal. That's where Charlemagne and old Roland sit inside, and their beards have grown terribly long. – I don't want to encourage the boys present to do that; only a native of Salzburg can do that. Now I said, “Have you really seen Charlemagne and Roland, my dear Hanke?” He said, “No, but they are there!” You see, a piece of something that really existed in Central and Western Europe in the Middle Ages was still alive there. And when people sat around the stove in winter and the parents told the children about Charlemagne and his heroes, how did people tell the younger ones, for example, about the great Charles who once ruled over the Franks, and about his heroes, who included Roland, Olivier and so on?

If we could listen to such a story, as was common in those days, we would hear the following: Yes, Charlemagne was a wonderful person, blessed by Christ. He was completely imbued with the idea that he had to win Europe for Christianity. And just as Christ himself was surrounded by twelve apostles, so Charlemagne was surrounded by twelve people. He had his Roland, just as Christ had his Peter. And there were the heathens in Spain, against whom he marched, because he wanted to spread Christianity among them, with his twelve people.

At that time, the Bible was read less, but also treated more freely. The people told stories at the time of Charlemagne in such a way that the way they told them was reminiscent of biblical stories, because they did not look at what they knew from the Bible in such a rigid way, but took it as a model. And it became the case for medieval people that they talked about Charlemagne in a similar way to the way they talked about Christ.

Roland had a mighty sword, so it was said, and a mighty horn. He once received the sword Durendart from Christ himself when he felt very fervent as a champion of God. And with this sword, which he received from Christ, he, who was the nephew of Charlemagne, went to Spain. Now it was further told that Charlemagne not only did everything possible to ensure that Roland grew up to be an exceptionally capable and proven hero, but it was generally said of him that, with strength and perseverance, he became a champion of God to the greatest degree, as people rightly suspected.

When Charlemagne marched on Zaragoza, they wanted to try to convert the Moors to Christianity, and on the advice of Roland, an ally of Roland, Ganelon, was chosen to negotiate with the pagan population of Spain. Ganelon was spoken of as if he were the Judas among the twelve companions of Charlemagne. This Ganelon said: If Roland persuades Charlemagne to send me to the pagan population, they will persuade me to death. Ganelon negotiated with the enemies. They surrendered in pretence, so that Charlemagne withdrew, leaving only his faithful Roland behind. And when Charlemagne had left, the enemies approached Roland, and he saw himself surrounded by the whole horde of enemies, he, the strong hero, the champion of God.

Now there is a beautiful train that is always told, that should express something. They always told of the close relationship between Charlemagne and Roland. It was not so quiet for Charlemagne that he had left Roland behind. But then he heard Roland's call. From this, the saga has made that Roland blew into his horn Olifant. The name Olifant already suggests that Karl sensed it. And then the saga tells that Roland wanted to smash his sword on the rock; but it was so strong that it remained whole, only the sparks sprayed. Believing himself lost, he surrendered the sword to Christ.

This same Roland then lived on in the sagas with Charlemagne. And most of the sagas are such that one can see how people have adopted the poetically beautiful content of the Bible. You can see it in Roland's fight with the heathens. But this act, how Roland faces his enemies with his sword and horn and they surround him on all sides, how he wants to smash his sword on the rock and how he then dies for a cause that was told everywhere and found important, this is infinitely significant, as if predestined for poetry.

And the thoughts that have once sunk into the souls, we see them again, even where in the 12th century through the priest Konrad was inserted into the German language the death of Roland. And the connection of the human soul with the whole of nature, one could not imagine it differently at that time than when such a person dies, then everything possible also happens outside in nature. This scene was still being wonderfully depicted in the 12th century by the cleric Konrad.

He relies on his weak arm,
which he does not hold low,
which he extends up to
the Almighty Lord,
to whom he commands his soul:
with St. Michael,
St. Gabriel, St. Raphael,
he entrusts himself forever more.
When Ruolant from the world departs,
from heaven there comes a Michael light,
since after a while I was born in Pibble, the sun and the stars in the two empires of China and Spain. The winters were long there, they fell like the ancient trees; the people harvested their crops, they saw the fearful sky brighten, the sun shining, the rest; the heath was burning, she sank in the sun, in the water she drowned. The bright day
became dark as night.
The towers fell to the ground,
the beautiful palace was destroyed.
The stars scattered;
the weather grew worse:
they all wanted to prove
that the time had come
that the world should come to an end,
and God would have his judgment.

Thus they spoke of Roland's death. And at the same time we can form an idea of the changes in language since 1175. From this you will see how everything in the world changes and changes quickly. The language was richer and more intimate. Until the time of the Crusades, something like the saga of Charlemagne lived in almost every house in our regions, all the way down to Sicily and up to Hungary. It touched people's souls, and today we have no idea how these things were back then.

Ludwig Uhland was unique in this field, delving so deeply into things. And he not only expressed what he felt in many a beautiful poem, but there are also books in which he brings to life the ancient times of the German people. The fact that Uhland, on the one hand, had an infinite love for nature and, on the other, a warm heart for the lost sagas that have lived and that today only need to be artificially invoked, is something that one should actually know better than one knows it. And one can hope that even if some of the fashions in poetry that are around today can sometimes “inspire” hearts, a time may come again when one can gradually learn to create like Uhland. He loved communicating directly from soul to soul the most of all. And it actually dawned on me what Ludwig Uhland was able to be to young people, also in turn, when I was able to feel an echo in my own life.

I had learned most of all how to express thoughts in language, and to grasp thoughts that now introduced me to the spiritual life with my heart, by being allowed to participate with my late teacher Karl Julius Schröer in what he called “exercises in oral presentation and written expression”. He would listen to us and then say a few words in which he placed himself at the level at which we ourselves were. It was a very stimulating experience. Where did Schröer get that? Because he knew Uhland! It was a very lively collaboration with the young people. Uhland did it.

And so we may say: the 50th anniversary of the death of Ludwig Uhland, who died on November 13, 1862, may mean something in the hearts of people who are still receptive to genuine, healthy poetry and have feelings , may mean something, may mean that one must always return to those who, in connection, bring us together as people who live in the present, with all that humanity has experienced in earlier and ever earlier times.

Uhland's connection to earlier times was twofold. First, he himself still had much of the character and personality of strong, indomitable characters, who are becoming increasingly rare in the present day. One need only recall that in 1849 Uhland spoke the weighty words that he could not imagine a German empire without a drop of democratic oil having been poured into it. He stands there like a refreshing and, in its strength, self-reinforcing German oak. He also rejects, with all his striving and living, with his art in times when the intimate, far-reaching folk fantasy flourished and lived, which brings together the past and the present in a heartfelt way, the inheritance of the soul that humanity has from its predecessors with that which moves the present.

We do not always think about how small the time span is that separates us from something that is very different from us. Let us think, it is about 800 years that separate us from the time when people in Germany spoke and wrote as I have read to you. There are twenty-four generations in eight hundred years. If you imagine these generations reaching out to each other, you have the time when Pfaffe Konrad tried to write this touching scene into German hearts. And it was Uhland's particular concern to renew this, to allow some of it to be felt again.

So it is that we remember today, albeit a little late, the anniversary of the death of Ludwig Uhland, and on this day we remember the man who tried to capture so much of the beauty and grandeur of nature, of the beauty and grandeur of Central European prehistory, in his poetry. He deserves to be revived in the hearts of people who want to know about such healthy, genuine, true poetry, and they will always be there, as will some fashionable illnesses and fads that would like to separate souls from this poetry of the real and the true.

The order of the poems in the lecture is not known.

You will allow me to precede the recitation of poems by our most esteemed and beloved member Christian Morgenstern with a few words. On such an occasion, I would like to speak differently than I usually have to speak before you. Otherwise, when I speak, I feel obliged not to touch on personal matters and to let our spiritual-scientific worldview speak. This time, however, I may speak to you as I need to speak when I am not bound by such an obligation. I may speak to you very personally on such an occasion.

I would like to see the souls of our dear friends in a kind of festive adornment on such an occasion, because it seems to me that this is an occasion when we can and may feel something directly human about the value and truth of this our spiritual movement in a certain respect. But we can also know something of the value and truth of our spiritual movement through the fact that we give the reasons and the good evidence for this spiritual-scientific world view. But these are things that everyone must do for themselves, if we understand each other correctly, quite regardless of whether they agree with this or that point of view in our world view or not. But there are other proofs. There are proofs that can speak to our hearts. Let me say it plainly and simply: that this evidence of our worldview can exist quite well. But this plain speaking is meant very warmly. It is the word that gives our worldview some of its inner truth by saying: poets also come to us. And he will understand me best at this moment who, as deeply as it can be felt towards Christian Morgenstern, feels the word: Poets also come to us - especially with regard to the inner truth and the clarification of that which may be the core of our spiritual-scientific worldview.

There are experiences of the human heart that, as far as one looks around in all the worlds of the natural, human and divine, are only right when they are experienced at the side of the soul of the poet. And to feel this is to truly experience what the poet is to earthly life. And there are moments when the poet can give the human soul something everlasting.

As I said, I would like to speak only of a few symptomatic, very personal things, just because in this way we may prepare ourselves for that adornment of the soul that I would so much like to see, when something like Christian Morgenstern's poetry descends on the soul in the leisurely moments that one has. Then one feels something of what I have just hinted at.

For me personally, there has been something very special in connection with these poems in the last few days. I read a few pages that our dear member Christian Morgenstern wrote, and I may confess – perhaps Christian Morgenstern himself will not be offended if I take a few minutes to do so before reciting – , that reading some of the unpretentious, simple words that appeared as “Autobiographical Notes” in the publishing house almanac Piper, Munich, is one of those moments of rare joy, of very inner joy. I may speak personally. One feels, precisely through the touches of Christian Morgenstern's love-awakening community soul with another, immersed in regions where, with this soul, one finds oneself alone but surrounded by the world's powers when reading something like the opening words to the autobiographical note. You feel as if you were being blown towards something strange and mysterious when someone says something like that. Perhaps it will seem strange to some that I am saying this here, but it is so.

“The year 1901 saw me through Paul de Lagarde's ‘German Writings’. He seemed to me – Wagner was estranged from me then through Nietzsche – as the second decisive German of the last decades, to which it might also agree that his entire nation had gone its way without him.”

If you are prepared to take on board an independent characteristic of the poet, then you will be able to draw a lot from such beautiful, seemingly unassuming words.

I would like to suggest this in order to be able to say that in Christian Morgenstern's poetry, something can be felt that I think leads to regions that a human soul can only enter in two ways: either as a creator, or at the side of the soul of a creator. Otherwise, these regions of human feeling and experience, which can be found where poems like “The Star” or many wonderfully beautiful landscape pictures in Christian Morgenstern's work were created, are closed to one. Otherwise, the path to this region is closed.

And the second word that I would like to express, where we get a deeper impression of life, is the word that truly reveals to us what each person is as an individual. There is something in the world for each of us that stands before us as a poet-individual, which is a sanctuary that no other person but only he himself can enter. For the gods have created for each such soul a lonely, isolated place in the vast universe, from which the others are excluded if the person in question does not approach them in such a way that he leads them to his sanctuary, if he does not take them by the hand spiritually and lead them there. That one can feel something of creation, of the inner soul creation that the poet wants to bring into the world, that is what I would like to have expressed to you with these words.

It is not for me to speak about the poems themselves, some of which date from earlier times and some of which were created in recent times, because there is a feeling that tells us: when it comes to poems, in some respects it is not permitted to approach them with words, but only with those depths of the soul, where words no longer speak. These are such depths of the soul. That is something of what I would like to see felt.

And since I am speaking to you personally in these minutes, please allow me to make this comment as well. I have often had the feeling that within our movement there are those who, for one reason or another, have the impulse to please someone. It will always give me personal pleasure when many souls, who have delved into our movement through what our movement can achieve in this area, are able to turn to the right, true, beautiful reception of Morgenstern's poetry. And if I am to speak of a joy that one or the other of you personally wants to give me, then he can actually give it to me best by finding himself ready to penetrate with understanding into something of the kind that we would now like to give you some good samples of. These are the things that allow one to feel personally connected to our movement, and to step out of character for a moment, so to speak, and speak intimately and personally of one's joy, including the fact that among the greatest of these joys is that we have poets like Christian Morgenstern among us, in our midst. The best I can give you is not an introduction to someone who can speak for himself. But what I would like is for joy, much joy, to flow from my soul into yours, my dear friends, so that many of you will feel with me what I myself feel so gladly and will always feel. May our dear friend Christian Morgenstern bestow upon us many, many of the poetic creations that accumulate in his soul. We wish with all our hearts that we may experience much of what he still has to give us, and that we may always find the mood to receive much of it.

With that, I wanted to greet you with a few words about what is to be given to you in the recitation.

The recitation by Marie Steiner followed. The order is not known.

Today, as one year ends its cycle and a new one begins, before I move on to my lecture, we want to reflect on something that, when I follow the feelings of my own heart, I can say is suitable for putting us in the right, loving festive mood.

During the last lecture cycle in Stuttgart, we were able to introduce a number of our friends to the poetry of Christian Morgenstern, who is with us today, to our great satisfaction. And today, Miss von Sivers will present some of the new poems by our esteemed friend, some of the poems that have not yet been printed, but whose publication we are looking forward to with deep satisfaction in the near future.

If I may first express in a few words what I myself feel about these poems, I would like to say to you that the fact that we are able to get to know Christian Morgenstern's poems as those of one of our dear members is one of the very special joys and satisfactions that I find in the field of our work for a spiritual worldview of the present day. I would like to say that one of the highest proofs of the inner core of truth and the truth value of what we seek with our soul is that we see, springing from the spiritual soil we are trying to enter, the poems of Christian Morgenstern, which are of such depth of heart and height of mind.

I have sometimes heard it said by this person or that, and also by some close friends, that life in the kind of ideas through which we seek access to the spiritual worlds can have a cooling and paralyzing effect on the development of poetic power and poetic imagination. And sometimes I could detect something like fear in those who do not want their poetic power to be damaged by a connection with the spiritual life that we seek with our souls. That the most beautiful, most delicate, noblest, truest poetry can be of the same mind and the same driving force as what we seek ourselves, is evidenced by the poetry of Christian Morgenstern. However, for poetry, true poetry, genuine artistic spirit to prevail in the spheres of intellectual life that we are trying to penetrate, it is necessary that the warmth of the heart, which is imbued with the intimacy of the intellectual life, as it could pulsate through our time, rises to that creative imagination that wants to be illuminated by the power of the intellectual life. And this is, in my feeling, in my feeling, the case with the poetry of Christian Morgenstern. Especially when I let such poetry, as you will hear it later, take effect on my soul, then I cannot help but put into words what I experience through it, which I would like to express in anthroposophical form.

When I let such a poem work on my soul in peace, I have something else in addition to this poem, something that every true, real art has as well. I would like to say the word: these poems have an aura! They are imbued with a spirit that permeates and interweaves with them, that radiates from them, that gives them their innermost power, and that can radiate from them into our own soul. And allowing me to express my own spiritual situation in relation to these poems, I would like to say: We often hear the saying, which is certainly true: If you want to understand the poet, you must go to the poet's country! Today, in relation to the poems of our friend, I would like to turn this saying around in a certain way: If you want to understand a country properly, you must have an ear for its poets! For no other country do I find this more necessary than for the spiritual country. When poets speak in the spiritual country, let us listen to them. Only when we allow not only the more or less scientific content of the spiritual country to penetrate our hearts, but when we understand the poet in the spiritual country, only then have we prepared our soul for the spiritual country. This is the mood in which I would like your souls to receive these poems, just as the mood in which I was privileged to receive Christian Morgenstern's poems was something blissful for me in the face of the inner strength of the soul that leads to the spiritual realms.

And in this context, I would like to express two hopes today: the first is that many of you may be inspired to get to know the true poetic soul in his various works, of which we will hear a few samples afterwards. It will always be a satisfying realization for me to know that many of our friends are drawn to Christian Morgenstern's poetry.

The other wish is that our friend may continue to be as creatively active as he was in the poems we are expecting to see published, and from which we will now hear a few samples, for our profound satisfaction and artistic uplift.

This was followed by Marie Steiner's recitation. The order is not known.