The Rudolf Steiner Archive

Recitation by Marie Steiner from “Poems” by Friedrich Lienhard

WHERE FROM?

I don't know and can't find words,
Where my home is.
They stand tall and shine like candles
The birches down into May.
But I see out, as if lost,
Far away, somewhere else I am at home,
Far!...

That homesickness that I cannot explain,
Those whispering questions in the firs
of a strange forest:

Was I in ancient times
A knight on the rough sea?
Do I hear the great surf
Rushing in sorrowfully and heavily?
Did I fall in battle
For a granite possession?
Was my heroic galley
Smashed by wild lightning?

Perhaps years ago I was
A fresh and vigorous lad;
A brooklet murmuring ran
Through a mill-bottom.
I have sat by it
In many a youthful carol,
While another, laughing, lay
In a different arm.
I know not and find no words
Where my home is.

People hurt me,
I ask the wind: why?
Wherever I listen, wherever I look,
Their behavior remains strange and silent to me.
Their city is full of unmelodiousness!
They never see the realms of the universe,
Do not see that they are trapped –
I wish I were a child again!

I would speak so sweetly,
So strangely, as I am moved!
Break the abundance of images
That hang luminously on my trees!
With “you”, with “brother” and “sister”
Wandering through a kind world,
Loving, saying love
To anyone I like.
Light as a ghost, only bound in God, free!

I don't know and can't find words
Where my home is...

MORNING WIND

You lovely morning bells, when stalk strikes against stalk!
When the ringing meadow moves to the swinging bells!
I listen to all the grasses, to all the bells
Come, wild morning wind, come in, come in, come in!

It is a delicate plucking, just a stirring of strings:
after all, the winds are little fingers that tremble as they glide over them!
Then a stronger whistling comes from the overblown meadow:
the dew shaken by the wind springs and sings in drops!

And what the delicate harp swings,
The wind song, the sound of the blades of grass,
And what sings in strong tones
On the whole noisy meadow slope:

I pick until I have shreds and scraps
to please myself and amuse you, sounds caught in fiddle and song!

So I know many melodies in all the meadows:
We wait for the morning wind and become a chime!

SUMMER FOREST

How shyly the summer wind walks in the fir forest!
It calls by as if from a distant child,
Who is standing in the forest, searching;
But only the mosquitoes hum in the summer breeze
... and their song blows away...
Dear forest!...

Of seven dwarfs, of Snow White dreams
Der Wandter, who in the sun-dazzled flicker
At his fir many hours lingers:
A Hans in Luck, who all the gold's glimmer
In a source threw, which foams in the valley...
Dear forest, oh dear forest!

Red Riding Hood wanders gracefully through the greenery,
the weight of the basket sways on the arm of the little one;
she reaches into the flowers that bloom along the path;
She has to marvel at every umbel, every strange ear
and chat as she makes her way...
Dear forest... oh, dear forest!...

WALDGRUSS

Waldhornschall
Hör' ich dahinten im Wasgenwalde!
O sieh, der Fingerhut
Leuchtet von sonniger Halde!
Eidechsen huschen übern Stein,
The thyme-scented rain smells lush,
Bumblebees hang on hot clover -

Oh forest, my forest,
I ache for your delights!

WANDERING SOUL

I have always been nurtured by the forest
As a hawk or a stream or an elf of the night;
As ivy, I clung to the ruins,
I stirred as a mist in the ground.
And when the forest wind's tinkling sound
Came through the colored clearing's radiance:
It was I who rang together all the slopes and heights
For a Sunday dance.
And when a beetle with a greenish glow
Flew over the late stick figure:
It was me, I burned a little light for the night, the damp one,
A little light in the grass and dew.

So I was enchanted and have been alive for a long time!
Now I sing it all in human sound...

SUNDAY AFTERNOON

In the village on Sunday afternoons
The songs and humming of one's own heart beat.

In the village on Sunday afternoons
The fields and hedgerows bloom in delicate tones.

Even to the neighbor in the shade there
God's word speaks from the silent Bible.

And the old man, who surveys his land,
Hears melodiously growing clover and cabbage.

For on all the melodies of growth
The echo of holy bells trembles...

FAITH

Like a flower on a mild night,
Fed by the moon, watered by dew,
I grow up from your soil
To that which has sunk me here.

Thy storms are past, thy rain is gone,
Thy vernal air doth woo, thy moonlit night doth dew
Do with me as thou wilt:
Thou art my gardener, I thy herb!

THE CREATING LIGHT

1.

You unfathomable radiance!
You unfathomable sea!
Oh spring, cast waves of bliss
Over the wanderer!

The light of the east and the steaming
The hawthorn in the dewy hedge,
The breaking and the roaring of the brooks
How do I sing such a sparkling day?

Listen, in the heavens hang
Enough singing larks!
I will make you drink,
O spring day, little by little.

2.

All the round pink blossoms
That burst from peach trees;
All the invisible larks
That sing on white clouds;

All the flowers that light like little flames
on the meadow ignite;
Those children who at the edge of the forest
laugh on Sunday mornings

Oh, and the beating of the heart:
Everything stretches upwards towards the day!
Everything that has breath becomes a poem:
A hymn of praise to the creative light!

3.

Have you also experienced it?
Often trembles from blossoms and herbs
A homesick, sweet saying,
As if it were a ghostly sound.

And sometimes, after thunderstorms,
There stands, in the evening glow, On the crystal clouds, An unknown land.

And if your hill is high enough, The wind's whispering train Bears a ghostly, delicate singing, As if the late red were sounding.

Do you know the sound so homesick and soft?
It is a greeting from the realm of the soul!
From there God has sent us,
That we may reveal words of light to the dark edge of the earth!

Have you also experienced it?

In the future, when an overview of the development of spiritual life is made, Friedrich Lienhard will always be counted among those poets who know how to bring into the world of outer, physical reality the sounds of spiritual life, the sounds of yet another world.

Friedrich Lienhard is a poet of whom we must say, especially in our present time, when so much that is untrue, inauthentic, and fantastic is mixed in art and poetry, that he is genuine and true as an artist, as a poet, and as a human being to the very bottom of his soul. And when all the tendencies that, in the second half of the 19th and the beginning of the 20th century, one might say tended towards all possible “isms” as a kind of accompaniment to materialistic tendencies in the artistic and aesthetic fields, have disappeared, only then will it be felt that the spiritual life in poets like Friedrich Lienhard shows the ideal goals in the world. One will feel that his poetry does not see art in the fact that one will see in it external images that have been viewed with the senses and simply placed in some poetic guise or other or expressed in some artistically formed words or forms, but that one will see the artistic, the poetic in it, that the invisible, mysterious world that physical world is truly enchanted everywhere, that this invisible, mysterious world, which man weaves out of the interaction of all world harmonies for the human gaze, and which is like a breath cast over the sensual reality, may be evoked from its enchantment, and that one may try to penetrate the message of poetic creation and poetry.

Thus, Friedrich Lienhard faces the world, humanity, and the entire universe not only as an artist, not only as a poet, but, more than that, as a seeker, as someone who interwoven with the riddles of human existence, of world existence, and who is able to tune his poetic power by feeling these riddles of the world, these riddles of humanity.

When we listen to the older of his poems, we feel how this human mind lives with all that lives and moves in nature itself, how the joys, the elemental joys of this human heart are released from the processes of nature, as if the spirits of nature itself in this human heart, and we hear the strange weaving of the elemental beings of nature in Friedrich Lienhard's poetic work, and that, in turn, is what in his poetry goes beyond the often dull and narrow of his contemporaneity, and out of which he had to grow.

On the other hand, the intimate, sincere, deep feeling for nature and the interweaving with all the intricacies of human life and what is produced in the individual human mind, on the one hand, longing, joyful elation, and on the other, brings pain and deep suffering, all this is caused by Friedrich Lienhard's poems, so that we cannot understand them if we grasp them individually as human beings, but grasp them as developing out of a people and a spirit of our newer development.

It is very peculiar when you have an ability to really feel your way into Friedrich Lienhard's poetry, especially at the point where the poem begins to take on its deeper traits and characteristics, but where people's souls often do not want to go. If you have the ability to empathize with and follow such things, you will find that the unique nature of Friedrich Lienhard's work truly poetically lives and weaves its own language, removed from the world, which demands its own answer, I would say, in the great existence of the world, which satisfies it in order to allow the living weaving and essence of all nature to live on in its own. Then we find, as in swinging waves, how with wings of being and of higher life, what creates and works in nature lives on, and makes us feel how elemental spirits of magic obtain being through what Friedrich Lienhard says, through what lives in the universe and wants to enter into poetic creation because it cannot fully live in creating nature. Thus we see how in Lienhard's language there is something like a higher natural tone, and how the weaving of alliteration lives quite naturally into Friedrich Lienhard's linguistic work. If we try to listen and fathom that which can truly show us how the heart finds expression in the tones of the words, we will see how nature still weaves into the shining light, into the air that produces sound, how forces and beings turn to the existence of nature that cannot be seen except by the artist's eye, cannot be felt except by the artist's heart and mind. Souls like Friedrich Lienhard's often appear to us as if the divine All-Mother of existence had saved up what was left of her surplus of creative power and what she could not use up to create the natural kingdoms, in order to express in a very special way in individual human individuals what she cannot say herself from within her own creatures.

And then we feel very deeply what Goethe wanted to say when he spoke of human creativity as a nature above nature, as a nature in which spiritual devotion and spiritual elevation are summarized in that which is otherwise spread out in the wide realms of natural existence.

Friedrich Lienhard became a seeker in this sense, carried by the mysterious forces that create and invigorate him, and so he surrendered to those moods of nature in which what what works and what is in nature, in order to feel what plays from human heart to human heart and what leads to the great universe and to what the poet is called to depict in a picture.

Thus we see how Friedrich Lienhard, as a seeker, is always growing and developing, how he is not like someone who simply presents himself to the world to say what is currently moving his heart, his individual human soul, but how grown with human becoming and weaving, which does not merely want to live as a single egoity, but wants to be like an exponent, like an effect of what lives in the vastness of the human soul, in the soul of a people, in the soul of an age.

After Friedrich Lienhard had reached a certain level of maturity, he immersed himself in what the more recent spiritual development has brought in so many different ways, and expressed in his own way how he began to study Goethe, Schiller, Herder, Jean Paul, Novalis in order to understand the other newer spiritual greats more closely, to understand them more deeply, to live with them more intimately. He described the paths he had taken in his very remarkable hermit journal, which nevertheless, as a hermit journal, was able to speak to the outside world about his “paths to Weimar”.

He had wandered the paths to Weimar, those paths to Weimar that are the present paths of humanity's newer nature wanderings, the paths of humanity today that can be found in our state of development, those paths on which Goethe sought the connection with the worlds of heaven and of the soul, those paths that Herder fathomed in order to find how human becoming is connected with cosmic evolution and with historical evolution. Those paths to Weimar through which humanity can sympathize with those from whom joy has receded, those paths to Weimar of which Goethe speaks, that they expand into a cosmic, into a world-feeling, those paths through which the human soul in all its intimacy can feel so connected with the nature of the universe, where the soul is able to feel with joy, feel with suffering, feel with the divine on the other side, that human nature is able to feel the divine in the harmonies of heaven, that it is able to bring a weeping eye on the one hand, a cheerful eye on the other. It was along these paths that Friedrich Lienhard sought to follow in Noyalis' footsteps. He wanted to find a way into the supersensible worlds with a groping human sense, the way that one must go if one still wants to find the human souls that have left their earthly bodies. It was along these paths that Friedrich Lienhard followed Goethe, who had preceded him, in loyal allegiance, on which the human soul is healed of all spiritual egoism, of all spiritual individualism, because it can allow itself to be absorbed by humanity's striving toward the All, those paths on which it is healed of egoism, of obstinacy. And so he found the way, alongside those who have striven for the healing and maturing of humanity, to empathize with Goethe, Schiller, to empathize with Novalis and the others.

That is what Friedrich Lienhard strove for on his journeys to Weimar, and then he added what he had found in the way of intellectual and spiritual development and feeling, and he brought into his art what he himself had striven for as the highest. Thus Friedrich Lienhard did not develop in isolation but in relationship to others, and now we have the great joy, at the time when Friedrich Lienhard's rich striving culminates in his fifty-first year, to see in our midst someone who strives for the spiritual heights of humanity, and we can have a great joy that he is in our midst, a joy that can be great because we not only want to develop a selfish spiritual life for each individual soul, but because, if we want to develop a healthy spiritual life, we have to draw threads to all that lives and strives in the world in a spiritual way.

Friedrich Lienhard has found a way to walk with the elemental spirits that rush through the leaves with the wind, that trickle with the water, that flicker in the light. He has found a way to walk with these elemental spirits of nature so that his words become boats that carry these elemental magical spirits human activity and human creativity – Friedrich Lienhard also found the way to build even larger boats that are able to take on and guide the other spirits, through which those who have gone to Weimar have sought the way from the individual soul to the collective soul of humanity.

Just as Friedrich Lienhard wandered on these two paths, he now also wanders the long spiritual path that we ourselves seek with our weak powers. With strong longings, he tried to penetrate not only the individual soul of this strange, hermit-like, spiritually gifted pastor from Alsace with his novel 'Oberlin', but with this novel he also tried to penetrate the entire cultural-historical fabric of time, within which Oberlin, the seer, the lonely seer from Alsace, stands.

Thus Friedrich Lienhard also came to be a poet like those who, like Hamerling and other similar poets, try to depict the secrets of humanity itself from the historical life and development of humanity, to find the riddles of life. It is highly appealing to see how the human life and essence of the entire age grows out of the portrayal in Friedrich Lienhard's beautiful novel Oberlin. In his later historical works, Friedrich Lienhard tried to go further, depicting how man today combines spirit and nature, how he can try to travel the pilgrimage of life with his soul. Friedrich Lienhard has truly grown into the spirit-filled work and activity, and how close he is to our striving will be shown to you in the recitation of the poems, which, I would say, are truly the substance of our soul and which we will hear.

In poems such as “Christ on Tabor” or “Temple of Fulfilment”, Friedrich Lienhard has found the most intimate connection with the spiritual feeling that we are seeking. When one can see that more and more the time is approaching in which a spiritual creator will show whether he is grasped by the spiritual calls that will sound in the future by the fact that he shows himself to be equal to a real real respect for the world's only, humanity's only form of Christ, if one may say this, then one may also say: Friedrich Lienhard has found his way to such forms of his poetry, thinking and creating that can stand understandingly in relation to humanity's only, the world's only form of Christ Jesus. Thus he belongs not only to the present, but, as one of the beginnings, to the future that we long for, that man must long for, who understands his time in the present.

In the poem “Temple of Fulfilment”, which we will hear later, Friedrich Lienhard shows us how what is in the symbol before him is also in our mind's eye in the symbol, in that symbol that is to express to us how the hearts, minds and spirits of humanity can grow into that future which must overcome materialism for the reason that Ahriman must be bound again for the salvation of the world, for the salvation of the world. We want to remember this above all at the time when our dear friend Friedrich Lienhard turns fifty, that he has known how to connect those who can follow the calls for the future of humanity, who have recognized, as one must recognize, that everything must be abandoned from the structure of human development and that only that which strives for the fruits of the spirit, the spiritual seeds that are sown today for the future, can remain.

So let us be among those for whom the fiftieth birthday of Friedrich Lienhard is a beautiful celebration, a celebration that they want to celebrate lovingly in their hearts, in their minds, a celebration at which we want to indulge in the thought that Friedrich Lienhard not only belongs to us for our joy, but belongs to those who want to work on the great 'building of the temple of spiritual human development'. We want to strengthen and invigorate our love for our friend, we want to strengthen and invigorate our understanding of his very unique way of thinking and being. Many of you, my dear friends, know him; he has been here and in other places among us. You know him, the remarkable man who walks among other people as if his eyes were looking into a world from which a piece of what the eyes usually look at with interest and attention disappears, as if he does not see many things, but instead sees other things that those around him do not see. And so, I would say, he seems pure in his outward walk like a dreamer of a world that others around him only become aware of when they sense it in his soul, in his mind, when they stand opposite his pensive head. He appears as a personality who feels much that others cannot feel, who is unworldly in many respects because he seeks kinship with a world that can only be known by becoming estranged from much of what is so familiar to many other people.

Indeed, when one feels, I would say discreetly, the peculiar characteristic of this personality, then the most intimate love for his whole being mixes with the veneration of his beautiful, his highness-filled work, and then we also learn to relate to him in the right way. Today, as we look forward to the fiftieth year of his life, we want to harbor and cultivate these thoughts within us, so that they can become beautiful wishes, strong wishes that Friedrich Lienhard may be granted to create much, much more in the rising, further epoch of life, in the higher, mature epoch from the deep source of his spirit-filled, nature-loving, humanity-loving, humanity-friendly creativity and work. And let us say it with the deepest satisfaction, a word in reference to him fills us with joy, fills us with satisfaction, but also fills us with a certain trust in our own cause, a word spoken in reference to him: Let us rejoice, for he is ours!

Recitation by Marie Steiner from “Lichtland” by Friedrich Lienhard

TEMPLE OF FULFILLMENT

The blue dome arches up to the red wall;
And in the blue are stars wrought in gold.
Twelve masters stand in the round columned hall
And turn their gaze of power from afar
thirteenth, who stands before the altar gray
In the silver robe of the leader
And collects twelve-fold strength in prayer.

So the sun runs through the signs of the zodiac
And receives twelve special powers,
Then sends them out into the world;
So power exchanges with power at all ends
Of the cosmos and the small human life;
And no least one shines and works in vain
The sun's goal can be reached by every star.

Everyone for everyone - and everyone for everyone!
This wonderful hall is rhythmic:
Because each of these gently curved arches
Is drawn over every master's head,
The marble remains beneath it;
The room is filled with a fine, breathing wave
Of clarified soul forces, strong and delicate.

Whoever enters this solar temple
Is marked by the double seven
of the symbolic columns that surround the hall
with symmetry all around;
Like a dove, he senses above him the white dome window's round shape floating:
And the holy ray falls on the altar.

Only what is sensed may be formed here,
fulfillment dwells in this building's curve;
the yearning for the distance calms down in peace,
and the earthly wound heals.
Escaped from base, nocturnal forces,
the consecrated one sees the place as destined
for his heavenly recovery.

And he beholds the archetypal form of all things,
The world's confused play becomes harmony;
The blood of the cross presents itself as roses,
On which the crystal-clear light from above
Falls as a sound, the sound of the melody of the spheres,
Which fills this high space with beauty
And every hard edge softly envelops...

You have been drawn to this temple for a long time,
You long to look inside and pray.
But you still turn to the rose beds
Along the yew wall of the outer world
And are not freed from what sounds outside
And that temple's existence booms –
When you have matured, you will enter it.

CHRIST ON TABOR

Beyond the tribulation,
Sparkling with the power of grace,
You stand, solar figure,
And the transitory suffering there is transformed
Into a golden light.

So you are beyond

And yet attainable:
Because we,
As often as we rise from the waters of affliction
As you would rise—
Surrounded by the sun, we stand with you,
Clad in gold, transformed into light.

Behold, you once stood like this,
When you walked in the garments of the earth,
Casting forth the radiance of future glory,
Great upon Tabor.
In dialogue with you were
The exalted masters of primeval times:
Elijah and Moses.
But beneath you, in shadow and darkness, The sparkling God-man!
Stepped out of the covers and stood,
Stood like a pillar of sacrificial flame
Tall on the nocturnal Tabor!

Then those approached, sparkling like you,
The great ones of the past,
Stepped out of the veiling light clouds,
took shape and stood in splendor
on the summit of Tabor.
And they exchanged radiant speech with you,
greeted you from the blessed ones,
filled the rapt disciples with flaming power
and withdrew again
into the mysterious moonlit night.

But you, Master, and your disciples
Silent, radiant; knowing smiles
On faces glowing in the light,
You walked back down to the dark people.

Today, we will include a presentation of German poetry in the circle of reflections that we are now cultivating during this time. The first part of this presentation will be dedicated to the poet in whose presence we have the great and intimate satisfaction of seeing him in our midst today: our dear Professor Friedrich Lienhard. And it is in keeping with a deep feeling for the unique life's work of our esteemed friend that I want to express, albeit late, following the feelings that have been expressed to Friedrich Lienhard by the broadest circles of the German people on the occasion of his birthday a few weeks ago. It certainly corresponds to our deepest feelings when I express to him today the complete merging of all our warmth with the festive joys that have surrounded him, which have shown him how much that which he has been able to give to his people from the depths of his gifted nature resonates in the hearts of many.

Certainly, my dear friends, there was a wider circle that is more important for historical development today than our narrower circle, which in a festive mood has approached Friedrich Lienhard in the last few weeks. But with all our hearts we join with our feelings, with our sentiments, with what Friedrich Lienhard was fully entitled to hear in these weeks: the deepest agreement of her innermost feelings with his feelings. Many have spoken to him about it. The highest recognition that science can give to human intellectual endeavor has been bestowed upon Friedrich Lienhard by his, I would say, mother university. This is a source of great joy to us and, I am sure, to all those who are able to feel the deep debt of gratitude that exists towards human intellectual achievement. All those who heard about how Lienhard's mother university awarded the honorary doctorate, the recognition of science for human intellectual achievements, were overcome with the deepest satisfaction and joy. And in the deepest sense, we empathized with everything that has happened around him in the past few days, empathized because what is so infinitely sacred to us, what we cling to with all our love and striving, also seems to permeate his work.

It can be said that more recent human culture has produced much that is significant in the way of poetic art. In many places, what present culture can give to people flourishes in poetic achievements. The future will decide, and the heart of the present can already sense how it will decide, which of these blossoms are so closely linked to the temporality of contemporary culture that they will also fade when that culture, with its sole affiliation to the present, sinks into the past. And what is culture of our time has been brought up from the depths of the human being, that it blossoms, grows and greens towards that which is eternal, which will remain of our culture of the times, as something that carries the seeds of the future and will be a support for the ongoing spiritual culture of humanity. We want to be connected to the eternal in the present, to everything that reaches into the future, with all our hearts. And we hear this in the words of Friedrich Lienhard. When we connect with the wonderful natural moods that sound so uplifting, so enchanting, so delightful, so graceful in Friedrich Lienhard's poetry, then we feel how, behind his work, in his work, the spirits of nature themselves surge and weave. We feel drawn through the word, through the thought, through the feelings, to the creative nature, with which we also want to connect in knowledge through spiritual science. And we feel that these poems arise from what seizes man from the eternal, that they express this eternal in the temporal for the upliftment, the joy, the elevation of the human heart and soul. This makes us intimate with all of Lienhard's poetry. It makes us read and listen to it; it makes us, I would say, live and weave ourselves into it from the very first line, feel connected to its life element, to its creativity, and at the same time feel how the soul's life force, the spirit's air of life, overflows in us when we are allowed to let the impressions of his poetry take effect on us. Then again, when he conjures up the figures of ancient times out of the mysterious fog of existence, in lively activity and lively effectiveness, then we feel that yearning of humanity come to life, which expresses itself in the fact that the human human soul must look beyond everything that takes place historically on the outside, before the eyes and ears and the other senses of humanity, and plays itself up into the mythical, which, as an eternal element, encompasses the historical-temporal. And in this truly mythical element, in this element that connects human hearts with the eternal, we feel the figures that Friedrich Lienhard conjures out of the darkness and yet so full of light of prehistoric times.

On the one hand, Lienhard's poetry elevates us from the sensual to the spiritual and creative side of nature, from the present to the past. On the other hand, in his creations, we feel how they carry us into that which can take hold of us from everyday life in a deepening way can take hold of us in a deepening way, enabling us to live in the here and now as a spiritual and living being, how these poems connect us with everything humanly close and humanly lofty, how they develop heart and mind for everything that lives and moves in the world with man. Immersing ourselves in his poetry, we are able to live through its magic with so much that conquers and elevates human hearts in nature and spirit. And so, living with his poetry, we experience the most intimate happiness, the happiness that is the guide to man's true home.

So I ask you, my dear Professor Lienhard, to accept this greeting, which comes from the faithful search for understanding of the impression of your life's work, your life's work that has incorporated so much meaningful and eternal from the development of humanity and entitles us to greet you for all that we now hopefully expect from you in this incarnation. Please accept these words as a promise that we would like to extend to you, not out of passing feelings, but out of a deeper understanding of your life's work to date. Take them as an expression of our desire for all that we may hope for to come from you. Please accept my words as a prelude to every greeting that we wish to extend to you on your future journey through life. May what we strive for be bound to what you strive for. This bond will be sacred to us and we will always view it in such a way that we feel happy and satisfied to see the poet Friedrich Lienhard in our midst. Every moment that we spend in your company will be a moment of heartfelt joy and satisfaction for us.

I wanted to express this to you as a greeting before we now open our hearts to your work again for a short time.

Recitation by Marie Steiner from 'Poems' by Friedrich Lienhard: Faith; Morning Wind; Forest Greeting; The Creating Light (see page 216 for texts),

Lonely Rock

A rock beckons me in the golden air,
High and alone.
Around its summit is the scent of the heath
And evening glow.
A faithful little bee rings out in the herb
Flower bells, pure and calm.
Whoever looks out from there over the land
The world is his!

ELFENTANZ

Raschelgewänder und seidene Schuh',
Krone, Korallen und Bänder dazu
Rundaradei!
Rauschen und schleifen wir, singen dabei,
Rauschen und singen wir,
we swing our rustling skirts
around the ash tree, around into May,
Rundaradei, eia, rundaradei!

Do you want to catch us?
You have to dance with us!
Do you have feet as silky as ours?
Are you as flexible,
Are you as cuddly,
Are you as fast and as swinging as we are?

The leaves on the bush,
They turn in the breeze
The grass-green skirts and flicker in the process!
And if from the blue
The nights a thaw came,
So dances and sparkles in the morning of May!

Drink the light and dance yourself lively!
Drink the light and then up the hill!
A pearl from the early grass splashes down on you, Imagine an elf leaping at you! Finches, oh, see how they fly, Little clouds, oh, see how they glide, Everywhere, everywhere, faces of the sun, You alone in the midst of it all, a darkened man!

Do you want to grab us?
You have to drag along with us!
Do you also have little feet as silky as ours?
Are you as flexible,
Are you as cuddly,
Are you as fast and as nimble as we are?

He stumbles and lurches,
The clogs of the shaggy bear!

Nimble, buzz around him,
Flirting, confusing him!
Whirlwind, caressing wind, teasing wind: there!
Tousle him fine,
Pluck him fine,
Pluck and pluck and pluck him fine!
Hey, and so we float airily and free!
Down there, you catch me now, catch me, catch me,
Tear the train behind me, kiss my cheek, after all,
Catch me – catch me – catch me –
Gone!

SUMMER NIGHT

Strange night! In the reed and moor,
How the dry reed rustles and slurps!
It embraces as if it were alive,
And sighs as it releases them again.

How sweet the rustling sounds!
I have always loved the night wind:
It breathes voices and souls into the reeds, the birches, the moonlight
It breathes voices and souls into them.

Many ghosts are dancing, the world is loud,
The smallest herb stirs and giggles.
From the old knight's tower,
An owl laughs into the enchanted night...

EVENING RED

I long for a homeland that has no earthly boundaries,
I long for an eternal heavenly city out of human need.
The evening glow shines brightly and clearly, the spring rustles gently in the Wasgenwald
How soon my day on earth will pass, and all my daily work!

Oh, come, thou universal night, which knows no earthly measure,
From whose depths star upon star burns upon our tiny star!
I am not tired of the day's work, and yet I am tired of the day
I long for your vastness, you unlimited heavenly city!

AUTUMN ON ODILIENBERG

1. Autumn bells

Through red forest and bell singing,
Through an autumn day's sparkling dew
I seek on anxious heights
The stronghold of a holy woman,
Seeking sunshine above the clouds!
Oh misty walk,
Oh rugged slope,
I will a proud life long
be a pilgrim!

2. The blue flower

The earth smiles as a garden land
On the pilgrim who found the blue flower.

A lily blooms from the deep forest blue:
The bright monastery of a holy woman.

And though I search always, always, always,
You, silent mountain, are the blue flower.

3. Autumn Walk

How beautiful you are! You're a web of golden hair,
I walk transfigured through a fairy-tale grove.
All my soul soars up to God,
A smoke that lost itself in the blue of the heights.

Am I the one who walks dreaming in the falling leaves,

As this earth is full of colors,

Odilienberg is as beautiful as heaven!
In nothing but light, valley and hill dissolve,
And bliss was mine, which was so full of sorrow
Thank you for everything, you blessed year!

SUNDAY MORNING ON THE ODILIENBERG

What laughter and radiance today in the forest and shimmering meadow?
Odilia walks over the mountain and blesses the sunny valleys.

The early bells awaken far and near from weekdays and worries
There is a wondrous radiance on this Sunday morning!

From Otrott and from Heiligenstein, from Klingental and further:
A holy Jacob's ladder rises from the sound of the bells!

And all the saints who have ever lived in the land of the Alisassen
They gather in the “Heidenstadt”, in invisible lanes!

And all the Celts and warriors who long ago converted to the Lord
They crowd like a forest of flowers around the one who is highly revered.

Oh sea of spirits, oh sea of sounds, oh radiance in forest and meadow
Odilia walks over the mountain and blesses the sunny district!

ST. ODILIA

Patron Saint of Alsace

Her heart was a sun,
her eyes were dead and gray!
And from the clear forehead
of the beautiful woman
flowed the golden hair
in a rich flood —
Oh Holy Woman of Odilia,
make me pious and good!

In a mountain spring
she washed her white hands
and her blind eyes
Then she saw her Alsace
in pure May blossom
standing before her eyes
Oh holy woman of Odilia,
teach me to see!

In the monastery the bells are ringing,
The world is drowning in the fog
But see, the stars are shining brightly
From the summer night sky,
But see, Strasbourg is shining brightly
Over to our heights
Oh Holy Lady of Odilia,
Alsace is beautiful!

We will then connect with what we hear from Friedrich Lienhard's poetry, some of a poet who, like Friedrich Lienhard, shows us that the most Germanic nature finds its way out of its self-conception to the eternal of an ideal world view, who also shows us how the whole intimate empathy with the vibrations of the German being broadens the view to universality, to an all-worldly view, how the German view does not narrow, how it leads out to the great wide plan, where all that is human comes into its own and nothing human is misunderstood.

Wilhelm Jordan is the other poet, of whom we want to hear the piece of his Nibelung poem, especially where he wants to introduce a mood of the human heart, where the heart opens out of the temporal in order to listen for counsel for the temporal out of the eternal. How the German hero seeks counsel not only in the external world, but also from spiritual beings who speak through nature and through the soul's outer being. How the German hero opens his heart to this counsel in order to repel the threat that comes from the Huns in the east and threatens the burgeoning of German culture. This scene, which is so poignantly connected with the innermost German feeling, but with the feeling of world culture, is then inserted into our present performance.

From “The Nibelungs” by Wilhelm Jordan. The Saga of Sigfrid, 18th Song.

Just then spoke to the servants
Of the sanctuary in the grove at Holmgart,
Now already infirm and very old, the seeress Oda:

“I thought to rest from the runic office, The little time that my pilgrimage On earth still lasts; but highly significant Is this message from the reeve of Berne; The noble Ditrich, who has long since been in charge of Ditmar, Tired of age, of the power. His bravest man and armorer, Hildebrant, the son of Herbrant,he sent, together with Siegfried's steward,to the mighty mother of men and his most valiant man and armorer,
Hildebranten, the son of Herbrant,
Sandt' he, together with Sigfrid's carer,
to the mighty mother of men and gods,
to give account, to seek advice
and guiding light from the fall of the lots...

But small is the measure of human wisdom;
So let us now pray for revelation
From the omniscient spirit of the mighty goddess,
Who bears all happenings in her womb,
And sees the shadow cast of what is still uncreated.
Omnipotent mother of men and gods,
Once more in this hour,
Strengthen the mouth of the weary. For the last time,
Before I die, I will ascend
The golden throne on the hollow step
And, with incense clouds swirling around my forehead,
From the disappointing breath from the eternal depths,
boldly gaze into the future. —
So now speak, messenger, Ditrich of the Berners:
What does he ask of the goddess of the Goth leaders ?“

Then the offspring of Heribrant spoke:

”What will help us to salvation
from the Hunnic hordes?
What is the goal of the future for a German?"

Once the question had been asked, she climbed the ladder
weakly and with difficulty. With a golden knife
she cut the rice, came down slowly,
carved the smooth bark with runes,
divided the stick into small pieces,
And turned away, she drew them
On the white carpet... Then she tied on the cloth,
Woven from unbidden, black kid
Wool, bent down, selected,
Reaching blindly, went into the grotto
And bade the princes and witnesses follow her.

Then she mounted the chair. She lined up the rods
On the holy table made of the wood of a fir tree,
Which the storm blast had once split to the root,
And then read the motto according to their position.

Then she sat lost in deep thought,
While the steam in dense clouds
Enveloped her head, to which a hundred winters
Had bleached the hair to a blinding snow.

Now at last she beckons. The incense evaporates,
eyes roll in holy ecstasy
and sparkle with fire, but only into the distance
do they gaze, enraptured, perceiving the future.
And so the divinely gifted began:

"In a surging confusion, shadows of princes and peoples and future strugglesappear to me. But in the space of the searching soul,thousands of yearsdeceptivelymove together in view.

Oh, Ditrich, consider
The envy in the neighborhood!
Otherwise a relative
Will throw you from the throne,
And you seek security
And help to return home
In bitter banishment
With the dreaded enemy.

What threatening urge
From east and west!
There Hun hordes,
Here Merowig's might.
Thus languishes the question
Of rights and realms;
Obey the hero,
That aids to salvation.

Here, the ruling
domestic sovereign
binds the envious neighbors
to a glorious empire;
There lie the corpses,
There rise the cities,
The Lechfeld illuminates
the sun of victory.

Be strong in the West,
Conquer in the East,
And take in the North
The march to the sea,
Only do not seek the concubine
In the south of the mountains,
For spirits and bodies
You poison with your kiss.

Oh King, do you fail to recognize
The meaningful legend
Of the future's salvation
Through domestic discipline?
The fruit tree of the frosty land
Becomes sick and crippled,
Because, to ennoble it,
The palm branch does not fit.

Woe! scarlet red foam
The rivers of blood,
The staggering crowd
Is discouraged and swears.
Then the red beard rages
Hidden in the mountains,
Until the raven pair, waking up,
Calls him to Valhalla.

Then the proud ones pray
And bow their foreheads
Like penitents to the dust
Before the rising star.
What crowns in the manger
The infant victor?
Three kings come
And call him Lord.

Oh, Master of mercy,
The furious, wild
And heartless Hilde
Banishes thy commandment;
Their sword shelters the weak, —
Not again awake —
To the rage of revenge
The envy and the need.

Gone, forgotten
Are gods and heroes,
Inaudible fade away
Their praise and their song.
The fearless fathers
Admired wisdom
Is cunningly slandered
And shamelessly reviled.

Incomprehensible feud
Empties the land,
Sending children and old men
To fight for a grave.
The bearer of the crown,
Struck by the crook,
There he bends barefoot
To the prayer of repentance.

But the magician trembles;
You, little rod, destroy for him
The bulwark of his castles;
His letter is burnt.

Dawn is announced
By the candles of the children's tree:
The time of estrangement
Will soon be over.

Another age of disaster,
Full of doubt and discord?
Brothers are consumed
With an excessive lust for murder.
Like greedy vultures
The Franks estrange
The best of the castles
On the rushing Rhine.

But the flames do not burn for long
The shining embers;
We overthrow the proud
From the defiant throne,
And it repents in exile
On a lonely island
The despot despairing
The disruption of the realm.

Therefore, though the earth
Has more warriors than herbs
To fight the world war,
Be fearless, my people.
Full of proud thoughts
The German endures
The storms with strong patience.

The day of recovery will come,
We will find the leader,
Who remembers our fathers
My people will win.
They will fight the battles,
They will adorn themselves with wreaths
And forge the crown
Of the united power.

The seeress spoke it; then she sank down
And gasped for breath, gasping and groaning,
With a broken look, her head on her chest.
Now she raises her head again as if listening,
With flaming eyes and flying hair.

“O Sigfrid,” she cries, “look at the sun!
It fades, it blackens: the wavering lights,
That shimmer through the shadows of the trees, they form
Not discs as usual, no, sharp sickles.
The toads lament, the owl hoots, So that midday becomes night; the murderous marten Stalks and catches the sleepy birds. As much as you thirst, you dare not drink: For behind you... Help! - wait, Hela! Oh woe - stricken - the world goes to ruin
Dreadful scream - terrible night.

Speech failed her. She leaped up,
As, with an arrow through the heart, the stag leaps up in the air
Plunged to the ground and was dead.

When, deeply moved by the words of the seer
And shaken, stunned by the horrors of death,
Odas' remains surrounded the others,
Then disappeared unnoticed from the threshold of the grotto
And won the expanse of Sibich, the Welsche.

When one hears a Madonna or a goddess speaking from the stage today, one can hardly believe one's ears. Not the slightest attempt is made to free language from the triviality of everyday life; nor is there the slightest attempt to use language to soar to a higher sphere. Every path to the spirit is barred to the stage of today; nowhere does access open to these strange, closed worlds; not even the most modest. One does not even strive to let something of the background from which unearthly figures emerge show through in the language. Real spirituality is a lost concept. A washerwoman at her trough could speak just as these Madonnas do, who are placed on pedestals in many miracle plays – devoid of all divine-spiritual content. Language is so uncultivated, so rough and prosaic, that it hurts, it offends. This is not meant to be disparaging in any way about the way the washerwoman speaks; it is justified in her case. Her difficult profession makes it necessary for her voice to become rough and hard, and her struggle with the material world must make her coarse if she does not have a counterweight in anthroposophy or religion. But the Madonna in the heavenly realms does not need to pursue such a hard physical occupation there. She should still have some atmosphere about her when she stands on the stage pedestal; some radiance, some transparency, some spirituality should resonate in her voice. The speakers should know how to make a voice sound detached and floating from afar. The figure that is presented to us is a symbol of something that reaches up to heaven and brings us its gifts from there, radiating light and spherical tones into us.

And then - the heavenly hosts! Have you ever heard them speak on stage or behind the scenes? Goethe's archangel, for example, and “the Lord”?.. Any couch potato could speak like that and any business traveler. Dry, sober, business-like, very matter-of-fact... But spiritual backgrounds, spheres of spheres, aeon steps... they are missing. “The sun sounds in the brotherly spheres of the ancient way of singing...” there is not much left of that.

But that is what must be sought, striven for, conquered today. Step by step one must feel, hear and sense one's way to it - constantly struggling and never being satisfied - until one breaks through intellectualistic boundaries, clears obstacles of matter out of the way, overcomes narrowness and finds oneself outside, liberated and redeemed. Those who are happy “to find earthworms” do not go beyond themselves, do not discover that they are also an “air man” who dominates the physical man and can use him without being chained to him. He does not find the healing power of the word, the momentum, the luminosity that allows him to grasp the core of his being and carry him over to where he came from. On the wings of the word, he can again seek out the paths that he senses when he places himself back in the word's original powers. I, living breath, center of divinity... that is where the word can lead him back.

And let us look around us in the realms of denser spirituality, which poetry wants to open up to us, in the world of the elements, for example. What keys are given to us today through art, this child of the gods, to open up those realms to us? None at all. Reason and temperament should suffice for everything. One blunders along without having an inkling of the wise mastery of the means of art through the knowledge of our human organization, of the laws that are revelations of divine-creative artistic power, of which man and the earth are the representatives for us. Should we not at last seek to trace the paths the gods have used to create works of art in their own image, and then breathe life into them? Let us enter these paths with our groping consciousness, softly at first and reverently, and let us begin to trace the living breath that gives us the reason for our existence, here as there. When we penetrate into the word - into its essence, we enter these paths. Could there be a more glorious task?

But one must begin with spelling, with the basic elements: the sounds. Not with the pressing forces of our one-sided personality. I saw Shakespeare's “Tempest” on a large stage in Germany. There was no sense of the spirituality of the elements. There was a lot of noise, temper and shouting. The Caliban scenes were extended and exaggerated in a realistic way, far beyond the limits that Shakespeare assigned to them. And Ariel? There was no airiness or lightness of being. A heavy, strong, robust voice, a stocky figure, lots of jumping and shouting. The heaviness of the squat little body was not alleviated by those jumps; the shaggy, disheveled head was the opposite of radiant. Ariel! Is there not a lightness in this word, a radiance, a flying, ringing, floating, airy bliss? Soon after, I saw the same actress as Salome in Hebbel's “Herod and Mariamne.” Then I realized that she had talent because her physique supported her in this role. The dark, heavy voice, the hard, lurking look, the stocky figure, heavily inclined towards the earth – she became the most interesting figure in Hebbel's colorfully heavy play, this ominous Salome-Herodias, while Mariamne was too consciously cool, powerfully intelligent and feminist. Maccabees? Oh no, she is very northern German in character.

When will the actors find the way out of their one-sided minds to the sources that open up the epochs, the races, the elements and the spiritual world to them? They will wither away if they do not find these ways. Nerves driven to the extreme snap, consumption is not interesting for long and in any case not productive; when it becomes fashionable and a mannerism, it is repulsive. There are already more and more voices saying that theater will have to abdicate before film.

I once saw a performance of Iphigenia. It was an event for me; it had something fateful about it, because it could not go on like this; this had been taken to the extreme and had to break. It had to break where the driving forces behind these excesses are and the counterforces are called upon. I do not want to talk so much about Iphigenia herself; she was just terribly boring and banal and expressed the blasé and dull emptiness of the hollowed-out salon lady, who has nothing else to do but walk up and down in her park and be bothered by the one boring suitor. I do not want to dwell on the boxer figure of this admirer either, although with his drooping, naked, muscular arms and his bare bull's neck, he wanted to say, as it were: “Now take my measurements, you won't find a more capable guy...” I also don't remember that anything else would have been said from his words, in any case nothing royal. But Orestes! This Orestes!

It was clear that only one thought had inspired him: to be different from all Orestes that had existed before – and to excel in the trivial. Because – isn't it true that when you're a tramp, you just happen to have copper-red skin, a wild, unkempt shock of hair that's an indefinable color of dust, and a hoarse and flat and tinny voice... Orest is also possessed, and you construct from the intellect what it's like to be possessed: the thoughts are tearing - aren't they - the nerves are aching, you are nervous, you don't want to be touched; everything is disgusting... Such a sophisticated realistic mental image is as true from the inside out as a billiard ball would be if it spoke; from the outside, it looks like a neglected tramp, the kind you might meet on some country road in Russia... But wait, such a thought could have an inspiring effect: Tauris Krim - Russia - obsessed tramps... that provides analogies. Today, one hardly takes a much broader view. In contrast, Tantalus, the Greek hero... that is outdated, has been done too often. And iambic pentameter, the metrical measure... the noble cadence of language... long outdated.

We were told how Maximilian Harden's journalistic cartographies had begun with the editor of the Monday edition of the “Berliner Tageblatt” having a number of young people as his employees, to whom he said: “You do nothing all week but sit in the coffee houses and read all the newspapers you can get hold of, and then you have to write me an article for Monday that is different from anything you have read on the same subject.” — It is said that this best describes Maximilian Harden.

If something similar was the driving motive for that Orest actor, then one would have an explanation for his bizarre and inartistic idea, otherwise not. Although his novelty consisted only in taking to the extreme what had already been achieved in naturalistic intellectualism and in applying a realistically nervous obsession with reduction to a pinnacle of German intellectual achievement. The noblest, most flawless, most perfect creation of German literary art: Goethe's “Iphigenia” in its Roman version, this work was trampled, quite ruthlessly and brutally; and anyone who felt sympathy for such a thing felt trampled along with it. One emerged from such a performance laden with responsibility; for here it was a matter of saving the highest spiritual values.

Around this time, our destiny shaper left us, and he also showed art the new paths to healing. He spanned the shimmering arc over the abyss of modern spiritlessness to the beyond; he built and formed and ignited and sprayed, leaving his work to us in a thousand and one precious stones. In full awareness of our responsibility, we now gather together these gems of his spiritual heritage.

They will continue to bless and ennoble people for thousands of years, and today they will serve us like the magic key that opens closed doors, revives the dead, heals the sick, atones for evil - if we are of good will. All these scattered gems can become a magic key – even if they are still as fragmented as they appear to our eyes in these highly inadequate transcripts of three magnificent lectures. For seven years they have been there, unexcavated for a larger public, because the shortcomings of the transcript were too obvious. And yet there is still so much of the richness left that a rebirth of the theater is possible on this soil.

Every spoken word must be taken in its full value and in its context, and a basis for understanding must be created through the will to gain an overall knowledge of the human and divine world. Rudolf Steiner calls the guidelines he has given us here. He has opened up worlds for us with them.

These lectures can be signposts to those subtler areas of art to which access has been lost today, buried by materialism. The intimacies of the soul life, secrets of the human organization in their connections with the secrets of the cosmos, form the basis for these reflections, which seek to be nothing more than starting points for further penetration through constant work and inner experience. They are only outlined here because of the limited space available; but they are intended to inspire and awaken and can call forth the artist's powers to independent life. They were given as part of a whole complex of lectures that had one goal: to lead out of the destructive forces of our time into new light and to recovery! This was Rudolf Steiner's deed, and even if hostile forces might think that with the paralysis of his public activity, with the burning of the Goetheanum, with his physical death, the work of his life has been stopped or even destroyed, they are mistaken, because the future-saving seeds are there and are working everywhere, even if the outer form breaks.

Preparing and building this future required tireless work, the strength of a superhuman and the sealing through sacrifice. In the midst of a restless working life, one of the highlights of Rudolf Steiner's work was the opening of the Goetheanum as a School of Spiritual Science. It was a time of upheaval and social turmoil, of economic collapse. Even though the artistic works were not all completed, the building could be handed over to its purpose, the work to its goals. For three years, the building served this work: the renewal of humanity in the spirit. Then it burnt down on New Year's Eve. The dignity of the celebration was given to the act of destruction; the greatness of the annual cycle to the historical event. Thus the building was sealed into the cosmos and the course of time when it was snatched from earthly activity.

These lectures form part of the university courses, which could not be absent from the opening ceremony, because they were more than an integral part. For Steiner, the word was the basis of all that is happening. The word was the starting point and center and goal of all becoming and all unsealing. But Rudolf Steiner did not use big words only veiled in mystery; he led to them through recognition and through grasping. What he opened up became perception, became conscious comprehension and action. One was allowed to climb the first rungs of the ladder under his guidance. Then he handed us over to freedom. His word in us was to become daring and deed.

Art was never absent from the events that originated with Rudolf Steiner. We were to approach it with insight, to bring it to fruition with reverence, and to remember its origin. It was an essential component of cosmic worship; it originated in the threefold logos; at the altars of truth, beauty and strength, it served and sacrificed. It has preserved its divine connection for the longest time, through the rationalist ages. In the age of triviality, its divine childhood sank into the physical; the victory of mechanics tore it away from its spiritual sources and chained it to the machine.

It must be redeemed again. The aim of the House of Language – as Rudolf Steiner called the Goetheanum – was to lead art, science and religion out of the separation into which they had fallen and back to their original unity. In the spiritual deepening and mutual fertilization of art, science and religion, Rudolf Steiner saw a remedy that could effectively intervene in the social life of humanity, so that barbarism could be avoided and, instead of the already scientifically proven twilight of European culture arising out of need, misery and error, a new dawn could arise.

The deeply moving words in which he expresses this aspiration clearly show the important role he ascribes to spiritualized art in the reconstruction of higher human culture, and should therefore appear in this book together with the lectures on the arts of oratory.

The house that served these purposes, offering a warm welcome to every guest in free openness, no longer stands. In its place rises a castle-like building made of the austere material of our time, concrete. His creator, who has since passed away, breathed life into it; this ennobles it and gives it its significance. The mystery plays, Rudolf Steiner's dramatic creations, are to be performed there. These place the human being back into his spiritual-cosmic context, make him a citizen of the world, and explain his present personality from his previous earthly lives. Through these dramas, humanity will be able to learn to recognize itself, to experience itself and to renew itself. There, above all, eurythmy is to be cultivated, that art which Rudolf Steiner placed as a new art in the series of the older arts that preceded it, the outer visible moving form of language, which imperatively and compellingly demands the renewal of the art of language, of the artistically spoken word. Rudolf Steiner called for an orchestral interaction between the spoken word and the eurythmic gesture, and this had to be achieved in practice. When what we were doing met his requirements, he gave us an understanding of what we were doing, shone a light into the secrets of the art of speech and poetry, and thus released us from the unbearable.

We are under no illusion that the world will yet show much understanding for this endeavor. We would even understand if some honest seekers were to throw this book aside in the first instance, in desperation and despair. A transformation of consciousness is necessary to tread this path, and one has indeed wanted to keep art away from the penetration of consciousness. Only a consciousness that sees, hears and wills leads us today to true artistic experience and snatches poetic language from the abstract intellectualization and mechanization to which it has already fallen.

If we have become accustomed to accepting what is offered in this direction from the stage, we have no idea what can be suffered when the noblest works of poetry are presented to us in such a mutilated, mistreated, and desecrated state, as happens all too often today.

It is as if the gods were turning away in anger from what we have done with their gifts. They have given us everything, withholding nothing; works have been created of incredible height and purity and formal perfection; the German language has become a tool of the subtlest power and suppleness, to grasp the vastness and depth of being and to unlock the inner being... It is still versatile and pliable and capable of growing beyond itself, thus carrying humanity forward... But those who lead it to this destiny, purposefully and unwaveringly, will be stoned.

Those who trivialize and sensationalize it, on the other hand, are considered masters.

The possibilities of the German language in the contouring and transcendence of its conceptual formulations are matched in another way by the plasticity and permeability of its phonetic elements. It is not musical in the usual sense, not on the surface – you you have to have an inner ear for it – but it has so many shades, lights, veils, brightenings and flashes that with its help you can repeatedly push through the boundaries of meaning: from the other side, from over there, it sounds through its umlauts, its diphthongs, whispers in the consonant connections, sounds in the flowing swings of its sentence structure. One has no inkling of the artistic experience that language can be until one has learned to listen from within, until the spiritual and intellectual resonance has been transformed into the formation of the 'sound, into the flight of movement.

Today's world is a realization of the intellectual; it does not go beyond the mechanical-mathematical; it does not find the way into the imaginative, into the formation of legends. One no longer manages to form images because one has become an intellectual abstraction. It is much easier to think cleverly than to create picturesquely, because the intellectual emanates from the personal, and artistic creation requires much more selflessness. It submerges into the object instead of imagining it, letting itself be carried away by it instead of holding on to it. We lose our real connection with the world, we deprive people of the immortal by living in intellectualism. Pictorial design not only works on the intellectual, but on the whole person; it goes into much deeper layers of the soul life than conceptual thinking. By trying to speak in pictures, what is atomized by studying the subject matter is synthesized again. It is moved up into the sphere of the imagination, where it is vividly dissolved and musically inspired. In this way it approaches what is eternal in the soul, what stands behind the intellectual. Through speech inspired by the imagination, we lead people to the substantial content of the word, to the supersensible, to the creative word that streams out of the supersensible. Immortal soul life is awakened when we speak from the image, from the artistic; immortal soul life is conquered when we work from the intellectual.

It is not a matter of
observing the temporary,
but the eternal that
lives in man must be observed more and more.

—Marie Steiner

Preliminary Remarks:

The “seminar” — the term was coined by Dr. Steiner — came about because she was unable to come up to the daily lessons in the hall of the Rudolf Steiner-Halde for some time due to a broken arm, and therefore convened a group of about twelve to fourteen personalities — some of them members of her Dornach acting group, but some of them also those who were already active in the field of language in various cities - to work with them through the text examples for the book “Rudolf Steiner: The Art of Recitation and Declamation,” which she was just publishing at the time, with a view to teaching them later. This course, so lively and sparkling, also had a very intimate, personal character due to the limited number of participants. We were all beginners, only a short time, about a year and a half, their students.

The following notes were intended for colleagues and friends who were unable to attend the sessions, in order to give them at least a small impression of this work. These notes are all about corrections to what we have attempted, which were given to us in the moment of activity – pointing the way forward.

—Gertrud Redlich

Some notes on the LANGUAGE EXERCISES with a view to later teaching:

Articulation exercises

The breath stream should only be mentioned in a later lesson. Try to speak at the front of the lips, to articulate well, so that you bring the language forward. The two main mistakes that occur are palatal and head sounds.

That he lied to you and must not praise it
Don't take nuns in never-ending mills.

Take the I out with the consonants. N and M guide the I sound out well. Feel the directions. Envelop the I with N and M. These consonants resonate and take the I with them.

Learn to listen!

Redlich ratsam
Rüstet rühmlich
Riesig rächend
Ruhig rollend
Reuige Rosse

only articulate. First, pay attention to the consonants so that they lead out the vowels. Then you can tell the students to live more in the vowel, to feel it, to experience the sounds, to be in the sounds.

Knead air dough

Ostentatiously extols
Baths brünstig
Rumblingly cute
Bieder tinkering
Powder patzend
Bergig brüstend

Breathing exercises

Fulfillment comes
Through hope
Through yearning
Through wanting
Wanting blows
In the weaving
It blows in the quivering
It weaves quivering
It weaves bindingly
In the finding
It winds finding
announcing

This exercise can be very helpful for those who are short of breath; it must sound full. The breathing technique is the opposite of that of a singer, who directs their breath. Here you have to learn to exhaust it all at once. This is how you achieve fullness and roundness.

Breathing exercises teach us to speak musically. You have to be objective when doing the exercises, not bring in anything balladic, pathetic or lyrical, but speak soberly and prosaically but phonetically. Do not take pitches that have an emotional effect. Pictorial imagery is not absolutely necessary here.

In the immeasurable vastness,
In the endless times,
In the depths of the human soul,
In the revelation of the world:
Search for the great riddle's solution.

Use the first four lines, especially N, well. Experience the horizontal in “in the times”, the vertical in “in the depths”, a large wave downwards, a large O in “world revelation”.

The message in the last line is figurative.

The flowing of the breath must take you along, shading “Human Soul Depths” a little deeper, tone and breath down. The language needs urgency, one Flin involving the other, a loving laying into the vowels.

You need strong breathing for this exercise, you learn to speak with the inhalation and shape it. “Search” to shed some light. Challenge, seriously! First lines – Flinausgehen in den Kosmos.

Fluency exercises

Lalle Lieder lieblich
Lipplicher Laffe
Lappiger lumpiger
Laichiger Lurch

Experience the waves that the L makes, this is how it brings out the sound. Develop joy in things. The exercise is effervescent and, in affect, says something pictorial – affective-humorous.

You have to learn the fluency exercises by purring them, they are meant to make the speech tools pliable.

Speak on the lips, start at the front, purr lightly!

The articulation exercises are intended to make you aware of the speech tools. The voice should be based solely on the sound.

Whistle cleverly
Horses priestly
Plows nurturing
Peaching peaches

Whistling cleverly from bowls
Slipping priestly horses
Bouncing nursing plows
Peaching peaches knotting

Whistling cleverly out of bowls
Hatching horse-drawn horses
Hopping over plows
Tying up peaches

Heretics now tell tales pitifully
Ultimately slightly skeptical

Heretics now snitch pitifully
Ultimately suddenly slightly skeptical

Also on the lips and slightly.

Sling snake quickly
Wound away finds

Winding snake snake
Quickly snake snake away

Very light, at the front.

Contrary to force, though
Two-purpose zwickers too little
Twenty dwarves
The sinewy crabs
safely seeking feasting
That smacking Schmachter
snugly quickly
purring flicks

To a Russian-speaking participant: Roll the R less. The German must be able to adjust the R according to the neighboring consonants. Bring it forward!

Only never regret
Greedily grinning
Knots snapping
Pledges knotting

You should use these exercises to feel in which region you are speaking.

Once again, breathing exercises :

It is very important that one also creates good consonant connections in which the sound (vowel) can live. One gradually learns to feel one's breathing without being held back by the imagination. To do this, it is good to practice some words in reverse:

wollen - nellow, eva - ave, etc.

In “Fulfillment,” learn to let go of the breath, to let yourself fall with the breath into the words.

We must gradually achieve penetration of consciousness.

Breathing exercises serve to make us aware of the breathing current.

Articulation exercises to make us aware of the speech tools.

The “immeasurables” also involve directing the breath. The words are steered like boats over the waves, gradually swelling to the fourth line.

When you tell your students about breathing, you may say that you are not committed to any particular method. You learn to practice your breathing with the sounds themselves; your breathing is directed by itself when the sounds are spoken well.

You learn to hold your breath with the five vowels in a sustained stream of breath: A-E-I-O-U.

Send upwards
longing desire
Send forwards
thoughtful striving
Send backwards
conscientious reflection.

Learn to swim with your breath and listen to the sounds. You should start modulating as soon as you send. Feel what consonant connections do to each vowel, for example: n-d in send.

Take three pitches!

Do not hold the things on a string, feel the sounds and resonate with them. The stream of movement must take you with it. There is an essence in these things.

This essence must take you with it, not we must hold it close to our hearts.

Weigh your volition clearly,
direct your feeling aright,
make your thinking rigid:
rigid thinking upholds,
right feeling maintains,
clear volition follows
the deed.

When speaking the last line, lead away from the musical and into movement.

Set your feeling aright: soul-line.

Steal your thinking: rigidly, rhythmically! The sounds themselves set the voice; one has only to yield to them. The voice sets itself according to the sounds. What precedes and follows always colors the things.

One should gradually develop a sense for the difference between artistic lines and intellectual and emotional speech. One must learn to go through to the end with the ego and not always stop intellectually.

When portraying voices from the beyond, for example angels or Madonnas and so on, one would have to learn to stop before it all comes into the imagination. Sentimentality stops right away and is self-indulgent, and therefore not spiritually true. Movement makes it true.

Clear volition follows: look artistically, not want yourself!

You find yourself:
Searching in world distances,
Striving for world heights,
Fighting in world depths.

First line from the conscious will. The breathing person continues through all incarnations, he is more spiritual than the feeling person.

The base nose ate flour
Lawn mass scratched bare

The A long and strong into it. The exercise is actually intended to counter nasal speech, but it can also be used as an A exercise.

Storm-word rumbles around gate and tower
Newt-worm drills through gate and tower
Stupidly, worm-newt rages through gate and tower

This precedes the exercise. It is also very suitable for speaking in the breathing stream. Nuance! The first line is not dramatic, but very dark in the speech stream, like the wind that bypasses. Newt-worm drills: not mentally, not dramatically. Loud. Movement – breath.

Rages foolishly: very dark, dull and bumpy.

At the O, the hard palate must make a bulge.

These three lines are all tuned to U, only differing in movement; the U must be superimposed on the O.

There must always be an increase at the end (newt-worm, worm-newt).

An egg is whitish, whitish is an egg
Lead is new in the litter, new in the litter is lead
The maiden is bluish, bluish is maidenly.

is good practice for squeezed lute. Simple and concrete and out.

Hot, radiant, spiky
strands support tight
nets, useful as
strict paws, strict
folded

a strong articulation exercise! Good for sagging soft palate. The alternation of plosives with L and R sprinkled in between tightens the soft palate. The vowels go into the consonants and are defeated by them.

For pointed and sharp voices:

Walle Welle willig
Leise lispeln lumpige Lurche lustig

Gently flow with L, feel the wave motion, L and W bring out.

Is a stumbling star
Master of mystical stages
Always stand firm on the road
Of earnest endeavor
Standing still and stern
Before the steps of constant endeavor
In a constant mood.

Bring the sound forward, without any inner compassion. Go into the consonant connections and bend them nicely. The exercise is good for those who stutter.

White brightness shines into the black darkness
The black darkness seizes the feeling soul
The feeling soul longs for the white brightness
The white brightness is the willing soul drive
The willing soul drive finds the white brightness
In the white brightness, the longing soul weaves

to learn nuance! You have to keep returning to the repetitive rhythm, letting the breath flow like a wind and using the imagination for nuances; also learning to take breaks every now and then. Movement, movement – don't get stuck in the singing!

How do you explain the hexameter to your students? It is the primal meter. The human organism itself solves the riddle that is given in the meter. You can trace the meter back to the human organism, breath and pulse. There are four pulses in one breath.

Practice the first lines of Goethe's “Achilleis”.

The mighty blaze flared up once more
, reaching for the sky, and the walls of Iios appeared
red through the dark night; the towering forest
's immense structure, collapsing, aroused
mighty glow at last. Then Hector's bones descended, and the ashes of the noblest Trojan lay on the ground.

There are two breaths and two times four pulses (three dactyls and one caesura) in each hexameter. Example: “Sing, O Muse, of the wrath...”

The relation of the pulse to the breath is the basis for the influence of higher beings through blood and breathing.

We will now try to understand the DIFFERENCES BETWEEN RECITATION AND DECLAMATION by practicing the two “Iphigenias”.

From “Iphigenia”
(Weimar version):

Come out, you shadows, ever-moving treetops of the sacred grove, as if into the sanctuary of the goddess I serve, I step with ever-new awe, and my soul does not get accustomed to being here!

(Roman version):

Come out, you shadows, ever-moving treetops
Of the old, sacred, densely leafy grove,
As in the goddess's silent sanctuary,
I still enter with a shuddering feeling,
As if I were entering it for the first time,
And my spirit does not get used to it here.

The “Roman Iphigenia” lives in the symmetry of the metric; in the “German Iphigenia,” I have to vault, point, and intensify from the inner, tonal will element, which vaults and points at the end of the sentence (clamare). Here it is an approach to the oppressive.

Try to understand and develop artistic lines. The content of the two Iphigenias is the same, the artistic line is different.

In the German: high and low tones, strong life in the exhalation, expelling the breath. In the Roman, a musical conducting and use of inhalation. It must not come to the performance, the image is intercepted on the way to the performance, one breathes in the air that flows in by itself.

In order for it to become declamation, the will must be held back and not allowed to flow into the outside world. In order for it to become recitation, the imagination must be held back, remaining in musical enjoyment.

Inhalation is used to speak to everything spiritual, for example, Rudolf Steiner's weekly sayings.

The benefit lies in the musical practice, not in the enjoyment of one's own personality. In this way everything becomes more real, nobler and truer. We gradually learn to illuminate all regions with our consciousness. In the flowing breath, the sculpture dissolves musically.

Two poems are practised, one recited, the other declaimed.

Goethe: “Charon” - recitative (text see p. 31)
“Olympos” - declamatory (text see p. 30)

Before that, some language exercises: Hitzige strahlige / Walle, Welle / Ist strauchelnder / Weiße Helligkeit (for texts, see pp. 169-70).

“Olympos” is shaped entirely from the folk-like, the epic, which pushes everything out of the will, bloodily, toweringly increasing. Pauses! Magnificent images that are thrown down, rough, angular, hard like jagged mountains. Will and contempt. The bird of prey must be characterized, it eats the carcass soundlessly, only in the breath. Start at the soft palate and arch, making the hard palate flatter.

“Charon” is recitative-like, metrical. This is where antiquity comes in, with composed, digested images; the other poem lives in the midst of modern events.

In “Charon” it is more the rhythmic, the musical, the mood and the painting, not high and low tones, but not always the same tempo, otherwise you get no nuances. Not soulful, defensive movements in metrical uniformity and dark shading.

“Heidenröslein” (Goethe); “Erlkönigs Tochter” (Herder) (see pages 28/29 for texts).

“Heidenröslein”: shape the words in the air, but don't stick to the words. It's movement and image. See the image clearly. The little dialog is somewhat dramatic; this is where the declamatory element of will comes in. It's like a folk song, especially in the refrain.

“Erlkönigs Tochter”: it is epic with a strong dramatic impact. One must carve out the dramatic element and the mood. The treatment is recitative-like with a strong dramatic impact. It becomes dramatic when some character takes on a life of its own. But if you let yourself be carried away by your personal temperament, you have lost your style. Don't lose the rhythm that ennobles the whole. Rhythm contains the most diverse movements. The drama seduces, it is tempting to remain stylistically correct. A mysterious mood of fairy tales and legends prevails throughout the poem, so you have to let the vowels slip into the consonants. The poem contains many possibilities for differentiation. Configure it so that you drop the insignificant and change the tempo. Take breaks to create atmosphere. These people – mother, bride – have intuitions that you can shape in the pauses.

A reciter must be proficient in all subjects and must be able to differentiate. Do not work the vowels so strongly; then they are more transparent. Let them slip into the consonants. The mother's pain is to be shaped out of the region of the will, detached from the personal. This is a matter of breathing and technique. Learn to live in the sounds, not so connected with the content. It is a ghostly event, and this gives the color. You have to make it interesting, uncovering backgrounds. Make the diphthongs transparent for the mother, then the spiritual can shine through and the whole thing becomes nobler.

When the vowels are pierced, the spiritual always enters.

LANGUAGE

As the greatest miracle that the mind accomplished,
I praise language, which, otherwise lost
In deepest solitude, was born of itself,
Because it alone made the others possible.

Yes, when I consider its reason and purpose,
Then only language has conjured up the heavy curse
To which, chosen to be a dull individual,
He would have succumbed before he even woke.

For if the unsearchable One and All,

Friedrich Hebbel

With this sonnet we must be calm, not conceptual, but flexible and musically plastic. Speak with inhalation, then there is abundance, and make small pauses. Artistically shape the pauses at the right place, do not inhale unmotivated.

A mood of being saturated with enthusiasm through experience and volition. The poem is very strict; the down inflections indicate maturity. Flebbel is superb.

One must always have the poet's basic mood in the poems.

TO THE AERials

All-eternal and infinite ether!
Through the narrowest, as through the widest, it flows!
Excluded from no ring of existence!
Still wafted by every breath of life!

The only representative of the unexplored!
Its first and most worthy offspring!
The only one in deepest tranquility enveloped!
Opposite you, I too become a supplicant!

My roaming eye, that would embrace you so gladly,
Closes in awe before you, ere it fails,
For the gaze comprehends nothing but its own limitations.

So also my spirit before God, for it recognized
That it, embraced, never expands so much
to entwine itself around the All-embracing One again.

Friedrich Hebbel

One must feel the waves of the ether. A sonnet does not tolerate declamation.

From Rudolf Steiner's “Mysteries Dramas” (“The Portal of Initiation”, seventh scene):

PHILIA:
I will fulfill myself
With the clearest light
From the world's widths,
I will breathe in myself
Invigorating sound
From the ether's depths,
So that you, beloved sister,
Can succeed in your work.

ASTRID:
I will interweave
Radiant light
With dimming darkness,
I will condense
The sound of life.
It shall resound glisteningly,
It shall resound glitteringly,
So that you, beloved sister,
can direct the soul's rays.

LUNA:
I will warm soul substance
And will harden life ether.
They shall condense,
They shall feel each other,
And being within themselves,
Shall sustain each other,
So that you, beloved sister, Can give the searching human soul Certainty of knowledge.

PHILIA:
I will beseech the spirits of the world, That the light of their being Enchant the soul's sense,And the sound of their words Make the spirit's ear glad; So that the one to be awakened May rise On paths of the soul To the heights of heaven.

ASTRID:
I will direct the currents of love,
Warming the world,
To the heart
Of the initiate;
So that he can bring
Heaven's kindness
To earthly activity,
And a spirit of devotion
To the children of men.

LUNA:
I will beg of elemental forces
Courage and strength,
And place them in the seeker's heart;
In the depths of his heart;
So that trust
In one's own self
Can accompany him through life.
He shall feel safe
In himself then.
He shall pluck from moments
the ripe fruits
and draw seeds from them
for eternities.

Regarding this scene with the soul forces:

Here we have completely musically resolved plastic. The words must resound out in the cosmos. One must catch the inhalation, otherwise the otherworldly will not come out. Without this breathing treatment, one cannot resolve musically. With full breath, with too much breath, one cannot do spiritually resolved. It depends on the dosage, one must divide the doses. One should also glide over the auxiliary verbs. Nuances of major!

Luna – Prime Minister, Maria – Supreme Queen.

Truth is always connected with being there with the I the whole time and always going along with things. Truth is always simple. This is achieved by tapering the sounds, not thickening them.

The first thing in artistic speech formation is: learn to yawn! The other: keep the style!

Two sonnets by Novalis (see texts on pages 32/33)

These two sonnets are very recitative-like and very transparent, very calm and – very difficult!

We will start by working on the form, everything else will follow later – for example, the feeling. Our task now is to work on style and form.

Novalis is absolutely a man of the I. You have to feel from the beginning that there is a lofty I behind it. The I-nature can eternally get into everything. Major! In the beginning, it is better to be somewhat forceful, vary the word gestures – and live in the imagination. Maturity, relationship to the supersensible.

Novalis must be spoken in the same way as one who stands in the concrete experience of the spiritual world. The word gestures must grab you immediately.

Consonance. Operate with what comes to your mouth anyway.

If you have to breathe in again, don't drop the word before it, but hold it up. Zändende I-moments in the entries, making the vowels transparent, always being poetic.

Novalis is the embodiment of poetry, his inner gesture is: touching the hem of divinity.

No rising and falling intonation here! With Novalis, you should do the modulation consciously, the content merges into the line.

Hymn to Nature (Goethe) (lyrics see p. 127)

The words must sound hymn-like, therefore the declamation should be free of didactics. Here, everything is surprising. Project the resonance from the hard palate. Nature always has something iron-willed about it. The speech must be consonantal, arising from the breath and sounds, not from the head and heart, in a strong, willful movement. Do not let it become a conversation. High and low tones, they are all beats of the pulse that surge into the breath.

The formation includes: embouchure, resonance line and soundboard. The soundboard is always out in the air, which is nice. Different tempi. Different ways of forming sounds: whether wavy, angular, sharp, and so on. There is more in the sounds than we know. There lie the creative powers, which then spurt out with all the diversity of nature. Our soul is not enough. Into the Gothic pointed arch with the throw. The will element must go through the limbs, you feel it in the arms and legs.

During declamation, inhalation flows up to the brain and then back to the spinal cord. There we have to stop the flow of breath with the will element, not letting it come to action. With this unexpressed will, I can operate in the breath stream. The idea must have been there before, it came with the inhalation into the brain and was dealt with there.

The stream of breathing comes back to the sphere of the will.

Model into the exhalation – but without personal dramatic feeling – into the sound, with pauses and not with strong sound. But always include the limb-man.

From “Die Nibelunge” by Wilhelm Jordan (lyrics see 5.116/17)

Movement is not rushing! Please a held step here, completely into the movement and depth. It does not need to echo; roll along epically in the flow, not always at an even tempo like a barrel organ. The listener must be introduced to the situation. The sound H chisels, works plastically. One must avoid chiseling with non-alliterating words, but one can therefore take them broadly. The song is somewhat more recitative-like with a dramatic impact, but not so strong that the epic is held up. Epic demands that one enter completely into it and completely digest the images. The conclusion is darkly musical, brazen and somewhat dying away.

St. Expeditus (Morgenstern) (lyrics see p. 33 ff.)

“Expeditus” is humorous poetry, not grotesque, and therefore without strong exaggeration. It is recitative, so not so much high and low tones! You could call it communicative conversation. You have to learn to distinguish whether the language flows more in terms of number and measure in the syllables, or with weight, heavy and light. But the images must stand out well within the flow. Please work the matter out very formally.

Goethe's youth poems should also be treated similarly, with esprit, with spirit! Emphasize something, that is, make the syllables stand out a little. The mind from the brain has a little fun with it. Humor peeks into all the pots and takes things out. Therefore, you have to penetrate into every matter. Speak very close to the teeth, as soon as it becomes satirical. A quiet legend and fairy tale mood, not too fast, not echoing and well shaded and pointed, let the vowels slip into the consonants, so that it becomes somewhat unreal and flowing. Design good pauses and stay in the poetic, not conceptual, just a little head, but with the application of all artistic means. Very graceful! Artistically surround with subordinate clauses and slide them in gracefully.

German doesn't just come naturally to the lips.

In the grotesque, you can add a bulge to the end of the sound to make it thicker; it's the exact opposite of spiritual speaking.

THE BOUQUET

Old Bohemian

A light breeze blows
from the royal forests;
There the girl runs,
There she runs to the stream,
draws the water in
bucketfuls.

Carefully, deliberately
She knows how to scoop.

On the river to the girl
A little bouquet floats,
A fragrant little bouquet
Of violets and roses.

If I, you lovely
little flower, knew who had planted you
in loose soil;
Truly! I would give him
a little golden ring.

If I, my darling
little bouquet, knew,
Who bound you with delicate
Baste;
Truly! I would give him
The needle from my hair.

If I, you lovely
little flower, knew who threw you into the cool
stream, I would truly give them my wreath from my head.

And so she pursues
The hastening little bouquet,
She hurries ahead of it,
Trying to catch it:
Then, alas! then she falls
Into the cool water.

J. W. Goethe

The poem is lyrical and has a short melodious theme. It is to be treated objectively. The girl herself is like a breeze. Rococo poems are entirely formal, whereas this Bohemian folk song can be somewhat more intimate. There are quiet echoes of melodies, but movement must dominate. Breeze-like mood. The music must not push the image and the sculpture into the background.

From “Kleine Mythen” by Albert Steflen

JUDGE AND REDEEMER

A man who had shed blood was seized by a waterfall in the night, whipped and dragged down into the abyss. Half-drowned, he snatched himself from the whirlpool. From that time forth, in all his doings and sufferings, he heard the voice of the terrible element. It dripped, trickled, splashed, poured, thundered, as if it wanted to proclaim something, but the tortured man did not know what.

After twenty-five years, the rushing became quieter.

One night he saw the murdered man by a stream, holding a reed in his hand and shouting, “I turn water into blood.

”How?” asked the murderer. ‘By the law,’ replied the murdered man. ‘Judge me,’ pleaded the murderer, ‘so that you may love me again as I love you.’

Then Christ appeared in the place of the judge.

Here we have prose: legendary, somewhat similar to a fairy tale, but the slipping in of vowels is even stronger here than in the fairy tale. There should be something like a veil over the words. One does not speak directly on the lips, but also not in the palate. It must be dream-like, objectively dream-like. In dreams, everything comes unexpectedly. Moonlight atmosphere. The inflections of each syllable downwards. It is imagination, therefore every image must appear despite the flow. Seize the words with the consonants, but dissolve the things as they come. Complete all movements. For the artistic creation, one must allow oneself to be completely gripped by the material, live through it completely and then move away from it. You should go through everything, even cry and sob if you want, but then stand aside and above it.

When you are dreaming, you do not speak from the heart, you cannot go completely into the heart, otherwise it becomes too real. You have to keep a little distance and, above all, enter the picture, completely into the picture. Learn to distinguish between strong emotion and passion.

The listener experiences more intensely when you leave the emotion to him, not overwhelm him with it. Art itself is in all areas of suggestion.

The last movement is quite simple, a light. Strict! Major! Because the judge appeared in place of the Christ.

My dear Friends,

This course has a little history attached to it, and it is perhaps good that I should weave this little history into the introductory words that I propose to give today. For that is all we shall attempt in this first lecture—a general introduction to the whole subject. The proper work of the course will begin tomorrow and will be apportioned in the following way. I shall give the lectures; and then as far as demonstration is concerned, that will be taken by Frau Dr. Steiner. The course will thus be given by us both, working together.

The arrangement of the course will be, roughly speaking, as follows. Part I will be devoted to the Forming of Speech, and Part II to the Art of the Theatre—dramatic stagecraft, production and so on. Then, in Part III, we shall consider the art of the drama in relation to what it meets with in the world outside, whether in the way of simple enjoyment or of criticism and the like. We may call this third part: The Stage and the Rest of Mankind. We shall have to discuss together certain demands that our age makes upon the art of the drama, and see how we can enable it to take its right place in the life of man as it is lived today.

I said the course had a little history behind it. It began in the following way. A number of persons closely connected with the stage approached Frau Dr. Steiner and myself independently, in the conviction that anthroposophy, ready as one expects it to be to give new impulses today in every sphere of life—in religion, in art, in science—must also be able to furnish new impulses for the art of the drama. And that is most assuredly so. Several courses on speech have already been given here by Frau Dr. Steiner; and at one of them, where I also was contributing, I added some considerations that bore directly on the work of the stage. These had a stimulating effect on many of those who attended the course, some of whom have since been introducing new features into their work on the stage, that can be traced to suggestions or indications given by us. Groups of actors have made their appearance before the public as actors who acknowledge that, for them at least, the Goetheanum is a place where new impulses can be received.

And then there is also the fact that the art which has been among us since 1912, the art of eurhythmy, comes very near indeed to the art of the stage. This follows from the very conditions eurhythmy requires for its presentation. Dramatic art will, in fact, in future have to consider eurhythmy as something with which it is intimately connected.

This art of eurhythmy, when it was originally given by me, was at first thought of within quite narrow limits. I should perhaps not say ‘thought of’, for it was with eurhythmy as it is with everything within the Anthroposophical Movement that comes about in the right way: one responds to a demand of karma, and gives just so much as opportunity allows. No other way of working is possible in the Anthroposophical Movement. You will not find with us an inclination to plan ‘reforms’ or to put out some great ‘idea’ into the world. No, we take our guidance from karma. And at that time a need had arisen—it was in a quite small circle of people—to provide for some kind of vocation. It all came about in the most natural manner, but in a manner that was in absolute conformity with karma; and to begin with, what I gave went only so far as was necessary to meet this karma.

Then one could again see the working of karma in the fact that about two years later Frau Dr. Steiner, whose own domain was of course very closely affected, began to interest herself in the art of eurhythmy All that eurhythmy has since become is really due to her. Obviously therefore this present course as well, the impulse for which goes right back to the years 1913–14, must take its place in the Section for the Arts of Speech and Music, of which Frau Dr. Steiner is the leader.¹ For now, as a direct culmination of these events, the idea has arisen of doing something here for the development of the arts of speech and drama. Making a beginning, that is; for what we do would naturally only attain its full significance if the audience were limited to professional actors and those who, having the necessary qualifications, are hoping to become such. We should then probably have been a comparatively small circle; and we should have been able, working through the course in its three Parts (as I have explained is my intention), to carry our study far enough to allow of the participants forming themselves afterwards into a working group. They could then have gone out from Dornach as a touring company and proved the value, wherever they went, of the study we had carried through together here. For the deeper meaning of such things as I intend to put before you in this course will obviously only emerge when they are put into practice on the stage. This therefore would have been the normal outcome of a course of lectures on Speech and Drama.

That not all of you assembled here desire a course on this basis is perfectly evident. Nor would it be possible to carry it through with the present audience. Obviously, that is not feasible—although perhaps it would not, after all, be such a terrible disaster for the world if in some of our theatres the present actors could be replaced from here! But I see a few friends sitting in the audience of whom I know very well that they have no such ambition!

And so it turns out that there are two reasons why the course could not take on this orientation towards a practical end. For, in the first place, unfortunately neither those on whom it would have devolved to carry out the plan, nor we who were to give the impulse for it, have any money. Money is the very thing we are perpetually feeling the lack of. In itself the plan would have been perfectly possible, but there is no money for it; and unless it were properly financed, it could naturally not be put into effect. The only possibility would be that some of you who feel stimulated to do so should go ahead and undertake something at your own personal risk.

Secondly, such a keen interest was aroused in the course that one had to begin to consider who else might perhaps be allowed to attend. At first, we were rather strict; but the circle having been once broken into, all control goes to the winds—and that has most emphatically been our experience on this occasion.

Our course, then, will set out to present the art of the stage, with all that pertains to it, and we shall find that the art of the stage has to reach out, as it were, in many directions for whatever can contribute to its right development and orientation. Today, I want to speak in a general introductory way of what I have in mind as the essential content of our work together.

The first thing that calls for attention is that if speech is to come in any way into the service of art, it must itself be regarded as an art. This is not sufficiently realised today. In the matter of speech you will often find people adopting an attitude such as they adopt also, for example, to the writing of poetry. It would hardly occur to anyone who had not mastered the preliminaries of piano-playing to come into a company of people and sit down at the piano and play. There is, however, a tendency to imagine that anyone can write poetry, and that anyone can speak or recite. The fact is, the inadequacy and poverty of stage speaking as it is at present will never be rectified, nor will the general dissatisfaction that is felt on the matter among the performers themselves be dispelled, until we are ready to admit that there are necessary preliminaries to the art of speech just as much as there are to any performance in the sphere of music.

I was once present at an anthroposophical gathering which was arranged in connection with a course of lectures I had to give. It was a sort of ‘afternoon tea’ occasion, and something of an artistic programme was to be included. I do not want to enter here into a description of the whole affair, but there was one item on the programme of which I would like to tell you. (I myself had no share in the arrangements; these were made by a local committee.) The principal person concerned came up to me and I asked him about the programme. He said he was going to recite himself. I had then to call to my aid a technique that is often necessary in such circumstances, a technique that enables one to be absolutely horror-struck and not show it. It is a faculty that has to be learned, but I think on this occasion I succeeded pretty well, to begin with, in the exercise of this little artifice. I asked him then what he was going to recite. He said he would begin with a poem by the tutor of Frederick William IV, a poem about Kepler. I happened to know it—a beautiful poem, but terribly long, covering many pages. I said: ‘But won't it be rather long?’ He merely replied that he intended following it up with Goethe's Fairy Tale of the Green Snake and the Beautiful Lily; and that if all went well, he would then go on to recite Goethe's poem Die Geheimnisse. I can assure you that with all the skill I could muster it was now far from easy to conceal my dismay.

Well, he began. The room was only of moderate size, but there were quite a number of people present. First one went out, then another, then another; and presently a group of people left the room together. Finally, one very kind-hearted lady was left sitting all alone in the middle of the room—his solitary listener! At this point the reciter said: ‘It will perhaps be rather too long.’ So ended the scene.

It is, as you see, not only outside the Anthroposophical Society but even within it that such a point of view in regard to speech may be met with. I have taken a grotesque example, but the same sort of thing is constantly occurring in milder form, and it is imperative that we make an end of it, if our performances in this domain are to find approval with those who understand art and are moved by genuine artistic feeling. There must be no doubt left in our minds that the forming of speech has to be an art, down to each single sound that is uttered, just as music has to be an art, down to each single note that is played.

Only when this is realised will any measure of satisfaction be possible; and, what is still more important, only then will the way open for style to come again into the arts of speech and drama. For the truth is, people have ceased troubling about style altogether in this domain; and no art is possible without style.

But now, if we are to speak together here of these things, the need inevitably arises that I should at the same time draw your attention to the way that speech and drama are related to the occult—the occult that is ever there behind. And that brings us to the question: Whence in man does speech really come? Where does it originate?

Speech proceeds, not directly from the I or ego of man, but from the astral organism. The animal has also its astral organism, but does not normally bring it to speech. How is this? The explanation lies in the fact that the members of the human being, and also of the animal, are not there merely on their own; each single member is interpenetrated by all the others, and its character modified accordingly.

It is never really quite correct to say: Man consists of physical body, etheric body, astral body and I; for the statement may easily give the impression that these members of the human being are quite distinct from one another, and that we are justified in forming a conception of man which places them side by side. Such a conception is, however, quite untrue. In waking consciousness, the several members interpenetrate. We ought rather to say: Man has not just a physical body as such (the physical body would look quite different if it simply followed its own laws), but a physical body that is modified by an etheric body and again by an astral body, and then again by an I or ego. In each single member, the three other members are present. And so, if we are considering the astral body, we must not forget that every other member of man's nature is also present in it. It is the same with the animal: in the astral body of the animal the physical body is present, and the etheric body too. But man has, in addition, the I, which also modifies the astral body; and it is from this astral body, modified by the I, that the impulse for speech proceeds. It is important to recognise this if we want to carry our study of the art of speech right into the single sounds. For, while in ordinary everyday speech the single sounds are formed in entire unconsciousness, the activity of forming them has to be lifted up into consciousness if speech is to be raised to the level of art.

How then did speech begin? Speech did not originate in the speaking we use in ordinary life, any more than writing originated in the writing of today. Compare with the latter the picture-writing of ancient Egypt; that will give you some idea of how writing first came about. And it is just as useless to look for the origin of speech in the ordinary talking of today, which contains all manner of acquired qualities—the conventional, the intellectual, and so on. No, speech has its source in the artistic life. And if we want in our study of speech to find our way through to what is truly artistic, we must at least have begun to perceive that speech originates in the artistic side of man's nature—not in the intellectual, not in man's life of knowledge, as knowledge is understood today.

Time was when men were simply incapable of speaking without rhythm, when they felt a need always, whenever they spoke, to speak in rhythm. And if a man were saying something to which he wanted to give point or emphasis, then he would attain this by the way he formed and shaped his language. Take a simple example. Suppose you wanted to say—speaking right out of the primeval impulses of speech—that someone keeps stumbling as he walks It would suffice to say: He stumbles over sticks. For there were certainly sticks of wood lying about in primeval times. There were also plenty of stones, and you could just as well say: He stumbles over stones. You would not, however, say either. You would say: He stumbles über Stock and Stein (over stick and stone). For, whether or no the words exactly describe what the speaker sees, we have in ‘stick and stone’ an inner artistic forming of speech. Or again, in order to make our statement more telling, we do not merely say that a ship is sinking together with the men in it. We add what is perhaps far from welcome on a ship; we add the mice. If we are really forming our speech out of what was the original impulse behind all speaking, we say: The ship is going down mit Mann and Maus (with man and mouse).²

Today, the original impulse for speech is present in mankind only in the very smallest degree. There is ample reason for the fact. Unhappily, speech as an art has no place now in education.³ Our schools, and the schools of other nations too, have lost touch with art altogether; and that is why in our Waldorf School we have to make such a strong stand for the artistic in education.’ The schools of our time have been founded and established on science and learning—that is, on what counts as such in the present day, and it is inartistic. Yes, that is what has happened; this modern kind of science and learning has for a long time been steadily seeping down into the education given in our schools. Gradually, in the course of the last four or five centuries, these have been changing, until now, for anyone who enters one of them with artistic feeling, these schools of ours give the impression of something quite barbaric.

But if art is absent in our schools—and don't forget that the children have to speak in class; good speaking is part of the instruction given at school—if the artistic side of education is completely absent, it need not surprise us if art is lacking in grown men and women. There is, in fact, among mankind today a sad dearth of artistic feeling; one can therefore hardly expect to find recognition of the need to form speech artistically.

We do not often have it said to us: ‘You didn't say that beautifully’, but very often, ‘You are not speaking correctly’. The pedantic grammarian pulls us up, but it is seldom we are reproved for our speech on artistic grounds. It seems to be generally accepted as a matter of course that speech has no need of art.

Now, the astral body is mainly in the unconscious part of man's nature. But the artist in speech must learn to control what in ordinary speaking takes its course there unconsciously. In recent times people have begun to appreciate this. Hence the various methods that have been put forward—not only for singing, but also for recitation, declamation, etc. These methods, however, generally set to work in a very peculiar way.

Suppose you wanted to teach someone to plough, and never took any trouble to see what the plough was like, or the field, did not even stop to consider what the ploughing is for, but instead began enquiring: ‘If here is the person's arm, at what angle should he hold it at the elbow? What will be its natural position for ploughing?’ (How constantly one hears this word ‘natural’!) ‘And what movement should he be making with his leg while he holds his arm in this position?’ Suppose, that is, you were to take not the slightest interest in what has to be done to the field by the plough, but were merely to ask: ‘What method must I use to bring the pupil into a certain train of movements?’ It sounds absurd, but modern methods of speech training are of this very kind. No regard whatever is paid to the objective comprehension of what speech is.

If you want to teach a man to plough, the first thing will be to make sure that you yourself know how to handle a plough and can plough well and accurately; and then you will have to watch your pupil and see that he does not make mistakes. It is no different with speech. All these modern methods that are constructed in the most dilettante fashion (I mean these methods of breath technique, diaphragm technique, nasal resonance and the rest) omit to take into consideration what is, after all, the heart and core of the matter. They set out to instruct as though speech itself were not there at all! For they take their start, not from speech, but from anatomy.

What is important before all else is a thorough knowledge of the organism of speech, of the living structure of speech as such. This organism of speech has been produced, has come forth, out of man himself in the course of his evolution. Consequently, if rightly understood, it will not be found to contradict, in its inherent nature, the organisation of man as a whole. Where it seems to do so, we must look into the speech itself in detail to see where the fault lies; it will not be possible to put the matter right by means of methods that have as little to do with speech as gymnastics has to do with ploughing—unless a plough should ever be included among the gymnastic equipment, which up to now I have never known to be the case. Not that I should consider it stupid or ridiculous to include a plough in the apparatus of a gymnasium; it might perhaps be a very good idea. It has only, so far as I know, never yet been attempted.

The first thing to do then is to acquire a thorough knowledge of the speech organism, this speech organism of ours that has, in the course of mankind's evolution, broken loose, as it were, from the astral body, come straight forth from the ego-modified configuration of man's astral body. For that is where speech comes from.

We must, however, not omit to take into account that the astral body impinges downwards on the etheric body and upwards on the ego—that is, when man is awake; and in sleep we normally do not speak.

Consider first what happens through the fact that the astral body comes up against the etheric body. It meets there processes of which man knows very little in ordinary life. For what are the functions of the ether-body? The ether-body receives the nourishment which is taken in by the mouth, and gradually transforms it to suit the needs of the human organism—or rather, I should say, to meet its need of the force contained in the nourishment. Then again it is the etheric organism that looks after growth, from childhood upwards until man is full grown. And the ether-body has also a share in the activities of the soul; it takes care, for instance, of memory. Man has, however, very little conscious knowledge of the various functions discharged by the ether- body. He knows their results. He knows, for example, when he is hungry; but he can scarcely be said to know how this condition of hunger is brought about. The activity of the ether-body remains largely unconscious.

Now it is the production of the vowel element in speech that takes place between astral body and ether body. When the impulse of speech passes over from the astral body, where it originates, to the ether body, we have the vowel. The vowel is thus something which comes into operation -deep within the inner being of man; it is formed more unconsciously than is speech in general. In the vowel sounds we are dealing with intensely intimate aspects of speech; what comes to expression in them is something that belongs to the very essence of man's being. This is then the result when the speech impetus impinges on the ether-body: it gives rise to the vowel element in speech.

In the other direction, the astral body impinges on the I, the ego. The I, in the form in which we have it in Earthman, is something everyone knows and recognises. For it is by means of the I that we have our sense perceptions. We owe it also essentially to the I that we are able to think. All conscious activity belongs in the sphere of the I or ego. What goes on in speech, however, since there the astral body is also concerned, cannot be performed entirely consciously, like some fully conscious activity of will. A fragment of consciousness does, nevertheless, definitely enter into the consonantal element in ordinary speech; for the speaking of consonants takes place between astral body and ego.

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We have thus traced back to their source the forming of consonants and the forming of vowels. But we can go further. We can ask: What is it in the totality of man's nature that speech brings to revelation? We shall be able to answer this question when we have first dealt with the further question: How was it with the primeval speech of man? What was speech like in its beginnings?

The speech of primitive man was verily a wonderful thing. Apart from the fact that man felt instinctively obliged from the first to speak in rhythm and in measure, even to speak in assonance and alliteration—apart from this, in those early times, man felt in speech and thought in speech.

Looking first into his life of feeling, we find it was not like ours today. In comparison with it, our feelings tend to remain in the abstract. Primeval man, in the very moment of feeling, were it even a feeling of the most intimate kind, would at once express it in speech. He would not have found it possible, for instance, to have a tender feeling for a little child without being prompted in his soul to bring that feeling to expression in the form of his speech. Merely to say: ‘I love him tenderly’, would have had no meaning for him; what would have had meaning would have been to say perhaps: ‘I love this little child so very ei-ei-ei!’[5] There was always the need to permeate one's whole feeling with artistically formed speech.

Neither in those olden times did men have abstract thoughts as we do today. Abstract thoughts without speech were unknown. As soon as man thought something, the thought immediately became in him word and sentence. He spoke it inwardly. It is therefore not surprising that at the beginning of the Gospel of St. John we do not find it said: ‘In the beginning was the Thought’, but : ‘In the beginning was the Word’—the verbum, the Word. today we think within, thinking our abstract thoughts; primeval man spoke within, talked within.

Such then was the character of primeval speech. It contained feeling within it, and thought. It was, so to say, the treasure-casket in man for feeling and thought. Thought has now shifted, it has slipped up more into the ego; speech has remained in the astral body; feeling has slid down into the ether body.

The poetry of primeval times was one, was single; it expressed in speech what man could feel and think about things The original poetry was one. When, later on, speech threw back feeling inwards, into man's inner nature, that gave rise to the lyric mood of speech. The kind of poetry that has remained most of all like the primeval, the kind of poetry that, more than any other, is inherent in speech itself is the epic. It is, in fact, impossible to speak epic poetry without first reviving something of the original primal feeling in regard to speech. Finally, drama drives speech outwards and stands, in so far as Earth-man is concerned, in relation with the external world.

The artist who is taking part in drama, unless of course he is speaking a monologue, confronts another person. And this fact, that he is face to face with another person, enters into his speaking just as surely as what he experiences in himself.

The artist who has to speak a lyric is not confronting another person. He faces himself alone. His speech must accordingly be so formed that it may become the pure expression of his inner being. The lyric of today can therefore not be spoken in any other way than by letting even the consonants lean over a little in the direction of vowels. (We shall go into this in more detail later.) To speak lyrical poetry aright, you need to know that every consonant carries in it a vowel nuance. L, for example, carries in it an i (ee), which you can see for yourselves from the fact that in many languages where at some time in their development an I occurs in a certain word, in other forms of that word we find an i.⁴ As a matter of fact, all consonants have within them something of the quality of a vowel. And for speaking lyrics it is of the first importance that we should learn to perceive the vowel in each single consonant.

The epic requires a different feeling. (All that I am saying in this connection has reference to recitation or declamation before an audience.) The speaker must feel: When I come to a vowel, I am coming near to man himself; but directly I come to a consonant, it is things I am catching at, things that are outside. If the artist once has this feeling, then it will be possible for the epic to be truly present in his speaking. Epic has to do, not with man's inner life alone, but with the inner life and an imagined outer object. For the theme of the epic is not there; it is only imagined. If we are relating something, it must belong to the past, or in any case cannot be there in front of us; otherwise, there would be no occasion to relate it. The speaker of epic is thus concerned with the human being and the object or theme that exists only in thought.

For the speaker of drama, the ‘object’ of his speaking is present in its full reality, the person he addresses is standing there in front of him.

There then you have the distinguishing characteristics of lyric, epic and drama. They need to be well and carefully noted. I have already in past years spoken of them here and there from different points of view, and have sought to evolve a suitable terminology for distinguishing the different ways of speaking them. What I have given on those earlier occasions—I mean it to be experienced, I mean it to be felt. You must have a clear and accurate feeling for what each kind of poetry demands. Thus, you should feel that to speak lyrical poetry means to speak right out of one's inner being.

The inner being of man is here revealing itself. When man's soul within him is so powerfully affected that it ‘must out’—and this is how it is with the lyric—then what was, to begin with, mere feeling, passes over into a calling aloud; and we have, from the point of view of speech, declamation. One domain, then, of the art of speech is declamation, and it is especially adapted for lyrical poetry. The lyrical element is present of course in every form of poetry; while we are speaking epic or drama, we can often find ourselves in the situation of having to make the transition here and there to the lyrical.

With the speaker of epic, the essential point is that he has before him an object that is not seen but thought, and by means of the magic that lies in his speech he is continually ‘citing’ this object. The artist of the epic is pre-eminently a ‘re-citer’. So here we have recitation. The speaker of the lyric expresses himself, reveals himself; he is a declaimer. The speaker who cites his object, making it present to his audience by the magic of his speech—he is a reciter.

And now in this course of lectures we have opportunity to go further and complete our classification. We come then to the speaker who has before him, not his imagined object that he cites, but present before him in bodily form the object to whom he speaks, with whom he is conversing. And so we reach the third form of speech: conversation.

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It is through these three kinds of speech-formation that speaking becomes an art. The last is the one that is most misunderstood. Conversation, as we know all too well, has been dragged right away from the realm of art, and today you will find persons looked up to as past masters in conversation who are less at home in art than they are—shall I say—in diplomacy, or perhaps in the ‘afternoon-tea’ attitude to life. The feeling that conversation is a thing capable of highly artistic development has been completely lost.

Sometimes of course acting ceases to be conversation and becomes monologue. When this happens, drama reaches over into the other domains, into declamation and recitation.

To draw distinctions in this way between different forms of poetry may perhaps seem a little pedantic, but it will help to show that we do really have to create for the teaching of speech something similar to what we have, for example, in the teaching of music. When, for instance, a dialogue is to be put on the stage, it will be necessary to form that dialogue in a way that is right and appropriate to it as ‘conversation’.

I would like now to show you how within speech itself, if we see it truly for what it is, the need for artistic forming emerges. We use in our speaking some thirty-two sounds. Suppose you had learned the sounds, but were not yet able to put them together in words. If you were then to take up Goethe's Faust, the whole book would consist for you of just these thirty-two sounds. For it contains nothing more! And yet, in their combination, these thirty-two sounds make Goethe's Faust.

A great deal is implied in this statement. We have simply these thirty-two sounds; and through the forming and shaping of them, sound by sound, the whole measureless wealth of speech is called into being. But the forming is already there within the sounds themselves, within this whole system of sounds. Let us take an example.

We speak the sound a (ah). What is this sound? A is released from the soul, when the soul is overflowing with wonder. That is how it was to begin with. Wonder, astonishment, liberated from the soul the sound a. Every word that has the sound a has originated in a desire to express wonder; take any word you will, you will never be altogether out, nor need you ever be afraid of being dilettante, if you assume this Take, for instance, the word Band (a band or ribbon). In some way it happened that what the man of an earlier time called Band filled him with wonder, and that is why he brought the a sound into the word. (That the same thing has in another language quite a different name is of no consequence. It means only that the people who spoke that language felt differently related to the object.) Whenever man is particularly astonished, then if he has still some understanding of what it is to be thus filled with wonder (as was the case when language began to be formed), he will bring that wonder or astonishment to expression by means of the sound a. One has only to understand where wonder is in place. You can, for instance, marvel at someone's luxurious Haarwuchs (growth of hair) You can also marvel at the Kahlkopf (bald head) of someone who has lost his Haar. Or again, you can be astounded at the effect of a Haarwasser (hair lotion) which makes the hair grow again. In fact, everything connected with hair can evoke profound admiration and astonishment—so much so that we do not simply write Har, we write the a twice—Haar!

Wherever you meet the sound a, look for the starting- point of the word in an experience of wonder, and you will be carried back to the early days of evolution, when man was first shaping and forming his words. And this forming of words was an activity that worked with far greater power than present-day theories would lead us to suppose.

But now, what does this mean? It means that when a man is filled with wonder at some object or event, he gives himself up to that object or event, he lets himself go. For how is the sound a made? What does it consist in? A requires the whole organism of speech to be opened wide, beginning from the mouth. Man lets his astral body flow out. When he says a, he is really on the point of falling asleep. Only, he stops himself in time. But how often will the feeling of fatigue find expression at once in the sound a! Whenever we utter a, we are letting our astral body out, or beginning to do so. The act of opening out wide—that is what you have in a.

The absolute opposite of a is u (oo). When you say u, then beginning from the mouth you contract the speech organs, wherever possible, before you let the sound go through. The whole speech organism is more closed with u than with any other vowel sound. There then you have the two contrasting opposites: a u. Between a and u lies o. O actually includes within it, in rightly formed speech, the processes of a and the processes of u; o holds together in a kind of harmony the processes of opening out and the processes of closing up.

U signifies that we are in process of waking up, that we are becoming continually more awake than we were. When you say u, it shows that you are feeling moved to wake up in respect of some object that you perceive. When the owl makes himself heard at night, you instinctively exclaim: ‘Uhu!’⁵ You could not find stronger expression for the desire to wake up. The owl makes you want to wake up and be alive to the fact of its presence. And if someone were to fling a little sand at you—we don't of course have sand on our desks now, we use blotting paper—but suppose you were being pelted with sand, then, if you were to give way to your feelings without restraint, you would say ‘uff’. For it is the same whether something or other wakes you up, or you yourself are wanting to wake up. In either case u comes out. The astral is here uniting itself more closely with the etheric and physical bodies. The a is thus more consonantal and the u more vocalic

In some of the German dialects, one can often not discern whether people are saying a or r, for the r becomes with them vocalic and the a consonantal. In the Styrian dialect, for example, it is impossible to know whether someone is saying ‘Bur’ or ‘Bua’.

All the other vowels lie between a and u. Roughly speaking, the o is in the middle, but not quite; it occupies the same position between a and u as in music the fourth does in the octave.

Suppose now we want to express what is contained in O. In O we have the confluence of A and U; it is where waking up and falling asleep meet. O is thus the moment either of falling asleep or of awaking. When the Oriental teacher wanted his pupils to be neither asleep nor awake, but to make for that boundary between sleeping and waking where so much can be experienced, he would direct them to speak the syllable OM. In this way he led them to the life that is between waking and sleeping.

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For, anyone who keeps repeating continually the syllable OM will experience what it means to be between the condition of being awake and the condition of being asleep. A teaching like this comes from a time when the speech organism was still understood.

And now let us see how it was when a teacher in the Mysteries wanted to take his pupils further. He would say to himself: The O arises through the U wanting to go to the A and the A at the same time wanting to go to the U. So, after I have taught the pupil how to stand between sleeping and waking in the OM, if I want now to lead him on a step further, then instead of getting him to speak the 0 straight out, I must let the 0 arise in him through his speaking AOUM. Instead of OM, he is now to say AOUM. In this way the pupil creates the OM, brings it to being. He has reached a higher stage. OM with the O separated into A and U gives the required stillness to the more advanced pupil. Whereas the less advanced pupil has to be taken straight to the boundary condition between sleep and waking, the more advanced has to pass from A (falling asleep) to U (waking up), building the transition for himself. Being then between the two, he has within him the moment of experience that holds both.

If we are able to feel how such modes of instruction came about, we can have some idea of what it means to say that in olden times it was by way of art that man came to an instinctive apprehension of the nature of speech. For down into the time of the ancient Greeks, men still had knowledge of how every activity and experience had its place in the world, where it intrinsically belonged.

Think of the Greek gymnastics,—those marvellous gymnastics that were really a complete language in themselves! What are they? How did they evolve? To begin with, there was the realisation that the will lives in the limbs. And the very first thing the will does is to bring man into connection with the earth, so that a relationship of force develops between man's limbs and the earth, and you have: Running In running, man is in connection with the earth. If he now goes a little way into himself, and to the dynamics into which running brings him and the mechanics that establishes a balance between him and the earth's gravitation, adds an inner dynamic, then he goes over into: Leaping. For in leaping we have to develop a mechanics in the legs themselves.

And now suppose to this mechanics that has been developed in the legs, man adds a mechanics that is brought about, not this time merely by letting the earth be active and establishing a balance with it, but by coming also to a state of balance in the horizontal,—the balance already established being in the vertical. Then you have: Wrestling.

Running
Leaping
Wrestling.

In Running, you have Man and Earth; in Leaping, Man and Earth, but with a variation in the part played by man; in Wrestling, Man and the other object.

If now you bring the object still more closely to man, if you give it into his hand, then you have: Throwing the Discus. Observe the progression in dynamics And if then to the dynamics of the heavy body (which is what you have in discus-throwing), you add also the dynamics of direction, you have: Throwing the Spear.

Running
Leaping
Wrestling
Discus-throwing
Spear-throwing.

Such then are these five main exercises of Greek gymnastics; and they are perfectly adapted to the conditions of the cosmos. That was the feeling the Greeks had about a gymnastics that revealed the human being in his entirety.

But men had the very same feeling in those earlier times about the revelation of the human being in speech. Mankind has changed since then; consequently, the use and handling of speech has inevitably also changed.

In the Seventh Scene of my first Mystery Play, where Maria appears with Philia, Astrid and Luna, I have made a first attempt to use language entirely and purely in the way that is right for our time and civilisation. Thought, which is generally lifted out of speech, abstracted from it, is there brought down again into speech.

We will accordingly take tomorrow part of this scene for demonstration, and so make a beginning with the practical side of our work. Frau Dr. Steiner will read from the scene; and then, following on today’s introductory remarks, we will proceed with the First Part of the course—the study of the Forming of Speech.

• 1. The courses of study and training given at the Goetheanum were grouped by Dr. Steiner under various `Sections’, each with its Leader.
• 2. English parallels will readily occur to the reader, such as 'might and main', 'safe and sound', etc., and our use of 'stocks and stones' in another connection.
• 3. The Waldorf School in Stuttgart, founded in 1919 by Emil Molt, was the first of the now numerous Rudolf Steiner Schools where the teaching and education are carried on in accordance with his indications. Dr. Steiner was a constant visitor to the school from the beginning, giving help and advice in every detail of management and method up to the time of his last illness in the winter of 1924-5.
• 4. For example, in German-speaking countries, a boy named Hans may be called ' for short ' either Hansi or Hansl.
• 5. The commoner German word for owl is Eule, but Uhu, the specific name for the eagle-owl, is also used.

My dear Friends,

You will have seen from what was given in yesterday's lecture that when we are considering how we shall form our speech for recitation, we have to make a clear distinction between lyric, epic and drama. For we were able to observe that the vowel element in speech has a special relation to lyrical poetry, and the consonantal to narrative and drama. At the same time we must, as I said, not allow ourselves to forget that every consonant has in it something of the vowel element. It is, in fact, impossible to utter a consonant by itself; there must always be a vowel sounding with it to give it tone, and each consonant has its own individual inclination in this respect. The converse is moreover also true, that in every vowel an accompanying consonantal element may be heard. This will be familiar ground to you; we have spoken of it already.

I want now to draw your attention to an important fact concerning our present-day speech. It is a fact that you will need to keep well in mind if the practical demonstration that Frau Dr. Steiner will presently give is to be really helpful to you in connection with what I shall have to say in the lectures. I mean the following.

We belong, do we not, to the civilised peoples of mankind, and are moreover living in a highly advanced epoch of civilisation. But in this highly advanced epoch of ours, speech has lost connection with its beginnings, with its true origin. The languages of Europe today—with the possible exception of Russian and a few languages less widely spoken, which have not as yet come quite so far away as the rest—the European languages generally are by this time very far removed from their origin, and they are spoken in such a way that the words and even the intonation of the sounds have become nothing more than an external sign for the experiences that originally gave rise to them. I say expressly: a mere external sign. People are not, as a matter of fact, conscious of the ‘sign’ character of their speaking, for they have no idea that speech can ever be anything else than it is in the ordinary speaking of the modern European languages. But if an understanding is to arise again for speech as an art, if the artistic is to be once again alive and active in speech, there must first be the conscious realisation that speech has come away from its true character and nature and needs to be restored to it.

And this it is that I have endeavoured to achieve in my Mystery Plays. In certain passages at any rate, the immediate human experience that is finding its expression in speech has been brought back again into the sounds. The ordinary speaking of today has no longer any connection with the experience to which the speaking refers. But in parts of my Mystery Plays, the attempt has been made to lead back into sound the rhythmic, musical, plastic qualities which are generally found today only in the thought.

There are naturally many different ways in which this can be done; it depends on the task one has in hand. But I would like you now to listen to a part of the Seventh Scene in my first Mystery Play, where the scene is laid in the realm of the spirit. For I have tried there to bring right into the sound what has to be expressed, so that the very sound, if one goes no further, can direct one to the spiritual, can reveal the spiritual. And that is how it was with the old original languages.

The first thing to be borne in mind in regard to this scene was that one had here to do with happenings that are remote from the physical world and reach out towards the realm of the spirit. Hence the keynote of the scene suggests inwardness, takes us to the purely spiritual; this meant that the language had to be vocalic in character. And then there are the clearly marked transitions between the three soul forces,

Philia, Astrid and Luna; these transitions had to be given their place in the treatment of the scene. Philia lives purely in the vocalic-spiritual element; the consonantal appears in her only so far as to remind us that we are concerned with speech and not with song. Astrid builds the bridge between Philia and Luna. In Luna we encounter weight; we feel in her the direction towards the physical plane. Luna's language therefore, while still vocalic, begins to be consonantal.

We have then in this scene a good subject for artistic treatment. A hint of the consonantal element has had to be introduced, but the whole scene lives pre-eminently in the vocalic which leads one away from the physical world and takes one into the realm of the spirit. A situation of this kind can be most valuable for one who wants to find his way to a true forming of speech.

(Frau Dr. Steiner then read from the Seventh Scene of Die Pforte der Einweihung.)

(Das Gebiet des Geistes)

MARIA

Ihr, meine Schwestern, die ihr
So oft mir Helferinnen wart,
Seid mir es auch in dieser Stunde,
Dass ich den Weltenäther
In sich erbeben lasse.
Er soll harmonisch klingen
Und klingend eine Seele
Durchdringen mit Erkenntnis.
Ich kann die Zeichen schauen,
Die uns zur Arbeit lenken.
Es soll sich euer Werk
Mit meinem Werke einen.
Johannes, der Strebende,
Er soll durch unser Schaffen
Zum wahren Sein erhoben werden.
Die Brüder in dem Tempel
Sie hielten Rat,
Wie sie ihn aus den Tiefen
In lichte Höhen führen sollen.
Von uns erwarten sie,
Dass wir in seiner Seele heben
Die Kraft zum Höhenfluge.
Du, meine Philia, so sauge
Des Lichtes klares Wesen
Aus Raumesweiten,
Erfülle dich mit Klangesreiz
Aus schaffender Seelenmacht,
Dass du mir reichen kannst
Die Gaben, die du sammelst
Aus Geistesgründen.
Ich kann sie weben dann
In den erregenden Sphärenreigen.
Und du auch Astrid, meines Geistes
Geliebtes Spiegelbild,
Erzeuge Dunkelkraft
Im fliessenden Licht,
Dass es in Farben scheine.—
Und gliedre Klangeswesenheit;
Dass webender Weltenstoff
Ertönend lebe.
So kann ich Geistesfühlen
Vertrauen suchendem Menschensinn.
Und du, o starke Luna,
Die du befestigt im Innern bist,
Dem Lebensmarke gleich,
Das in des Baumes Mitte wächst,
Vereine mit der Schwestern Gaben
Das Abbild deiner Eigenheit,
Dass Wissens Sicherheit
Dem Seelensucher werde.

PHILIA

Ich will erfüllen mich
Mit klarstemLichtessein
Aus Weltenweiten.
Ich will eratmen mir
Belebenden Klangesstoff
Aus Aetherfernen,
Dass dir, geliebte Schwester,
Das Werk gelingen kann.

ASTRID

Ich will verweben
Erstrahlend Licht
Mit dämpfender Finsternis,
Ich will verdichten
Das Klangesleben.
Es soll erglitzernd klingen
Es soll erklingend glitzern,
Dass du, geliebte Schwester,
Die Seelenstrahlen lenken kannst.

LUNA

Ich will erwärmen Seelenstoff
Und will erhärten Lebensäther.
Sie sollen sich verdichten,
Sie sollen sich erfühlen,
Und in sich selber seiend
Sich schaffend halten,
Dass du, geliebte Schwester,
Der suchenden Menschenseele
Des Wissens Sicherheit erzeugen kannst.

MARIA

Aus Philia's Bereichen
Soll strömen Freudesinn;
Und Nixen Wechselkräfte,
Sie mögen öffnen
Der Seele Reizbarkeit,
Dass der Erweckte
Erleben kann
Der Welten Lust,
Der Welten Weh.—
Aus Astrids Weben
Soll werden Liebelust;
Der Sylphen wehend Leben,
Es soll erregen
Der Seele Opfertrieb,
Dass der Geweihte
Erquicken kann
Die Leidbeladenen,
Die Glück Erflehenden.—
Aus Lunas Kraft
Soll strömen Festigkeit.
Der Feuerwesen Macht,
Sie kann erschaffen
Der Seele Sicherheit;
Auf dass der Wissende
Sich finden kann
Im Seelenweben,
Im Weltenleben.

PHILIA

Ich will erbitten von Weltengeistern,
Dass ihres Wesens Licht
Entzücke Seelensinn,
Und ihrer Worte Klang
Beglücke Geistgehör;
Auf dass sich hebe Der
zu Erweckende Auf Seelenwegen
In Himmelshöhen.

ASTRID

Ich will die Liebesströme,
Die Welt erwarmenden,
Zu Herzen leiten
Dem Geweihten;
Auf dass er bringen
kann Des Himmels Güte
Dem Erdenwirken,
Und Weihestimmung
Den Menschenkindern.

LUNA

Ich will von Urgewalten
Erflehen Mut und Kraft,
Und sie dem Suchenden
In Herzenstiefen legen;
Auf dass Vertrauen
Zum eignen Selbst
Ihn durch das Leben
Geleiten kann.
Er soll sich sicher
In sich dann selber fühlen.
Er soll von Augenblicken
Die reifen Früchte pflücken,
Und Saaten ihnen entlocken
Für Ewigkeiten.

MARIA

Mit euch, ihr Schwestern,
Vereint zu edlem Werk,
Wird mir gelingen,
Was ich ersehne.
Es dringt der Ruf
Des schwer Geprüften
In unsre Lichteswelt.

THE PORTAL OF INITIATION
Seventh Scene
(In the Spirit Realm.)

MARIA

My sisters, who to me
so oft have helpers been,
now at this hour be so once again;
that I may move the cosmic ether
to tremble inwardly,
that it shall music make
and let its harmonies ring forth
to fill a human soul
with knowledge.
I can discern the signs
that point us to the task.
Your work shall now with mine
unite.
Johannes, the earnest seeker,
shall by our deed
be lifted to true being.
The Brothers in the Temple
have counsel held
how they shall bring him
out of the depths
and lead him to the heights.
And they await from us
that we call up within his soul
the power to soar aloft.

Do thou, my Philia, drink in
from widths of space
the essence clear of light.
Fill thee with music's stirring harmonies,
out of the soul's creative power born,
and so reach out to me
the gifts that thou dost gather
from spirit-depths.
These then can I enweave
into the rhythm of the dancing Spheres.

And thou too, Astrid,
of my spirit
beloved reflex,—
in flowing light
let darkness be engendered,
that colours may shine forth.
And member thou the being of sound,
that so the woven texture of the worlds
may become living tones.
Then can I grant
unto the seeking human mind
that he shall feel the spirit.

And thou, strong Luna,
sure and firm within,
as the vigour of life itself,
as the pith in the heart of the tree,—
join to thy sisters’ gifts
the stamp of thine own being,
that certainty of knowledge
may accrue to the seeking soul.

PHILIA

From the wide spaces of the worlds
I will enfill me
with purest being of light.
From ether distances
I will inbreathe
the life-giving power of sound;
that so thy work, dear sister,
may be fulfilled.

ASTRID

The radiant light
will I enweave
with darkening shade.
The flowing life of sound
will I congeal,
till its music flash and sparkle
as the play of glancing light;
that thou, beloved sister,
the rays of soul mayst guide.

LUNA

Soul-substance will I warm.
Life-ether will I forge.
They shall grow fast and firm
and, inly all aware,
be poised in silent being
to work creatively;
that thou, beloved sister,
beget in the seeking soul
the certainty of knowledge.

MARIA

From Philia's realm
shall pour a stream of joy;
the changing play of water-sprites
shall stir the soul
of the awakened one;
that it be quick to feel
the joy of worlds,
the woe of worlds.

From Astrid's weaving shall
the bliss of love be born.
The wafting life of sylphs
shall waken in the soul
the urge to sacrifice;
that, being dedicate,
he quicken may to life
those who are sorrow-laden
and yearning for relief.

Strong Luna's power
firm steadfastness shall give.
The might of fire-beings—
it can beget
assurance in the soul;
that, having knowledge,
he may find himself
in the weaving of human souls,
in the life of worlds.

PHILIA

I will entreat the Spirits of the World
that the light of their being
rejoice the seeing soul,
that the music of their Words
gladden the listening spirit;
that so the awakened one
may rise on paths of soul
to heavenly heights.

ASTRID

The rivers of love
that warm the world,
will I lead to the heart
of the dedicated one;
that he may bring
the bounty of heaven
to earth activity,
the mood of dedication
to the children of men.

LUNA

From ancient Powers primeval
courage and strength will I crave,
and plant them deep in the heart
of the seeking soul;
that self-reliance
his guide may be through life.
From moments of time shall he pluck
the ripened fruits,
and draw from them seeds
for all eternity.

MARIA

United, my sisters, with you
in the noble work,
I shall achieve
my heart's desire.
Into our world of light
resounds e'en now the call
of him who trials severe
hath undergone.¹

(Dr. Steiner): If we want to form speech in such a way that it can be plastic and at the same time also musical, then the first thing necessary is to know how to bring gesture into speech. In the actual voice itself slight indications of gesture can still be heard, but gesture as such has disappeared from speech in more modern times. In dramatic speaking we still use it, but there alone; you will at the most be able to observe little hints of it in other kinds of speaking. There is in fact today quite a chaos of uncertainty regarding the relation of word to gesture. We shall receive striking evidence of this when we pass on from our study of speech formation, and come to consider the art of the stage.

It will help you to a better understanding of this question of gesture if you recall what I said about the gymnastics of the Greeks, at the end of yesterday's lecture. I showed you how their five main gymnastic exercises—Running, Leaping, Wrestling, Discus-throwing, Spear-throwing—are founded upon the connection of man with the cosmos. Starting from this relationship he has to the cosmos, man is in these exercises perpetually forming as it were another relationship, a relationship of gesture; and in gesture the force, the dynamic of the human being himself is present.

Now we shall find that in the fundamental mime movements of the stage we have faint reflections of what came to revelation in these exercises. If therefore we set out to study these reflections of the five exercises of Greek gymnastics, we shall be on the right path for discovering how gesture can come to the help of the word in dramatic art; for there is, in fact, no justifiable gesture for the stage that is not a kind of shadow-picture of some one of the five exercises of Greek gymnastics. That is, however, the other pole. The one pole is speech itself, the forming of speech.

The very word ‘forming’ takes us at once to the plastic quality of speech. The actual visible form has of course disappeared from view, we can no longer see it in the word. It should nevertheless still be there, it should be present in the word intensively. We must therefore begin with the word. And our first question will be: What can speech do? What should it be able to do, when it is raised to the level of art, when it is ‘formed’ ?

Now, there are certain definite capacities, certain definite faculties that speech can and should have. Beginning from the most external aspect of the matter, speech can be effective. We do not as a rule speak merely for the purpose of opening our mouth and emitting a sound; we speak in order that our speaking may accomplish something. Thus we have for our first capacity of speech: it can produce some result, it can be effective.

Then there is also the fact that in sound and word and sentence inner processes of the soul can find their revelation. And so we have what I may call the thoughtful aspect of speech. Besides being effective, speech can be thoughtful, reflective.

1. Effective²
2. Thoughtful

It is easy enough today to study the effectiveness of speech. You have only to go to a political meeting, and you will find people making capital, quite instinctively, out of the effectiveness of speech. On the other hand, the study of thoughtfulness in speech presents considerable difficulty, since for the most part people talk for the sake of talking, not in order to express thoughts at all. It's the proper thing to do; of course we must talk! We are even brought up to regard this kind of talking as part of our equipment for social life. It is nevertheless essential, if you want to develop a right forming of speech, to recognise that speech can be thoughtful,—I should rather say, can reveal the thoughtful in man.

A further thing that speech can express is what we might call placing oneself tentatively into connection with the external world—proving, feeling, touching. It comes to expression in the question,—sometimes also in the wish. We lead our soul out into the world that is around us, but are all the time a little uncertain how we are going to enter it. This is a mood that can manifest in speech; one could call it a feeling forward, a cautious groping forward in face of whatever hindrances may be in the way.

3. A cautious feeling forward in face of hindrances.

The fourth thing to be observed is that speech can reveal antipathy to that which is approaching us. We experience a relation of antipathy to what is confronting us, and we bring the resultant feeling to expression in speech, either for the simple purpose of showing our antipathy, or with intent to criticise, or even perhaps in order to make a scene. And that gives a special nuance to the forming of our speech. So I will call the fourth capacity of speech: giving vent to antipathy.

4. Giving vent to antipathy.

Again, speech can declare or affirm sympathy, the opposite of the fourth.

5. Expressing sympathy.

And there is still a sixth thing that speech can reveal—namely, that we are drawing back into ourselves, withdrawing from our environment.

6. Drawing back on to one's own ground.

These are the six revelations of speech, which were known in the Greek Mysteries as the six shades or variations in the forming of speech, and were in those times the basis of all instruction in speech. Besides these, there are no others. Everything man can reveal in speech can be classed under e of these six. And if we want to raise our speaking to consciousness, we should try to study how these shades of feeling come to expression in speech.

It will, however, answer our purpose best if we do not at once proceed to a study of the spoken word, but first prepare the ground by a study of gesture, and then afterwards link the word on to the gesture. Proceeding in this way, we shall acquire a right feeling for the forming of speech, whereas by the reverse method, conclusions of an arbitrary nature would be constantly suggesting themselves—supposing, I mean, we were to start with the word (where the gesture has only now disappeared from view), with the idea of passing on thence to gesture. If, however, having recognised that the genius of speech works in these six ways, we then go on to study this genius of speech in gesture, we shall find that the way lies clear before us to go back afterwards to the word.

Suppose now we want to feel the ‘effective’ word in its right nuance. We can best express the feeling with a gesture of pointing. We have thus, first of all, the pointing gesture.

1. Effective: Pointing.

An interesting study can be made of the pointing gesture, by observing its use among the different peoples. England will be no place for such a study, for there no one cares to use gesture—not this gesture anyway; in England people speak with their hands in their pockets. Italy is the very best place in all Europe to study the pointing gesture in its connection with the word.

The ‘thoughtful’ quality in speech will find expression in e gesture or other of holding on to oneself, touching oneself. A man who is engaged in deep concentration will, for example, do this (finger on forehead), or perhaps this (finger on nose). Any such gesture will belong to a speaking that reveals thoughtfulness or reflection. You will even sometimes find this position (arms akimbo), and in some countries—I have come across it before now—when a person is contemplating giving another fellow a box on the ear, he will hold firmly on to himself like this (arms pressed against the side). And so we may say: Holding on to oneself is here the corresponding gesture.³

2. Thoughtful: Holding on to oneself.

The ‘feeling forward in face of hindrances’ is something that can be experienced at once in gesture. You have only to ask yourself: What do I find myself doing, when I want to feel my way amid hindrances? I grope forward with my arms and hands in a sort of wavy, rolling movement.

3. Cautiously feeling one's way in face of hindrances: A rolling movement forward with arms and hands.

‘Antipathy’—no difficulty in feeling at once the gesture for this: a movement of rejection, flinging something away, ‘shaking the dust off one's feet’. If one is already a half-civilised human being, one makes the gesture so (slight movement of rejection with the hand); if one is uncivilised, then so (powerful movement with hand and foot).

4. Antipathy: Flinging out a limb.

To express ‘sympathy’ we make, or at least begin to make, a gesture that intimates we would like to touch or gently stroke the object of our sympathy. A hint of this at any rate must be implicit in the gesture. Thus, to assure another person of our sympathy, we reach out with our arm to touch him.

5. Sympathy: Putting out a hand or arm to touch the object of our sympathy.

And now for the ‘drawing back on to one's own ground', the withdrawal into oneself. This comes to expression in gesture when, for instance, we hold our arm first close to our body, and then thrust it out a little,—not quite in a horizontal direction, but slanting a little forward.

6. Drawing back on to one's own ground: Slanting a limb away from the body.

You will find it a good exercise to take what I have written here in the first column (see page 60), and feel each separate attribute of speech in the corresponding gesture that is given in the second column. For there is a natural and elementary connection between them. And to feel these connections is far more important for a right forming of speech than to undertake a systematic study of the holding of the breath, the position of the diaphragm, nasal resonance, and so on; that will all come of itself if we but live in the speech, beginning our study of it with a study of gesture in all its variations. If you once see clearly for yourselves that any particular one of these gestures in the second column has inherent within it the corresponding capacity of speech in the first column, then you will be rightly prepared for passing on to the artistic forming of the word, or of the sentence. And so now, having studied in each gesture the special nuance of soul that comes to expression in it, we must go on to consider how gesture can be led back again to the word.

If we have experienced how the gesture of ‘pointing’ reveals a condition of consciously directed activity in the soul, then that leads us on to perceive the connection between this pointing gesture and what I may call the incisive word, the forcible, decided way of speaking, of which we are aware that it is being powerfully impelled forward into the outgoing breath and the speaker's inner force is being driven into penetrating the word with a kind of metallic quality.

1. Incisive.

If, on the other hand, our word is to express what is inherent in the gesture of ‘holding on to oneself’, touching oneself, the gesture that reveals thoughtfulness, then it will have to be spoken with full tone. No question here of the word being thrust out and given a sharp, metallic ring! Rather shall we have to give to each vowel and each consonant the fullest tone of which it is capable: Und es wallet and woget and brauset and zischt.⁴ There you have in each single vowel and consonant just as much tone as it can receive. When the sounds are uttered in this way to the full, then that always imbues the speaking with a reflective, thoughtful quality, giving it a mood that can be studied in all its variety in the gesture of holding on to oneself.

2. Full-toned.

The ‘cautious feeling forward in face of hindrances’, that is inherent in the gesture of a rolling, undulating movement with arms and hands—especially so (with the hands raised, palm-upwards)—comes to expression in speech when the voice trembles, or vibrates. It is helpful for the speaker if the poet uses here words that have as many r sounds as possible; for with r, the voice does naturally tremble.

So we have now three ways of forming speech: we can form it so that it becomes sharp, decided, or we can give fulness of tone to the sounds, or we can form it so that the sounds vibrate.

3. Trembling, or vibrating.

‘You tell me, I must reach that goal. But can I do it ?’ (the ‘can’ vibrating a little). ‘Can I do it ?’ You will feel the connection at once.

And now, when we come to antipathy, repudiation, where the gesture consists in flinging out the limbs, the word has to become hard. We must be able to feel its hardness. ‘I am busy. I don't want you here. Go away!’ There you have the word that is hard, spoken also in immediate connection with the flinging out of the hand.

4. Hard.

On account of this intimate connection between word and gesture, it is an excellent plan, if one wants to prepare oneself for recitation or for dramatic speaking, to begin by making a study of the whole scene in gesture alone, going right through it silently, while it is recited by someone else.

And now for the gesture of reaching out to touch the person or object. This gesture need not always be a declaration of sympathy; we can use it on the stage when we are describing something and are anxious to picture it accurately to the other person. It is thus also the gesture for description. And with this gesture, even if no human relationship is concerned, but all the more if a human relationship does enter in, the voice becomes soft and gentle. ‘And so you are bringing me this little child! I am always glad to see him. Come

5. Gentle.

Lastly, ‘drawing back on to one's own ground’, with the gesture of thrusting an arm or leg away from the body. If this gesture becomes real to us, we see at once that the corresponding word will be abrupt. ‘You think I ought to do my work; I want to go for a walk.’

6. Abrupt.

In the time of the ancient Mysteries, when men could still discern what was of real importance in life, this division of speech into its six modes or capacities was recognised. Later, when in every sphere of life people looked more to externalities, a further one was inserted after the second. The addition was somewhat arbitrary, for it was not altogether new, being really already contained in the ‘thoughtfulness’. We might describe it as the expression of a kind of ‘inability to come to a decision’—a particular nuance, as you see, of thoughtfulness or reflection. The gesture is that of holding the limbs quite still. And the corresponding formation of the word is that the words are spoken slowly. ‘Things have come to a bad pass; what am I to do?’—the ‘what am I to do?’ pronounced deliberately, with the words long drawn out. That gives the right nuance.

What I am anxious to impress upon you particularly is that if we are setting out to study the forming of words and sentences, we must take our start from gesture, and then go back to speech and see what qualities—fulness, vibration, and so forth—rightly belong to the speaking of word and sentence.

For it is essential that we should get to know speech objectively, that we should make ourselves acquainted with the activity of the genius of speech. We can only do this by looking first at gesture and then following gesture right into the intoning of the single sounds; but this will come more easily if we have accustomed ourselves first to following up gesture into the intonation of the words, in the way I have been showing you. The manner of intoning the word must of necessity be found in the moment of speaking; the intoning of single sounds has to become a matter of habit. When, for example, a pupil is preparing a particular scene in a play, he should not really have to concern himself with the single sounds. The intoning of sounds must be taken as a separate study by itself. And one can literally follow the gesture and see it slip into the sound and disappear within.

Think of the musical intoning that is produced by wind instruments. Say you blow a trumpet. The air is set moving and you feel quite clearly : There is gesture in that moving air! You have only to imagine that the moving air inside the trumpet were to freeze a little, first becoming fluid and then solid, and you would see a beautiful gesture drawn there for you in the frozen air. Wonderful gestures would come to view. When we are listening to wind instruments, we are hearing gestures; we hear them quite plainly. In other words, we perceive how the gesture slips into the blowing of the instrument.

But now we have among our consonants some that can most decidedly be described as ‘blown’ or ‘breath’ sounds, which goes to show that the human voice is in principle a trumpet, although Nature has mercifully mitigated its force a little,—for when the human organ emits a deep sound like a trumpet, it begins to be rather unpleasant. We have nevertheless sounds which point unmistakably to the trumpet ature, the wind instrument nature, of the human voice. These are the sounds: h, ch (as in ‘loch'), j (as y ‘yacht'), sch (sh), s, f, w (v). And they are all of them sounds in which, as one listens to them, one can still hear the gesture.

On the other hand, there are sounds where the gesture disappears into the tone in such a way that one feels a need, not merely to hear but to see what the sound would convey. A good example is d, where you want also to see that the finger is there, pointing.⁵ These are the ‘impact’ or ‘thrust’ sounds; and with them you want, as it were, to get away from hearing, and fancy that you can see the sound. Well-defined sounds of impact are: d, t, b, p, g, k, m, n.

Then we have a sound where we can hardly say the gesture has ‘disappeared’ in the sound, for it is still perceptible. I mean r, the vibrating sound.

Again, we have a sound which gives you the feeling: how lovely it would be to become that sound! This is l, the wave sound. You swim in the element of life when you have the true, genuine feeling of l.

The disappearance of the gesture into these sounds is a thing that can definitely be felt. Take first the ‘blown' sounds. The experience one has with these is essentially an experience of tone. Listen to them. The gesture has completely disappeared within the sound, but you can hear it; yes, you hear the gesture. With the sounds of impact, one would somehow like to fancy one can see them. And in a sense that is so; in one's imagination one sees these sounds.

The vibrating sound r is felt; and a keenly sensitive person will feel the r in his arms and hands. If, while someone is pronouncing r and giving it its full value, you are obliged to hold your hands and arms quite still, it will be enough to make them itch. An itching of this kind is nothing else than the normal reaction of a sensitive person to the utterance—and especially to the frequently repeated utterance—of the sound r. R, then, is felt, in arms and hands.

L on the other hand will normally be felt in the legs. It is an actual fact that when someone is saying l, you feel it in your legs. Thus, l too is felt, but now in legs and feet.

Blown Sounds: h, ch, j, sch, s, f, w: We hear the intoning of the sound.
Impact Sounds: d, t, b, p, g, k, m, n: We see the sound. Vibrating Sound: r: We feel the sound in arms and hands
Wave Sound: l: We feel the sound in legs and feet.

As we saw, in the case of the ‘blown’ sounds, which more than any others become objective for man, the gesture has so completely disappeared within, that we want only to hear the sound. Test this for yourselves with some poet who has a fine feeling for sound. When he wants to express something that is entirely detached from man, you will find these sounds constantly occurring; quite instinctively, he makes:use of blown or breath sounds. But suppose he wants to describe how man is taking part in it all—butting in, perhaps defending himself, beating, laying about him. Then you will find the sounds of impact frequently turning up. Or again, if some passage in the poem is intended to stir your feelings, if in the very hearing of it you are to be deeply moved, then at the appropriate place you will find r or l. Thus, in the case of all sounds other than blown sounds we are referred perforce to man and his gestures. With the blown sounds there is no need for your attention to be drawn to man as he is in gesture, since the gesture has here completely disappeared into the sound, it is there within. Studying in this way the various kinds of sounds, we see again how gesture disappears into speech.

We have all this time been approaching a profound truth that we can receive from the Mysteries concerning speech, and that we shall do well to inscribe in our hearts. It has not been handed down as a tradition, for it was never explicitly stated; it comes to us none the less as a heritage from the time of the Mysteries. It is a truth upon which we should meditate deeply and often, if we are seriously wanting to practise the art of speech,—and then meditate also upon all that will reveal itself further as a result of the meditation. In gesture lives the human being; there, in the gesture, is man himself. The gesture disappears into the speaking. When the word is intoned, then in the word man appears again, gesture-making man. When man speaks, we find in his speaking the whole human being—that is, if he knows how to form his speaking. Let us then receive, as a heritage from those times when speech was still part of the content of the Mysteries, this truth: Man who has disappeared in the gesture, rises again in the spoken word.

The art of the stage, that employs gesture, does not let man altogether disappear from the gesture. Neither does it let him wholly ‘rise again’ in the word. And this is what makes a dramatic performance so fascinating. For since man does not altogether disappear in the gesture (for the actor stands there before you as man in the gesture), nor yet fully rise again in the word, a possibility is created for the onlooker to take a share in the experience. He has to add in his fancy, in his own enjoyment of the drama, what is not yet fully present in the word that is spoken on the stage. So there you have—as it were, ready to hand—a situation that constitutes an essential element in the art of drama.

To-morrow, at the same hour, we will continue.

• 1. An apology is perhaps due for giving here a new rendering instead of that in the published translation. In cases where translation presents peculiar difficulties, alternative renderings may sometimes be helpful. The student will realise from what is said in the lecture that the advice given in the Translator's Note in regard to German Readings applies here a fortiori.
• 2. Where words are indented in this way in the center of the page, it is to indicate that they were written by the lecturer on the blackboard.
• 3. ‘I sat me down on a stone, put knee over knee and set my elbow thereon. Chin and cheek I nestled in my palm and narrowly I considered in what wise a man should live in this world.’ From Songs and Sayings of Walther von der Vogelweide, Minnesaenger, englished by Frank Betts.
• 4. Dr. Steiner explains elsewhere that when using this line from Schiller's Der Taucher with a therapeutic or educational end in view, he purposely changes ‘siedet’ into ‘woget’.
• 5. See Lectures II and III in Eurhythmy as Visible Speech.

My dear Friends,

We have learned to see how speech comes originally from the artistic in man—the primitive artistic, but by no means on that account inferior in quality—and that from the beginning there has lived in speech both a musical and a plastic element. We have moreover seen how man's thought life and man's life of feeling lived in his speaking. Bearing this in mind, it will now be our task to try to form a true idea of the art of speech as it is today. Let us then ask ourselves: How do we speak? Assuming we are interested in artistically formed speech, what do we take as our standard?

As a matter of fact, life as it is lived today provides us with no true standard; it is indeed sadly lacking altogether in artistic standards. Are there not many people today who enjoy poetry very much and yet have no knowledge of what a poem is? They take their poetry as if it were prose, looking at the content and having often not the remotest understanding for its artistic form. For them, the artistic quality in the poetry might simply not be there at all. And so, since in the matter of speech we must needs take our start from what can be known and experienced by people at large—after all it is they for whom art is in the first place produced—we shall have to take our start from prose. For notwithstanding the advanced age of civilisation in which we live, it is in accordance with the standards of prose that speech is adjudged, even when people profess to be judging it from an artistic point of view. And these standards have not arisen out of artistic feeling; they have gradually taken shape and simply been accepted as conventions.

How often one hears people complain today if someone, out of artistic necessity, reads or recites in accordance with the verse, and not in accordance with the syntax! Following the orthodox prose standards, he should carry right on from one line of verse into the next, and objection is raised if he does not do this, but obeys the verse instead of the grammar. In this connection a curious anomaly has crept into the literature of today. The younger poets have an overpowering desire by some means or other to get back to style; and right in the middle of a sentence which runs on, necessarily and naturally, into the following lines, they will introduce a rhyme in such a way that the rhyme breaks rudely into the grammatical sequence of the sentence. Now, this is certainly not quite the way to achieve style! Nevertheless, where the spiritual life has become what it is today and all feeling for style has been lost, one can well understand how these poets feel impelled purposely to insert rhyme just where it can strike a rude blow at the grammar And then the poor reciter is obliged not to swallow the rhyme but to give it its place and value in his recitation, and in doing so he too of course has to play havoc with the composition of the sentence. There is, in fact, a regular battle being waged in our day between art and taste, and we must be ready to bear our part in it, particularly in the realm of speech.

In a time when men still had a feeling for art and for style, there was even for prose what, at all events, resembled art, namely rhetoric—or, as it was often called, eloquence. It has survived, along with many another antiquated curiosity, in some of our universities. The universities, at any rate the older ones, have still continued to appoint Professors of Eloquence. There was one, for example, in Berlin, who was quite a famous man. He was appointed to teach eloquence. The public, however, and consequently the University, had no use for lectures on eloquence. In their view, all that is necessary is for people to open their mouths and speak, just as it comes; no need of any teaching! And so it came about that most people were quite unaware that they had in the University a highly distinguished Professor of Eloquence. He lectured on Grecian Archaeology, and he gave excellent lectures. He had not, however, been appointed for that at all, he had been appointed Professor of Eloquence, for which there was no demand, so sadly out of tune with the age is anything that has to do with the real forming of speech.

The proper aim and purpose of prose is to bring back thought into speech. For thought has become quite detached from speech.

Now the thoughts men have today are, without exception, thoughts that have to do with the head. For to what do they refer? Solely to things that are material. The religious bodies, having no desire to be connected with material things, have for a long time, and especially the Protestants, been making great efforts to exclude thought altogether, in theory anyway, and instead to fall back on feeling—to have, that is, what they call faith, which amounts for them to the same thing. We have no occasion to go further into that now, but it is important for us to realise that the thoughts that are in the world today are material as regards their content. Even men who believe they recognise and acknowledge the spiritual—unless they take their stand right within the life of the spirit, their thoughts too are concerned with what is material and are the product of the head alone.

And now you must allow me at this point to make use of a picture, although the picture is meant to be taken seriously and even quite exactly. In a lecture on natural science it would not of course be permissible to describe the human being in the way I shall now be doing.

Man's head is round, at all events in its inherent tendency; and in its roundness it forms a picture of the universe, the universe, that is, as it presents itself to immediate observation in its material aspect. Thoughts that are spiritual can never originate in the head; they can only spring from the whole human being. And man as a whole is not round; for in man as a whole the roundness has been metamorphosed so that he has an altogether different form. The moment it is a question of leaving the purely material, as for example in the forming of speech, we have to look in the direction of that in man which is not round. We did this yesterday, when we gave our attention to gesture, which is something that least of all can be carried out by the head. For it is only a few people who can, for example, move their ears at will; and such gestures as these do not anyway come into consideration here. The head is indeed, and with good reason, gestureless; only in look and in play of countenance may it be said to have a last relic, an indication merely, of gesture.

We were speaking yesterday of many things that need to be brought into speech, and these all have their origin, not in the head, but in the whole of the rest of man. So it comes to this: what man experiences in the rest of his being must flow up into the head. This is what I meant when I said that after we have studied a passage in gesture, studied it first, that is, in gesture alone, the gesture has then to flow into the word, has to be lifted up into the spoken word.

Prose, however, having been restricted to the head, has almost entirely lost gesture; prose can be declaimed with complete absence of gesture. Or rather, not declaimed; one merely talks prose—prosaically.

What does this imply? That in prose, as we have it today, there is a tendency to lose style altogether and replace it with a mere pointing of certain words. For it is the business of prose to state or tell something quite precisely. And since what has to be told has been acquired by means of the head, that is to say, by means of the roundness that imitates the apparent roundness of the universe, it has in itself no form. Our thoughts, in so far as they move in prose, are chaotically jumbled together. If it were not so, we would not have in our time the deplorable spectacle of the sciences working alongside one another but unconnected, and of the specialisation that goes on in each separate branch of knowledge. Why, today one can be reputed a great anatomist and have no understanding whatever for the soul. In reality that is simply not possible. In reality one can neither know the soul without some understanding of anatomy, nor know anatomy without some understanding of the soul. And yet it would appear that in our day such a thing is possible! This has come about because the generally accepted form of expression for prose consists in placing thoughts side by side and giving to each its own particular point and emphasis. Style, however, requires continuity of thought. Anyone setting out to write an essay and to write it in style, ought already to have his last sentence within the first. He should in fact pay even more attention to the last than to the first. And while he is writing his second sentence, he should have in mind the last but one. Only when he comes to the middle of his essay can he allow himself to concentrate on one sentence alone. If an author has a true feeling for style in prose, he will have the whole essay before him as he writes.

Ask a present-day botanist whether he knows, when he begins to write, what his last sentence is going to be! All feeling for style in the formulation of ideas has completely disappeared. The prose writing of today is based on emphasis and pointed expression, not at all on a feeling for style. And so, if prose is taken as the model upon which people form their estimation of speech, it means that the objections put forward against the stylists are made—and even consciously made—without any feeling for style.

What unbelievable expressions one hears used today! I have repeatedly heard some quite cultured person say, for example, in praise of a beautiful pear: ‘It looks like wax!’ Yes, my dear friends, that single remark can show you what a complete lack there is today, not merely of any feeling for art in speech, but a complete lack even of any possibility of acquiring such a thing. Anyone who has the smallest feeling for style will know of course that it is possible for a wax pear to be beautiful through its resemblance to the real pear, but not vice versa. You have, however, an example of the very same fallacy when you find people comparing what is spoken in verse with something expressed in prose. In dealing with the modern sort of prose we are often painfully compelled to dispense with style entirely—the only alternative being to create a prose of our own.

This is a matter that calls for serious attention. Prose exists for communication; and we have the task to see how prose can still fulfil its purpose when we have consciously restored style to those elements in it that are tending to lose style altogether.

What is it must enter into our speaking when we are telling something? The reason our prose has become styleless is of course that it sets out merely to tell and nothing more. That has been the tendency all through. Prose has always tended to get away from art; it is a cultural activity of the head—which is as much as to say, a cultural activity totally lacking in art. What then must narration try to do, in what direction must it turn if it wants still to fulfil its part as narration, and at the same time evince an artistic quality?

For narrating we make use of the senses and the understanding, which belong to the head. Consequently prose has perforce to express itself in such form as the head can provide. It should, however, also be continually making the effort to reach out with what has been perceived by the head and let it take hold of the arms, and more especially of the legs. Then in the rendering of epic (and epic exists to tell and narrate), the sort of pointed style that belongs to the head becomes modified by the attempt to seize hold of the legs—no occasion of course to do so literally, with brute force!

And this is exactly what has happened in the hexameter,¹ and with marvellous success. For what is the hexameter? The distinguishing feature of it is that, having set out to be the verse for communication and narrative, it seizes upon the legs and brings their rhythm into the verse. Not without reason do we speak of the `feet’ in a line of verse. And you will have no true experience of the hexameter until you can feel that besides speaking it, you can also step it. For you can certainly do so. You set out to narrate something; that is, you want to express, to reveal in your speech what I named yesterday the `thoughtful’. First of all, you must see to it that you do really start from this thoughtful element in speech. You stand still, resting your weight on one foot, and while you are standing there you speak—slowly, and with full tone. You take two steps, and glide rapidly over the speaking in these two steps. Then the time has come round again to stand still, because the narrative requires to be thought. Then once more you take two steps.

It can, you see, be easily done; and when you have carried it out for a whole line of verse, you have walked the hexameter. It is there in your stepping in its true form: plant the foot down, o, two steps, e, e; o, e, e; o, e, e; o, e, e. You have taken your stepping into your speaking; the form of your stepping is in your speaking.

Take the line:

Singe, unsterbliche Seele, der sÃündigen Menschen Erlösung.
(Sing, O immortal soul, of sinful mankind the redemption.)

or again, this one:

Singe, O Muse, vom Zome mir des Peleiden Achilleus.
(Sing now to me, O Muse, of the wrath of the godlike Achilles.)

and so on.

As you can see, the whole man goes over into what is produced by the head.

When Goethe came to feel the force of this metre in the epics of Homer, he was moved to revive the use of it for narrative poetry. And he did so in his Hermann and Dorothea, where he was wanting to write an epic. He soon began to feel, however, while at work on the poem, that the hexameter does not really lend itself to the expression of modern themes, since these have become quite prosaic. And so Goethe did not after all entirely succeed in clothing the rather provincial contemporary epic—for that is what Hermann and Dorothea is in respect of its theme—in such noble forms as should lift it on to quite another level, while at the same time satisfying the taste of an uncultured public. Yet he did give them in this poem a genuine epic, even while treating the theme in such a way as to delight their Philistine hearts. In truth, a task which none but a great poet could achieve!

Goethe also tried employing the hexameter for a theme that had in the very shaping of its content a spiritual quality. This was in his Achilleis. And that is why the poem, though no more than a fragment, rings true, artistically true, ‘style’ true. We will now listen to the recitation of a passage from Goethe's Achilleis.

(Frau Dr. Steiner): Achilleis, Book I. Achilles is standing before his tent, watching the slow collapse of the funeral pyre upon which the remains of Hector have been consumed. He begins a conversation with his friend Antilochos, in course of which he prophesies his own approaching death.

Hoch zu Flammen entbrannte die mächtige Lohe noch einmal,
Strebend gegen den Himmel, und Ilios' Mauern erschienen
Rot durch die finstere Nacht; der aufgeschichteten Waldung
Ungeheures Gerüst, zusammenstürzend, erregte
Mächtige Glut zuletzt. Da senkten sich Hektors Gebeine
Nieder, und Asche lag der edelste Troer am Boden.

Nun erhob sich Achilleus vom Sitz vor seinem Gezelte,
Wo er die Stunden durchwachte, die nächtlichen, schaute der Flammen
Fernes schreckliches Spiel und des wechselnden Feuers Bewegung,
Ohne die Augen zu wenden von Pergamos' rötlicher Feste.
Tief im Herzen empfand er den Hass noch gegen den Toten,
Der ihm den Freund erschlug und der nun bestattet dahinsank.

Aber als nun die Wut nachliess des fressenden Feuers
Allgemach, und zugleich mit Rosenfingern die Göttin
Schmückete Land und Meer, dass der Flammen Schrecknisse bleichten,
Wandte sich tief bewegt und sanft der grosse Pelide
Gegen Antilochos hin und sprach die gewichtigen Worte:
‘So wird kommen der Tag, da bald von Ilios’ Trümmern
Rauch und Qualm sich erhebt, von thrakischen Lüftengetrieben,
Idas langes Gebirg und Gargaros' Höhe verdunkelt:
Aber ich werd' ihn nicht sehen. Die Völkerweckerin Eos
Fand mich Patroklos' Gebein zusammenlesend; sie findet
Hektors Brüder anjetzt in gleichem frommen Geschäfte:
Und dich mag sie auch bald, mein trauter Antilochos, finden,
Dass du den leichten Rest des Freundes jammernd bestattest.
Soll dies also nun sein, wie mir es die Götter entbieten,
Sei es ! Gedenken wir nur des Nötigen, was noch zu tun ist.
Denn mich soll, vereint mit meinem Freunde Patroklos,
Ehren ein herrlicher Hügel, am hohen Gestade des Meeres
Aufgerichtet, den Völkern und künftigen Zeiten ein Denkmal.
Fleissig haben mir schon die rüstigen Myrmidonen
Rings umgraben den Raum, die Erde warfen sie einwärts,
Gleichsam schützenden Wall aufführend gegen des Feindes
Andrang. Also umgrenzten den weiten Raum sie geschäftig.
Aber wachsen soll mir das Werk! Ich eile, die Scharen
Aufzurufen, die mir noch Erde mit Erde zu häufen
Willig sind, und so vielleicht befördr' ich die Hälfte.
Euer sei die Vollendung, wenn bald mich die Urne gefassthat!’

Also sprach er und ging und schritt durch die Reihe der Zelte,
Winkend jenem und diesem und rufend andre zusammen.
Alle, sogleich nun erregt, ergriffen das starke Geräte,
Schaufel und Hacke, mit Lust, dass der Klang des Erzes ertönte,
Auch den gewaltigen Pfahl, den steinbewegenden Hebel.
Und so zogen sie fort, gedrängt aus dem Lager ergossen,
Aufwärts den sanften Pfad, und schweigend eilte die Menge.
Wie wenn, zum Ueberfall gerüstet, nächtlich die Auswahl
Stille ziehet des Heers, mit leisen Tritten die Reihe
Wandelt und jeder die Schritte misst und jeder den Atem
Anhält, in feindliche Stadt, die schlechtbewachte, zu dringen:
Also zogen auch sie, und aller tätige Stille
Ehrte das ernste Geschäft und ihres Königes Schmerzen.

Als sie aber den Rücken des wellenbespületen Hügels
Bald erreichten und nun des Meeres Weite sich auftat,
Blickte freundlich Eos sie an aus der heiligen Frühe
Fernem Nebelgewölk, und jedem erquickte das Herz sie.
Alle stürzten sogleich dem Graben zu, gierig der Arbeit,
Rissen in Schollen auf den lange betretenen Boden,
Warfen schaufelnd ihn fort; ihn trugen andre mit Körben
Aufwärts; in Helm und Schild einfüllen sah man die einen,
Und der Zipfel des Kleids war anderen statt des Gefässes.

Jetzt eröffneten heftig des Himmels Pforte die Horen,
Und das wilde Gespann des Helios, brausend erhob sich's.
Rasch erleuchtet' er gleich die frommen Aethiopen,
Welche die äussersten wohnen von allen Völkern der Erde.
Schüttelnd bald die glühenden Locken, entstieg er des Ida
Wäldern, um klagenden Troern, um rüst'gen Achaiern zu leuchten.

Aber die Horen indes, zum Aether strebend, erreichten
Zeus Kronions heiliges Haus, das sie ewig begrüssen.
Und sie traten hinein; da begegnete ihnen Hephaistos,
Eilig hinkend, und sprach auffordernde Worte zu ihnen:
‘Trügliche! Glücklichen schnelle, den Harrenden langsame, hört mich!
Diesen Saal erbaut' ich, dem Willen des Vaters gehorsam,
Nach dem göttlichen Mass des herrlichsten Musengesanges;
Sparte nicht Gold und Silber noch Erz, und bleiches Metall nicht.
Und so wie ich's vollendet, vollkommen stehet das Werk noch,
Ungekränkt von der Zeit; denn hier ergreift es der Rost nicht,
Noch erreicht es der Staub, des irdischen Wandrers Gefährte.
Alles hab' ich getan, was irgend schaffende Kunst kann.
Unerschütterlich ruht die hohe Decke des Hauses,
Und zum Schritte ladet der glatte Boden den Fuss ein.
Jedem Herrscher folget sein Thron, wohin er gebietet,
Wie dem Jäger der Hund, und goldene wandelnde Knaben
Schuf ich, welche Kronion, den kommenden, unterstützen,
Wie ich mir eherne Mädchen erschuf. Doch alles ist leblos!
Euch allein ist gegeben, den Charitinnen und euch nur,
Ueber das tote Gebild des Lebens Reize zu streuen.
Auf denn! sparet mir nichts und giesst aus dem heiligen Salbhorn
Liebreiz herrlich umher, damit ich mich freue des Werkes,
Und die Götter entzückt so fort mich preisen wie anfangs!’
Und sie lächelten sanft, die beweglichen, nickten dem Alten
Freundlich und gossen umher verschwenderisch Leben und Licht aus...

ACHILLEID

by Goethe

High into flames burst forth once more the great conflagration,
Ere it heavenwards died, and through the gathering darkness
Red loomed Ilios' walls. Of wood from the forest, the scaffold,
Piled up in mighty heaps, excited, crashing together,
Glow of the fiercest at last. Then sank down the body of Hector,
And as mere ash on the ground there lay the noblest of Trojans.

Then from his seat Achilles rose before the encampment,
Where through the nightly hours he watched, and looked at the distant,
Terrible play of the flames and the fire's continual changes,
Not once turning his eyes from Pergamos' reddening fortress.
Deep in his heart tow'rds the dead still raged the bitterest hatred,
Him who had smitten his friend, and there at last was disposed of.
When, however, the rage of the flames devouring diminished,
Growing less by degrees, and the rose-fingered goddess, adorning
Land and sea, arose, of the flames thus paling the terrors,
Deeply moved and softened, then turned the great son of Peleus
To Antilochos round, and spoke words of weighty expression:
' Soon will arrive the day when thus from Ilios' ruins
Smoke and vapour shall rise, and, driven by Thracian breezes,
Ida's long mountain range and Gargaros' summit shall darken.
Yet shall I not see it. For Eos, who wakens the nations,
Found me collecting Patroclos' remains, as now she is finding
Hector's brothers engaged in similar pious employment,
And may soon as well, my trusted Antilochos, find thee,
Deep immersed in grief, of thy friend the light relics interring.
Must, then, this be now, as already the gods have directed,
Then let it be! But now, let us think what to do may be needful.
For there shall for me, with my friend Patroclos united,
Rise to honour a mound, on the highest bank of the seashore,
Grandly built, a memento for all future people and ages.
Busily have already the active Myrmidons dug me
Round all the space a trench, and thrown the earth from it inwards,
Forming against the attack of our foes at the same time a rampart:
Thus have they the wide space with diligent labour encircled.
Yet must, however, the work increase. I hasten to summon
Hither the crowds, who earth on earth to heap up are willing:
Thus, perchance, the half of the mound to build I may manage:
Thine must be its completion, when soon the urn shall inclose me.’²

(From the translation by Alexander Rogers.)

(Dr. Steiner): When we listen to the hexameter we know at once that some event is being narrated; and narrative presupposes that under its stimulus we see what it is telling us. We listen: foot firmly planted on the ground. We receive from the narrative all the feelings that arise in us : the feeling of life, of movement—the feeling of the stepping feet whereby we free ourselves from the earth's gravity. If we feel all this as we listen, that means that we understand the hexameter.

Let us now study the reverse process. For we can equally well start from the feeling, from the soul within, and then, after having lived in unclear feeling, lift ourselves up to the point of full inner clarity, where the feeling is constant, stands still. Then we would say: to begin with, two uncertain steps (we are in the unstable equilibrium of feeling); and now, put the foot down firm and sure (we make the feeling steadfast).

Du bĕschēnkst mich
Mĭt dĕn Gaben
Dĕr Gĕschwīster. ³

There you have the exact opposite of the hexameter. Although the words have the form of a communication, we cannot speak them in the way of making a communication. For the speaker is not prompted by a desire to tell what he says; the other knows it already—he has himself done the ‘presenting’. The content of the verse shows us at once that we have here to do with an expression of feeling, that is then brought to rest. If you have something to communicate—well, that is something stable and settled; the feeling, where you tend to come into mobility, into unstable equilibrium, follows after. So you have:

—⌣ ⌣—⌣ ⌣

But where it is a question, first of all, of feeling, and then from the feeling you ascend to stability, you will have:

⌣ ⌣—⌣ ⌣—

In Greek poetry, you will find the right use of dactyl and anapaest strictly adhered to, for the Greeks were sensitive to style. today we have consciously to learn these things; and that can be done only by calling on the whole human being to take part in the resurrection of style in the forming of the word and right into the actual speaking itself. It will then be obvious that we have to learn narrative speaking by speaking hexameters. All recitation of epic poetry will thus have to be learned from the speaking of hexameters. On the other hand, the speaking of lyric poetry can be learned best by speaking in anapaests.

In fine, we have to take our start, not from manipulation of the various parts of the human bodily organism, but from what is to be found in speech itself. The dactyl is in speech, the anapaest is in speech; from dactyl we learn to speak epic, from anapaest lyric. Nasal resonance and the rest can come later; we shall see how they come in. First in importance is to know where we are to begin when we set out to form our speech.

The objection may here be raised that the dactyl and the anapaest can hardly be said to survive in the language of today except in theory, and that if we want to experience the hexameter in its natural fluency we shall have to venture, as Goethe did, to choose an ancient theme. As we have seen, Goethe only once attempted to use it in a poem with a modern theme, when, under the influence of Voss's translation of Homer, he composed his Hermann and Dorothea; and I think when he was in the thick of it, positively sweating at the forging of his hexameters, he must many a time have heartily regretted his decision to call in the metre for such a theme. This does not, however, alter the fact that we can learn a great deal from speaking in hexameters; both anapaest and hexameter are particularly helpful for learning to give full tone to the separate sounds.

If you practise speaking hexameters—speaking, that is, in dactyls—for a considerable time, you will acquire, simply through speaking the metre, the right manipulation of tongue, palate, lips and teeth. In other words, the recitation of hexameters will teach you to form your consonants. There is, in fact, no better way to develop your instruments of speech for the proper speaking of consonants than the repeated recitation of hexameters. The tongue grows wonderfully supple, the lips become mobile, and above all you learn to control the palate, which very few people have under proper control when speaking. The right speaking of consonants is not to be learned by following all manner of instructions concerning the various speech organs, how to bring each of them into operation, etc., but simply by reciting hexameters. And then you can learn to say vowels, you can learn how to rest on the vowel, by speaking in anapaests. For when you speak in anapaests, you are instinctively impelled to form the vowel, to give your main attention to a proper development of the vowel. And this will mean that you learn to manipulate throat, lungs and diaphragm, just as by speaking hexameters you learn how to manage tongue, palate, lips and teeth.

In learning to speak hexameters one learns also at the same time how to speak the trochaic metre, and in learning to speak anapaests the iambic. For what does it mean, to speak in trochees ? It means again, you have to render the verse in such a style as to give the consonants their full value; whilst to speak iambics means to adopt a style that, like speaking in anapaests, gives the vowels their full value.

Where will you find today in any introduction to the study of speech this fundamental principle for the whole art of recitation? This is what I mean when I say that the art of recitation must be led back again to speech. We have misplaced it, locating it in anatomy and physiology, and all because we have no longer any understanding for the genius of speech.

For the creation of a drama that has style, we shall aim at using the iambic metre, since this kind of drama tends to have a more inward character. If on the other hand we are composing a drama of conversation, we shall try to make use of the trochee or else of downright prose. For poetry goes backwards ! It goes from anapaest through iambic to prose, and from dactyl through trochee to prose. And now you can see why a sensitive poet chooses the iambic metre for drama; witness Goethe's dramas in iambic. But if anyone wants to learn, let us say, how to read fairy tales, he will do well to prepare himself by reading trochees. For that will help him to develop a fine sensitiveness for his consonants; and it is upon the right sounding of the consonants that everything depends in the reading of fairy tales, or indeed in the reading of any poetical kind of prose.

Read a fairy tale with special attention to the vowels, and you will feel at once there is something unnatural about it. Read a fairy tale, pointing and delicately chiselling the consonants, and you will have the impression, not indeed of something natural, but of something that is gently suggestive of the eerie, the ghostly. And this is how it should be with a fairy tale. The vowel intonation being allowed to subside, the vowels slip away into the consonants, and as a result the whole thing is lifted a little out of reality. We are no longer in immediate reality, we receive the impression of something a little uncanny. The fairy tale, you see, treats what belongs to the sense world as if it were supersensible, and only when it is told or read in the way I have described can our human feeling be reconciled to it.

Suppose, however, it is real life you want to take for your theme. You want to achieve a poetical treatment of real life. Then you will have to educate yourself in iambics. For when you practise in iambics, you do not come right away from the consonants, and yet you draw near to the vowels. The speaking that comes about in this way is the only kind of speaking that is adapted to express realism poetically. Hence for the actor, the study of iambics will be the very best thing to help him on his way. This will apply even if he is preparing for a drama in trochees, but particularly for the prose drama. For through studying iambics he will gain the requisite mastery of tongue and palate so that they are supple (as they need to be for speaking consonants), yet at the same time not obtrusive, not getting in the way of the full development of the vowels.

These are, then, the lines on which we must learn to think if we would set out to develop our speaking. They lead us at once to the recognition that there must be art in our speaking, and that the forming of speech has accordingly to be learned, just as much as one has to learn to sing, or to play a musical instrument, or to follow any other art. The Greeks were fully alive to this necessity; the whole style of their dramatic art leaves us in no doubt on this point.

And there is something else besides that you would have found on the Greek stage. A true feeling for poetry survived there. Only a few days ago I was vividly reminded of how this feeling for style was still present in the Greeks and showed itself in their dramatic performances. When we were in London, we were taken to a theatre and witnessed the performance, not of a Greek drama, but of an Oriental singing drama.³ It was absolutely charming, really very good indeed; and the secret of its charm lay in the fact that the actors had masks, some of them even animal masks. They did not present to us their own human countenances; they stood before us as coming from a civilisation in which it was known that in gesture the countenance comes least of all into consideration, that as far as the countenance goes, gesture is best left stiffened into a mask. The Greek actors wore masks. The Oriental actors do so still. It was quite delightful for once to have before one the human being as such, the really interesting human being, wearing a human or animal mask—sometimes even one that a man of present-day civilisation would find distinctly unaesthetic! For when you have before you the human being wearing a mask, the impression he himself makes upon you is due solely and entirely to the gesturing he performs with the rest of the body; and there's nothing to prevent you from letting the mask complete the beauty of gesture above. One could not help feeling : Thank God, I have once again before me a human form, where up above arms and legs and body, which can express so beautifully what has to be expressed, sits not the dull human head, but the artistically fashioned mask, which with a kind of spirituality hides for the nonce, the insipidity of the human countenance.

I have, I know, been expressing myself rather strongly, nut I think it will have helped to make my point clear. Naturally, I don't mean that I never want to see a human face! You will, I feel sure, understand me; and it is my belief that this kind of thing needs to be understood if we are ever to get back to the artistic in our forming of speech. For what is worst of all in speaking? Worst of all is when you see the movements of the speaker's mouth, or when you see the uninteresting human face exhibiting all its physiognomy and play of countenance. But you have an impression of something quite beautiful when, without being confused or led astray by the countenance, you behold on the stage the gesticulation of the rest of the human being, whilst the speaking or singing, which is all that the countenance should be required to contribute, supplies the appropriate inner complement of what gesture is able so grandly to reveal.

Speech as ‘formed gesture’—that is the highest of all; since gesture has then been spiritualised, has been taken up into the realm of the spirit. Speech that is not formed gesture is like something that has no ground to stand upon.

• 1. It may be helpful to remind the student of the following:
  Iambus ⌣—
  Anapaest ⌣ ⌣—
  Trochee—⌣
  Dactyl—⌣ ⌣
  Spondee——
  The hexameter is a verse of six feet, generally five dactyls followed by a spondee (or trochee). A familiar example in English is Longfellow's Evangeline.
• 2. The Readings having been given as an illustration of verse in hexameter, the above rendering of a part of it will perhaps suffice.
• 3. Thou presentest me
  With the treasures
  Of my bretheren.
• 3. This was at the British Empire Wembley Exhibition, and in all probability a performance by a Burmese company

My dear Friends,

It is our concern in these lectures to find the way to the artistic forming of speech and also of dramatic action—taking our start always from the speech organism itself. To this end, it is of vital importance that we should not be content with theoretical expositions, but accompany these throughout with practical demonstration. Thus, you had opportunity yesterday to see how the iambic and the trochaic metre has each its particular part to play in the development of the art of speech. And now today we will begin by showing how it is possible, in domains of speech where the path of development is sought, not in an entirely inward but in a rather more external way—how it is possible even there to go over from prose into poetic form, into the artistic, into style.

We have seen that the significance of the iambic metre lies in the fact that it helps to promote in the whole organism of speech this transition to poetic form and style, even sometimes to the genuinely lyrical. The trochaic and dactylic metres, on the other hand, whilst they too have the tendency to work in this direction, taking us away from prose, can also help the student who practises them to speak prose itself artistically. I am here merely recalling what we considered together yesterday.

Today we propose to demonstrate for you the rendering in speech of a kind of verse where there is the wish to maintain poetic form throughout, but where the poet comes up against a certain difficulty. He wants, for example, to sustain a particular description or narration for a longer period, perhaps throughout many lines of verse; but owing to the nature of the language, he is unable to keep it going entirely in the iambic metre, or entirely in the trochaic. Hence we find a tendency to compromise between prose and poetic form. And it is this compromise that we have in the Alexandrine, which has properly six iambics, but which, since it is not very easy to maintain such a metre for any considerable time, constantly interposes passages where the iambic is not strictly adhered to. Thus, a kind of compromise is effected. But wherever the language becomes rhetorical (rhetorical language has, you know, a slight flavour of decadence about it), a tendency immediately becomes evident to form the verse iambically throughout, keeping it strictly within the limits of the original rhythm.

All this we may find in the Alexandrine. Consequently, when used as an exercise for speech, the Alexandrine can work in the opposite way to the hexameter. Speaking in hexameters leads, as we have seen, to good prose speaking; the Alexandrine, on the other hand, is an excellent preparation for speaking poetry.

This we will now illustrate for you in the rendering Frau Dr. Steiner will give of some French Alexandrines. Alexandrines are at their best in French. When they are used in the German language, they always seem rather like an imitation; they seem out of place there. Alexandrines are not, in fact, a natural product of the German language. It will accordingly be best to take a French example for demonstration.

There are a number of passages in Faust where Goethe deviated from other metres into the Alexandrine; and in each single instance the occasion for it can be clearly discerned. Goethe has recourse, namely, to the Alexandrine when he begins to find difficulty in being poetical in any other way. Where he has a scene in which it is difficult to be inwardly poetical, he resorts to being poetical outwardly. And so we find in Faust, wherever this dilemma occurs, the transition to the Alexandrine.1

(Frau Dr. Steiner): The example I am giving is taken from a dramatic poem by Lecomte de Lisle: Hypatie.

The cultured young adherent of the ancient wisdom, who will shortly be torn in pieces by the infuriated mob in the streets of Alexandria, is admonished by Bishop Cyril to be converted and so escape violent death. She on her part points to the everlasting disputes that go on within the Church, a Church that has become not only terribly dogmatic, but brutally savage, and affirms her unswerving adherence to the ancient esoteric wisdom.

HYPATIE

Ne le crois pas, Cyrille! Ils vivent dans mon coeur,
Non tels que tu les vois, vêtus de formes vaines,
Subissant dans le Ciel les passions humaines,
Adorés du vulgaire et dignes de mépris;
Mais tels que les ont vus de sublimes esprits:
Dans l'espace étoilé n'ayant point de demeures,
Forces de l'univers, Vertus intérieures,
De la terre et du ciel concours harmonieux
Qui charme la pensee et l'oreille et les yeux,
Et qui donne, idéal aux sages accessible,
A la beauté de l'âme une splendeur visible.
Tels sont mes Dieux! Qu'un sièle ingrat s'écarte d'eux,
Je ne les puis trahir puisqu'ils sont malheureux.
Je le sens, je le sais: voici les heures sombres,
Les jours marqués dans l'ordre impérieux des Nombres.
Aveugle à notre gloire et prodigue d'affronts,
Le temps injurieux découronne nos fronts;
Et, dans l'orgueil récent de sa haute fortune,
L'Avenir n'entend plus la voix qui l'importune,
O Rois harmonieux, chefs de l'Esprit humain,
Vous qui portiez la lyre et la balance en main,
Il est venu, Celui qu'annongaient vos présages,
Celui que contenaient les visions des sages,
L'Expiateur promis dont Eschyle a parlé!
Au sortir du sepulcre et de sang maculé,
L'arbre de son supplice à lépaule, il se l'ève;
Il offre à l'univers ou sa croix ou le glaive,
Il venge le Barbare écarté des autels,
Et jonche vos parvis de membres immortels!
Mais je garantirai des atteintes grossières
Jusqu'au dernier soupir vos pieuses poussières,
Heureuse si, planant sur les jours à venir,
Votre immortalité sauve mon souvenir.
Salut, O Rois d'Hellas!—Adieu, noble Cyrille!

CYRILLE

Abjure tes erreurs, o malheureuse fille,
Le Dieu jaloux t'écoute! O triste aveuglement!
Je m'indigne et gemis en un même moment.
Mais puisque to ne veux ni croire ni comprendre
Et refuses la main que je venais te tendre,
Que ton coeur s'endurcit dans un esprit mauvais,
C'en est assez! j'ai fait plus que je ne devais.
Un dernier mot encore:—n'enfreins pas ma défense!
Une ombre de salut te reste:—le silence.
Dieu seul te jugera, s'il ne l'a déjà fait;
Sa colère est sur toi; n'en hâte point l'effet.

HYPATIE

Je ne puis oublier, en un silence lâche,
Le coin de mon honneur et ma suprême tâche,
Celle de confesser librement sous les cieux
Le beau, le vrai, le bien, qu'ont révélés les
Dieux. Depuis deux jours déjà, comme une écume vile,
Les moines du désert abondent dans la vile,
Pieds nus, la barbe inculte et les cheveux souillés,
Tout maigris par le jeüne, et du soleil brûles.
On prétend qu'un projet sinistre et fanatique
Amene parmi nous cette horde extatique.
C'est bien. Je sais mourir, et suis fière du choix
Dont m'honorent les Dieux une dernière fois.
Cependant je rends gràce à to solicitude
Et n'attends plus de toi qu'un peu de solitude.
(CYRILLE et l'acolyte sortent.)

LA NOURRICE

Mon enfant, tu le vois, toi-même en fais l'aveu:
Tu vas mourir!

HYPATIE

Je vais être immortelle. Adieu.

---

From HYPATIA¹
by Lecomte de Lisle

HYPATIA

Believe it not O Cyril, for They live
Within my heart, not such as you perceive
Clothed in vain forms and in the heav'ns
Subject to passions that men have on earth,
Deserving scorn, worshipped by vulgar hordes;
But such as lofty spirits contemplate:

Having no dwelling there amid the stars;
Virtues inherent and the strength of worlds,
Binding in harmony the earth and skies,
Charming the thoughts of men, their eyes, their ears,
And for the wise, as tangible ideal,
Giving a shining splendour to the soul.
Such are my Gods! And let ingratitude
Of a base century approach them not;
Betray them can I ne'er, for they are doomed.
I feel, I recognise, these darkened hours,
Days marked by Numbers ruling deeds of men.
Blind to our fame and with harsh insult free
These cruel times take from our brows their crown;
And in the pride of recent victories
The future shuts its ear to those who call.
O Kings of concord—of man's spirit Lords,
Bearing your symbols of the lyre and scales!
He has appeared whom you have heralded,
The Saviour Aeschylus has promised men!
Stained with his blood he issues from the tomb;
Bearing his tree of torture see him rise,
Off'ring the world his cross or else a sword;
Avenging heathen from his altars chased
He strews your groves with your immortal limbs.
To my last living breath I will preserve
Your pious ashes from all rude attack,
Happy if hov'ring o'er the days to come
Your immortality my memory holds.
Hail, Kings of Greece! Great Cyril, fare you well!

CYRIL

Unhappy child, I beg you to recant.
He hears—the jealous God! O tragic, blind,
You anger me and yet you make me grieve.
But since you will not understand nor trust,
And scorn the hand I offer for your aid,
And since unrighteousness makes hard your heart,
It is enough! More than I should I've done.
But one word still—transgress not my command!
There is one final hope of safety—silence.
Your only judge is God, and even now
His sentence may be passed. Haste not to bring
Fulfilment of His anger on your head.

HYPATIA

In coward silence can I not forget
What to myself is due, my task supreme—
Beneath the heavens what the Gods reveal
Of beauty, truth and goodness to confess.
For two long days, like to a scum impure
The desert monks have swarmed into the town;
Bare-footed, beards unkempt and hair unclean,
Burnt by the sun, wasted by constant fast.
Men say a plan fanatical and dread
Brings this ecstatic horde into mir midst.
'Tis well—for instant death I am prepared,
Proud that for this last time the puissant Gods
Have deemed me worthy to endure that fate.
Yet your concern fills me with gratitude;
Now, solitude is all I beg of you.
(Exeunt CYRIL and the acolyte.)

THE NURSE

My child, you see, you recognise yourself
That you will have to die!

HYPATIA

But dying go
To immortality. O fare you well!
(Translation by V. E. W.)

(In the second edition of the original, the following example of Alexandrines from Faust, Part II, was added.)

Vor dem Palaste des Menelas zu Sparta.

HELENA

Bewundert viel und viel gescholten, Helena,
Vom Strande komm' ich, wo wir erst gelandet sind,
Noch immer trunken von des Gewoges regsamem
Geschaukel, das vom Phryg'schen Blachgefild uns her
Auf sträubig-hohem Rücken, durch Poseidons Gunst
Und Euros' Kraft, in vaterländ'sche Buchten trug.
Dort unten freuet nun der König Menelas
Der Rückkehr samt den tapfersten seiner Krieger sich.
Du aber heisse mich willkommen, hohes Haus,
Das Tyndareus, mein Vater, nah dem Hange sich,
Von Pallas' Hügel wiederkehrend, aufgebaut,
Und als ich hier mit Klytämnestren schwesterlich,
Mit Kastor auch und Pollux fröhlich spielend wuchs,
Vor allen Häusern Spartas herrlich ausgeschmückt.
Gegrüsset seid mir, der ehrnen Pforte Flügel ihr!
Durch euer gastlich ladendes Weiteröffnen einst
Geschah's, dass mir, erwählt aus vielen, Menelas
In Bräutigamsgestalt entgegenleuchtete.
Eröffnet mir sie wieder, dass ich ein Eilgebot
Des Königs treu erfülle, wie der Gattin ziemt.
Lasst mich hinein, und alles bleibe hinter mir,
Was mich -umstürmte bis hierher verhängnisvoll!
Denn seit ich diese Stelle sorgenlos verliess,
Cytherens Tempel besuchend, heil'ger Pflicht gemäss,
Mich aber dort ein Räuber griff, der phrygische,
Ist viel geschehen, was die Menschen weit und breit
So gern erzählen, aber der nicht gerne hört,
Von dem die Sage wachsend sich zum Märchen spann.

---

FAUST, Part II
Act III, Scene 1

Before the Palace of Menelaus in Sparta.
(Enter HELENA, with a chorus of captive Trojan women.)

HELENA

The much admired and much upbraided Helena,
From yonder strand I come, where erst we disembark'd,
Still giddy from the roll of ocean's billowy surge,
Which, through Poseidon's favour and through Euros' might,
On lofty crested backs hither hath wafted us,
From Phrygia's open field, to our ancestral bays.
Yonder King Menelaus, glad of his return,
With his brave men of war, rejoices on the beach.
But oh, thou lofty mansion, bid me welcome home,
Thou, near the steep decline, which Tyndareus, my sire,
From Pallas' hill returning, here hath builded up;
Which also was adorned beyond all Sparta's homes,
What time with Clytemnestra, sister-like, I grew,
With Castor, Pollux, too, playing in joyous sport.
Wings of yon brazen portals, you I also hail!
Through you, ye guest-inviting, hospitable gates,
Hath Menelaus once, from many princes chosen,
Shone radiant on my sight, in nuptial sort arrayed.
Expand to me once more, that I the king's behest
May faithfully discharge, as doth the spouse beseem.
Let me within, and all henceforth behind remain,
That, charged with doom, till now darkly hath round me stormed!
For since, by care untroubled, I these sites forsook,
Seeking Cythera's fane, as sacred wont enjoined,
And by the spoiler there was seized, the Phrygian,
Happened have many things, whereof men far and wide
Are fain to tell, but which not fain to hear is he
Of whom the tale, expanding, hath to fable grown.
(From the translation by Anna Swanwick.)

(Dr. Steiner): And now we must go on to consider how we may find, in speech, ways that lead over from one realm of poetic creation to another. For they are there to be found in the very use and forming of speech.

Narrative comes to expression just as well in the trochaic metre as in the dactylic. Let us take an example of narrative in trochees and see what it can reveal. To present narrative in trochaic metre accords quite simply with man's original instinctive feeling; and you will discover moreover that the tone of voice required for narrative can most easily be found when speaking in trochees. On this account the trochaic metre is a good preparation also for the art of speaking prose, an art which has to penetrate more instinctively into the instruments of speech and into the heart.

Now in narrative, in epic poetry, as I said in the first lecture, the reciter has the object standing there before him in thought. His thought of it may, however, become so vivid that he surrenders himself to be an instrument for what the object speaks and does. When this happens, narrative goes over into drama. We have thus found here a way to pass from narrative that contains a dramatic element to the art of drama itself. Not every narrative, not every epic does this, but all are capable of it. And that, my dear friends, is your right and true way of approach to drama.

If we begin straight away with the practice of dramatic art, we externalise it instead of giving it the requisite quality of intimacy and inwardness. If, however, we take our start from some narrative that makes considerable demand upon the imagination, until we really cannot help transposing ourselves into the person of whom the narrative tells (for he is of course not there at all, we are obliged to ‘act’ him), then we shall be taking the right and natural road to drama. For to produce a well-presented drama, it will hardly do for the actors to be content to study simply the speaking of their own parts! The distribution of parts in such a way that each actor receives the text only of what he himself has to speak is quite wrong; nor can this fault be compensated for by a reading’ rehearsal. The one and only right way is for each actor to approach his own part in the play in the firm conviction that he must enter also into a full experience of everything his fellow actor or actors have to say. And whereas in ordinary life it is our duty to listen as quietly as possible, the actor has to speak with the other actors as much as ever he can, though not of course outwardly; he must share their experience, he must speak—inwardly, as it were in echo—what his fellow actors are speaking around him.

I would like now to show you a path—for in all these matters I can do no more than indicate paths for you to follow—I would like to suggest a path that a young student of the drama could take in order to speak dialogue (or trialogue) in such a way as to give it the right intimacy and inwardness. I choose for the purpose an eminently trochaic poem that contains also a powerful dramatic element—calls it up, as the poem proceeds: Der Cid of Herder. The poem begins in true epic style; then it leads over, with no uncertainty, into the dramatic. And the poem is marvellously built up, right through, on the trochaic metre. I am here merely putting into words for you what a student would have to say to himself in preparation for working with this poem.

Let us be quite clear about the situation. The ancient House of Don Diego has suffered the disgrace of being brought to ruin by an enemy House. Don Diego's son Rodrigo, who was afterwards called the Cid, feels the disgrace deeply. The poem begins by picturing for us the mood of the old Don Diego, in face of the ignominy that has befallen his House.

Trauernd tief sass Don Diego,
Wohl war keiner je so traurig;
Gramvoll dacht er Tag und Nächte
Nur an seines Hauses Schmach,

An die Schmach des edlen alten,
Tapfren Hauses der von Lainez,
Das die Inigos an Ruhme,
Die Abarkos übertraf.

Tief gekränket, schwach vor Alter,
Fühlt er nahe sich dem Grabe,
Da indes sein Feind Don Gormaz
Ohne Gegner triumphiert.

Sonder Schlaf und sonder Speise,
Schläget er die Augen nieder,
Tritt nicht über seine Schwelle,
Spricht mit seinen Freunden nicht,

Höret nicht der Freunde Zuspruch,
Wenn sie kommen, ihn zu trösten;
Denn der Atem des Entehrten,
Glaubt er, schände seinen Freund.

Endlich schüttelt er die Bürde
Los, des grausam stummen Grames,
Lässet kommen seine Söhne,
Aber spricht zu ihnen nicht.

---

From THE CID
by Herder

Deep in grief sat Don Diego,
Was there ever man so wretched?
Day and night he brooded only
On the shame upon his house,

On the shame upon the noble,
Brave and ancient house of Lainez,
Which in honour far exceeded
Inigos and Abarcos.

Weak with age and deeply injured,
Feels he at the point of dying,
While his enemy, Don Gormaz,
Sits in triumph unopposed.

Without food and without sleeping,
From the ground his eyes not raising,
Goes he not beyond his threshold
And says nothing to his friends,

Does not listen to the greeting
Of the folk who come to comfort,
Thinking that his breath, dishonoured,
May contaminate his friends.

Till at last he casts his burden,
Shakes him free from grievous sorrow,
Suffers that his sons approach him
Though he speaks to them no word.

And now Don Diego has his sons bound with cords. And they suffer themselves to be bound, all but the youngest, Don Rodrigo, who came to be known later on as the Cid. He alone resists. The father, although it is he himself who has bound them, is sad and troubled that his sons submit; it rejoices his heart that the youngest will not endure it.

We will pass over the verses that tell how Rodrigo resolves upon the deed that he believes it his duty to perform, and go at once to the moment in the poem where we have the transition from epic to drama.

Auf dem Platze des Palastes
Traf Rodrigo auf Don Gormaz.
Einzeln, niemand war zugegen,
Redet er den Grafen an:

‘Kanntet Ihr, O edler Gormaz,
Mich, den Sohn des Don Diego,
Als Ihr Eure Hand ausstrecktet
Auf sein ehrenwert Gesicht?

Wusstet Ihr, dass Don Diego
Ab von Layn Calvo stamme?
Dass nichts reiner und nichts edler
Als sein Blut ist und sein Schild?

Wusstet Ihr, dass weil ich lebe,
Ich sein Sohn, kein Mensch auf Erden,
Kaum der mächtge Herr des Himmels
Dies ihm täte ungestraft?’—

`Weisst du’, sprach der stolze Gormaz,
‘Was wohl sei des Lebens Hälfte,
Jüngling?’—‘Ja’, sprach Don Rodrigo,
‘Und ich weiss es sehr genau.

Eine Hälfte ist, dem Edlen
Ehr' erzeigen; und die andre,
Den Hochmütigen zu strafen,
Mit dem letzten Tropfen Bluts.

Abzutun die angetane
Schande.' Als er dies gesagt,
Sah er an den stolzen Grafen,
Der ihm diese Worte sprach:

‘Nun, was willst du, rascher Jüngling?’?
‘Deinen Kopf will ich, Graf Gormaz
Sprach der Cid, ‘Ich hab's gelobet!’
‘Streiche willst du, gutes Kind’,

Sprach Don Gormaz, ‘eines Pagen
Streiche hättest du verdient.’
O ihr Heiligen des Himmels,
Wie ward Cid auf dieses Wort!

---

Tränen rannen, stille Tränen
Rannen auf des Greises Wangen,
Der, an seiner Tafel sitzend,
Alles um sich her vergass,

Denkend an die Schmach des Hauses,
Denkend an des Sohnes Jugend,
Denkend an des Sohns Gefahren
Und an seines Feindes Macht.

Den Entehrten flieht die Freude,
Flieht die Zuversicht und Hoffnung;
Alle kehren mit der Ehre
Froh und jugendlich zurück.

Noch versenkt in tiefer Sorge,
Sieht er nicht Rodrigo kommen,
Der, den Degen unterm Arme
Und die Händ' auf seiner Brust,

Lang' ansieht den guten Vater,
Mitleid tief im Herzen fühlend,
Bis er zutritt, ihm die Rechte
Schüttelnd: ‘Iss, o guter Greis!’

Spricht er, weisend auf die Tafel.
Reicher flossen nun Diego
Seine Tränen: ‘Du, Rodrigo,
Sprachst du, sprichst du mir dies Wort?’—

‘Ja, mein Vater! und erhebet
Euer edles, wertes Antlitz.’—
‘Ist gerettet unsre Ehre?’—
‘Edler Vater, er ist tot!’—

‘Setze dich, mein Sohn Rodrigo,
Gerne will ich mit dir speisen.
Wer den Mann erlegen konnte,
Ist der erste seines Stamms.'

Weinend knieete Rodrigo,
Küssend seines Vaters Hände;
Weinend küsste Don Diego
Seines Sohnes Angesicht.

---

'Cross the square before the palace
To Don Gormaz strides Rodrigo.
All alone, with no man present,
Speaks he then unto the Count:

‘Did you recognise, great Gormaz,
Me, the son of Don Diego,
When that hand of yours was lifted’
Gainst his honourable face?

‘Did you know that Don Diego
From Lain Calvo is descended?
And that nothing purer, nobler
Than his blood and shield exists?

‘Did you know while I am living—
I, his son—that no man breathing,
Scarce the mighty Lord of Heaven
Should unpunished dare this deed?’—

‘Know'st thou’ spake the haughty Gormaz
‘What the half of life comprises,
Stripling?’—‘Yes’ spake Don Rodrigo,
‘And indeed I know it well.

‘One half is the showing honour
To the noble; and the other
Punishing the overbearing
With the last drop of one's blood,

‘So to wipe out all dishonour
That's inflicted.' Having spoken,
Looks he to the proud Count Gormaz
Who gives answer in these words:

‘Now, what would'st thou, hasty stripling?’?
‘'Tis your head I'll have, Count Gormaz,’
Spake the Cid, ‘and I have vowed it!’?
‘Whipping, would'st thou, my good child,’

Spake the Count, ‘what thou dost merit
Is the rod we give to pages.’
At these words, Ye Saints in Heaven,
What did Don Rodrigo feel!

---

Tears were running, tears in silence,
Down the cheeks of Don Diego,
Who, before his table sitting,
Heeded nothing all around,

Thinking on his house dishonoured,
Thinking on his son so youthful,
Thinking of that son in peril,
And his enemy's great strength.

All joy flees from the dishonoured,
Confidence and hope will flee them;
But with the return of honour
Back comes joy, and youth's renewed.

Still engrossed by deepest sorrow,
Sees he not Rodrigo coming,
With beneath his arm a dagger
And his hands upon his breast.

Long he gazes on his Father
Feeling full of deep compassion,
Then approaching takes his right hand
Saying ‘O good Father, eat!’

Speaking points he to the table.
And the tears of Don Diego
Flow profusely: ‘What, Rodrigo,
Did'st thou speak those words to me?’?

‘Raise up now, my worthy Father,
This your countenance so noble,’?
‘Is it then retrieved—our honour?’
‘Noble Father, he is dead.’?

‘Sit thee down, my son Rodrigo,
I will eat with thee most gladly,
He who could lay low Don Gormaz
Is the foremost of his race.'

Down kneels Don Rodrigo, weeping,
As his Father's hands he kisses;
And with tears does Don Diego
Kiss his son Rodrigo's face.

(Translation by V. E. W.)

There you have drama coming to birth within the epic. I wanted to read you this passage from Herder's Cid, because it can afford a good example of how speech training has to proceed from the speech organism itself. Everything that I say has a directly practical application, and is intended to be so taken.

When, by continual repetition of an exercise of this kind, we gradually approach nearer and nearer to an articulation that comes naturally, without conscious effort, when we have in this way educated ourselves for drama (starting, that is to say, from epic), then it will be good to take some passage that is on the verge of the dramatic, or rather has already passed over into it, and yet has about it still a touch of the epic—although this epic touch has virtually disappeared in the dramatic in the same way as gesture has disappeared in the word.

We shall find particularly useful in this connection one of the scenes that Lessing wrote for his projected Faust. He composed, as you know, only a very few scenes, although he left also a plan for the whole work. In the scene I refer to, we are really very little removed from the epic. Seven spirits appear, and the human character in the scene has to call upon his imagination in order to apprehend these spirits, just as in epic the writer or speaker has to create in imagination the being whom he presents. For in a dialogue with spirits, the being of the spirit, which can only be there at all in the degree to which the human being is able to form a right conception of it, must be still more powerfully present to that human being than would be necessary if he were having a dialogue with another human being.

If we succeed in placing ourselves fully into the mood that can arise in the soul when we stand over against a spirit and are at the same time under necessity to express the experience in dramatic form—then that will mean we have found the transition from epic to drama.

I want here merely to point out the path that leads from epic to drama, not to give you a recitation (that I leave to Frau Dr. Steiner). So we will omit the dialogue with the first five spirits and for the moment only give our attention to the sixth and seventh.

FAUST. (zum SECHSTEN GEIST) Sage du, wie schnell bist du?

DER SECHSTE GEIST. So schnell als die Rache des Rächers. FAUST. Des Rächers? Welches Rächers?

DER SECHSTE GEIST. Des Gewaltigen, des Schrecklichen, der sich allein die Rache vorbehielt, weil ihn die Rache vergnügte.

FAUST. Teufel! du lästerst; denn ich sehe, du zitterst.—Schnell, sagst du, wie die Rache des—bald hätte ich ihn genannt! Nein, er werde nicht unter uns genannt!—Schnell wäre seine Rache? Schnell?—Und ich lebe noch? Und ich sündige noch?

DER SECHSTE GEIST. Dass er dich noch sündigen lässt, ist schon Rache!

FAUST. Und dass ein Teufel mich dieses lehren muss!—Aber doch erst heute! Nein, seine Rache ist nicht schnell, und wenn du nicht schneller bist als seine Rache, so geh nur!—

(Der siebente Geist kommt.)

(Zum siebenten Geiste) Wie schnell bist du?

DER SIEBENTE GEIST. Unzuvergnügender Sterblicher, wo auch ich dir nicht schnell genug bin

FAUST. So sage, wie schnell?

DER SIEBENTE GEIST. Nicht mehr und nicht weniger als der Uebergang vom Guten zum Bösen.

FAUST. Ha! Du bist mein Teufel! So schnell als der Uebergang vom Guten zum Bösen!—Ja, der ist schnell; schneller ist nichts als der!—Weg von hier, ihr Schnecken des Orkus! Weg! Als der Uebergang vom Guten zum Bösen! Ich habe es erfahren, wie schnell er ist! Ich habe es erfahren!

DR. FAUST
(A Fragment) by Lessing

Part of Scene 3 of Act II.
(FAUST and seven SPIRITS.)

FAUST. (to the SIXTH SPIRIT) Tell me, how swift art thou?

SIXTH SPIRIT. As swift as the vengeance of the Avenger.

FAUST. Of the avenger? Of what avenger?

SIXTH SPIRIT. Of the mighty and terrible One who keeps vengeance in His own hands, because He delights in it.

FAUST. Devil, thou blasphemest! I can see, thou art trembling. Swift, sayest thou, as the vengeance of—I nearly named Him! No, let Him not be named among us! Is His vengeance then so swift? And I left still alive? Still continuing in sin?

SIXTH SPIRIT. That He suffers thee to continue still in sin—that is His vengeance!

FAUST. And that I should have to learn this from a devil! Yet not until today! No, His vengeance is not swift; and if thou be not swifter than His vengeance, begone!

(The SEVENTH SPIRIT comes.)

(to the SEVENTH SPIRIT) How swift art thou?

SEVENTH SPIRIT. O mortal, hard indeed to please if not even I be swift enough for thee

FAUST. Tell me then, how swift?

SEVENTH SPIRIT. As swift—neither more nor less—as the change-over from good to bad.

FAUST. Ha! Thou art the devil for me! As swift as the change-over from good to bad! Ay, that is swift indeed; nothing swifter! Avaunt, ye snails of hell, begone! As the change-over from good to bad! I have learned how swift that is! I know it well!

You see how marvellously Lessing has succeeded here in bringing into the language used by Faust an absolutely living perception of these spirits, a vivid imaginative picture of them. This will come home to you as you form his words. You will never learn to form your speaking by having it said to you: Form this sound in this way, that syllable in that way, this sentence again in such and such a way. The true forming of speech is acquired by practising the transition from epic, through the drama of the spirit, to the drama of the actual and material. As we continue to practise these transitions, the Genius of Speech himself will receive us as his pupils, inasmuch as we shall then be walking in his paths. And upon that everything depends.

It is, you know, rather remarkable that we should turn to Lessing to find our example; for the plays that Lessing brought to completion, and that have become so famous, are none of them on the same level. In the few scenes he wrote for a Faust, however, he transcends himself. With the possible exception of the scenes where Major Tellheim figures,¹ there is nothing in all his dramas to equal it.

You can see here how Lessing is guided in the forming of his scene by the theme itself, by the material he has at hand. And that will help to convince you that it must be with poetry as it was, for example, with a sculptor like Michelangelo, who used to go himself into the quarries to look for the marble for his statues. He would walk round, looking at one piece after another, until he found the only right one for an intended sculpture. Thus he let Nature through her forms set him his task in the forms of art. We must, if we would be artists in any sphere, develop a feeling for our material; that Lessing understood this is evident in the scene we are considering.

This means also that the actor or reciter needs to acquire a keen perception for the extent to which the material of the particular play or poem has found its corresponding artistic expression. Lessing was remarkably successful with his material in this instance—it was a theme that lay very near his heart—and one can only regret deeply that he did not go on with his Faust. Since, however, in this Fragment he surpasses the Lessing we know elsewhere, it would have been too difficult for him to bring the work to completion. Only at certain moments was he able to develop the artistic power that he manifests here and that is brought home to us very forcibly in the little scene that Lessing composed out of his own experience.

It has been said of Lessing, and not without justification, that he was a man who never dreamed, that he was too dry and prosaic ever to have dreams. It is quite true, and his poetry bears it out. (I am not referring now to Lessing's prose works, but to his poems.) For all that, I am ready to assert—and please do not take what I say in the sense of a poetic picture, but as a statement of fact—I am ready to assert that this other little scene that Lessing composed for his Faust has its origin in an experience that was, in no small measure, a genuine ‘waking vision’. Waking vision definitely played a part in Lessing's own individual conditions of life,—and a great deal that we find in his work is to be traced to this source.

When Faust has let pass over him, as it were in reminiscence, all the events and experiences of the past that he has been compelled to recall in this way, then his strong urge to reach the spiritual world brings him at last to the point of approaching it. Having completed this deep and intense study of the spiritual history of mankind, he eventually experiences in very truth that ‘waking suggestion’ which Lessing himself knew and to which he here gives artistic form.

The situation is as follows. A spirit with a long beard rises up out of the ground, wrapped in a mantle.

GEIST. Wer beunruhiget mich? Wo bin ich? Ist das nicht Licht, was ich empfinde?

FAUST. (erschrickt, fasset sich aber und redet den Geist an)

Wer bist du? Woher kommst du? Auf wessen Befehl erscheinst du?

GEIST. Ich lag und schlummerte und `träumte, mir wär' nicht wohl, nicht übel; da rauschte, so träumte ich, von weitem eine Stimme daher; sie kam näher und näher; Bahall! Bahall! hörte ich, und mit dem dritten Bahall stehe ich hier!

FAUST. Aber wer bist du?

GEIST. Wer ich bin? Lass mich besinnen! Ich bin—ich bin nur erst kürzlich, was ich bin. Dieses Körpers, dieser Glieder war ich mir dunkel bewusst; itzt (etc.).

FAUST. Aber wer warst du?

GEIST. Warst du?

FAUST. Ja, wer warst du sonst, ehedem?

GEIST. Sonst? ehedem?

FAUST. Erinnerst du dich keiner Vorstellungen, die diesem gegenwärtigen und jenem deinem hinbrütenden Stande vorhergegangen?

GEIST. Was sagst du mir? Ja, nun schiesst es mir ein.—Ich habe schon einmal ähnliche Vorstellungen gehabt. Warte, warte, ob ich den Faden zurückfinden kann.

FAUST. Ich will dir zu helfen suchen. Wie hiessest du?

GEIST. Ich hiess—Aristoteles. Ja, so hiess ich. Wie ist mir?

---

From Scene 2 of Act I.

(FAUST. A SPIRITwith a long beard and wrapped in a mantle rises up out of the ground.)

SPIRIT. Who is it disturbs me? Where am I? Is that not light I feel around me?

FAUST. (is terrified, but masters his fear and addresses the SPIRIT) Who art thou? Whence comest thou? At whose command dost thou show thyself here ?

SPIRIT. I lay and slumbered and dreamed it was not well with me, neither was it ill. And lo, in my dream, a voice came rushing towards me from afar. It came nearer and nearer. Bahall!’ I heard, Bohan’, and with the third

‘Bahall’ I stand before thee.

FAUST. But who art thou?

SPIRIT. Who am I? Let me think! I am—I have only just now become what I am. This body, these limbs—I was ere now only dimly aware of them, and now...

FAUST. But who wert thou?

SPIRIT. ‘Wert thou’?

FAUST. Yes, who wert thou earlier, before?

SPIRIT. ‘Earlier’? ‘Before’?

FAUST. Canst thou recall no thoughts or ideas that preceded thy present state, preceded too the dim brooding condition from which thou hast been aroused?

SPIRIT. What sayest thou? ... Yes, now it's coming back to me. I did, once before, have thoughts and ideas. Wait a little, wait! If I could only find the thread again!

FAUST. Let me try to help thee. What is thy name?

SPIRIT. I am called—ARISTOTLE! Yes, that is my name. Oh, what is happening with me?

This is as far as Lessing carried the scene. But it will, I think, be obvious at once that Lessing did not make this scene, he saw it. What we have here is a representation in art of the living human spirit. And anyone who takes the trouble to work with this passage and render it in well-formed speech will find for himself the path that leads to dramatic dialogue. It is of course perfectly right that the student of speech should have a correct and thorough knowledge of the various speech organs of which he makes use; but when it comes to educating oneself for a true forming of speech, then these several organs should be left alone, and the speech organism as such, the objective extra-human speech organism, be given full play.

To this end it will certainly be essential that we regain some measure of perception for what is genuinely artistic in poetry. Such a perception will, however, in our day have to spring from the depths of the heart, since the powers of discrimination and judgement that man had in earlier times are no longer there in the same degree today, nor can we expect to find them so for some time to come.

You should really try to picture to yourselves what it meant in past epochs of culture when Mass was celebrated, not in the language of the country but in the Latin language; when, for example, one heard resound the words:

Pater noster, qui es in coelis: sanctificetur nomen tuum.
Adveniat regnum tuum.
Fiat voluntas tua, sicut in coelo, et in terra.
Panem nostrum supersubstantialem da nobis hodie.
Et dimitte nobis debita nostra, sicut et nos dimittimus debitoribus nostris.
Et ne nos inducas in tentationem.
Sed libera nos a malo. Amen.

To listen to the sounding forth of these words gave man a true feeling for the forming of speech. They could not be spoken save with rightly formed speech. In the ancient Mysteries there was understanding for these things. Those who took part in the ancient Mysteries were conscious that when they spoke they were holding intercourse with the Gods. Man must evoke once again from the depths of his heart the power to perceive such realities. He must be able once again, not merely to think within, but to speak within.

Take such a scene as that read to you by Frau Dr. Steiner in the course of the second lecture, the seventh scene of my first Mystery Play. This scene, I can truly say, was not formed out of thoughts. Never once was there any question as to the choice of a word. The scene was heard as it is, simply heard. There were no thoughts at all, there were only words. It was a case of writing down on paper the words that were heard in the spirit. The scene was experienced, from the first, as formed word—not as thought.

I can say the same of many of the scenes in this Mystery Play. And we must find the way to develop again a feeling for such things. We must learn to have a sensitive perception for what is spiritually alive in the word. Then, and only then, shall we be able again to discern for ourselves where poetry is genuinely artistic. And the reciter, as well as the actor, should be able to do this. He should be able to say to himself: This is poetry, that is not. We must, of course, realise that such things cannot all at once, so soon as we have knowledge of them, be put into practice in our work on the stage. For, besides actors, there are Managing Directors, and among them some whose connection with the stage has certainly not brought them any knowledge of this kind; no understanding to be found there of what is poetry and what is not!

The only way for things to improve in this respect is for popular taste to improve. When we begin to see signs that the general public are developing discrimination, then we can hope for better days. As things are now, people have no taste, no judgement as to what is or is not artistic. Owing to this lack of taste, discussions about how this or that character was to be played began, in the nineties, to take quite a comic turn. It was, for instance, at one time debated, and debated even as a question of first importance, whether one should play Ferdinand in Schiller's Kabale and Liebe with hands in one's pockets, or whether, on the other hand, one should play him as a ‘ladies' man'. Discussions of this nature actually did take place, and contributed very much to the deterioration of dramatic art. The ‘intellectuals’ then came forward and undertook to reform the art of the stage. It is, of course, a very good asset in life to be able to think; but if the utmost one can do is to think like Otto Brahm,² who took, as you probably know, a notable part in the projected reforms, then it is emphatically not one's vocation to decide upon questions of dramatic art.

In face of such developments, we are driven to perceive with all the more certainty that for dramatic art, intellectualism is the very last thing needed, and sensitive artistic perception the first. Wolter was a really great actress.³ Those of you who are younger will not have seen her on the stage. Judged from University standards, Wolter was the most unintelligent person there could possibly be. It is but due to her to say this, for it redounds to her fame; it does not disparage her in the very least. She did actually at long last show some sparks of intellect, after Graf Sullivan had put himself to great trouble with her. But by nature she was absolutely without intellect. And yet there is no denying it: in her time and generation she was an outstandingly great actress in certain directions, especially when she was able to keep her coquetries off the stage.

I refer to things of this sort in order to make plain to you the mood and attitude of mind from which we must start if we would learn once more how to cultivate the arts of recitation and drama.

• 1. p. 84. In the English rendering of this Reading the Alexandrine has not been retained. The metre is, as a matter of fact, very rarely to be found continuously in English poetry. A familiar and peculiarly happy instance of its use is in the ninth—and last—line of the Spenserian stanza. We take an example from Canto III of the First Book of the Faerie Queene, where the poet is beginning to teil the adventure of Una and the Lion.
  One day, nigh wearie of the yrkesome way, From her unhastie beast she did alight; And on the grasse her däinty limbs did lay In secrete shadow, far from all mens sight: From her fayre head her fillet she undight, And layd her stole aside. Her angels face, As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright, And made a sunshine in the shadie place; Did never mortali eye behold such heavenly grace.
• 1. In Minna von Barnhelm.
• 2. Otto Brahm (1856–1912) was one of the founders in 1889 of the ‘Freie Bühne’ in Berlin. He helped to introduce naturalism on to the stage. See also the reference to him near the end of Lecture 14.
• 3. Charlotte Wolter (1834–1897). She performed at the Burgtheater in Vienna. Graf Sullivan was her husband.

My dear Friends,

We will begin today with two recitations that will demonstrate for you how in a poetic composition, on the one hand an inclination to prose may predominate, or again the work may have throughout the character of fully developed poetry. Goethe gives us good opportunity for observing these two possibilities, for there are quite a number of works that he wrote in rhythmical prose and afterwards re-composed in verse. He was from the outset sensible of the poetry of the theme, and brought it to expression in cadence and rhythm. But when, later on, he returned with riper knowledge and experience to these prose poems of his, he felt a need to re-write them and give them a language that was inherently artistic throughout. And so we have, for example, the two plays of Iphigenie, a ‘German’ and a ‘Roman’. The German play is born out of immediate feeling that still has a considerable prosaic element in it; but Goethe not being a man for whom it was possible to have merely prosaic feelings for such a theme, his language would, in telling of these inner experiences of the soul, inevitably find its way into rhythm and become rhythmical prose. Then, later on, he gave the theme full poetic form. That was when, through an intense and living experience of the forms of classical art, Goethe had come to feel a need to mould his language artistically, to give it a plastic character.

today, then, we will begin with the famous soliloquy in Iphigenie. We will listen to it first in rhythmical prose, as we find it in what is known as the German Iphigenie.

(Frau Dr. Steiner): Monologue from Iphigenie.

Heraus in eure Schatten, ewig rege Wipfel des heiligen Hains, wie in das Heiligtum der Göttin der ich diene, tret' ich mit immer neuem Schauder, und meine Seele gewöhnt sich nicht hierher! So manche Jahre wohn' ich hier unter euch verborgen, und immer bin ich wie im ersten fremd. Denn mein Verlangen steht hinüber nach dem schönen Lande der Griechen, und immer möcht' ich übers Meer hinüber, das Schicksal meiner Vielgeliebten teilen. Weh dem! der fern von Eltern und Geschwistern ein einsam Leben führt; ihn lässt der Gram des schönsten Glückes nicht geniessen; ihm schwärmen abwärts immer die Gedanken nach seines Vaters Wohnung, an jene Stelle, wo die goldne Sonne zum erstenmal den Himmel vor ihm aufschloss, wo die Spiele der Mitgebornen die sanften, liebsten Erdenbande knüpften.

Der Frauen Zustand ist der schlimmste vor allen Menschen. Will dem Manne das Glück, so herrscht er und erficht im Felde Ruhm; und haben ihm die Götter Unglück zubereitet, fällt er, der Erstling von den Seinen in den schönen Tod. Allein des Weibes Glück ist eng gebunden, sie dankt ihr Wohl stets andern, öfters Fremden, und wenn Zerstörung ihr Haus ergreift, führt sie aus rauchenden Trümmern, durchs Blut erschlagener Liebsten, ein Ueberwinder fort.

Auch hier an dieser heiligen Stätte hält Thoas mich in ehrenvoller Sklaverei! Wie schwer wird mir's, dir wider Willen dienen, ewig reine Göttin! Retterin! Dir sollte mein Leben zu ewigem Dienste geweiht sein. Auch hab' ich stets auf dich gehofft und hoffe noch, Diana, die du mich, verstossene Tochter des grössten Königs, in deinen heiligen, sanften Arm genommen Ja, Tochter Jovis, hast du den Mann, dessen Tochter du fordertest, hast du den göttergleichen Agamemnon, der dir sein Liebstes zum Altare brachte, hast du vom Felde der umgewandten Troja ihn glücklich und mit Ruhm nach seinem Vaterlande zurück begleitet, hast du meine Geschwister, Elektren und Oresten, den Knaben, und unsere Mutter, ihm zu Hause den schönsten Schatz bewahrt, so rette mich, die du vom Tod gerettet, auch von dem Leben hier dem zweiten Tod.

---

From IPHIGENIA

by Goethe

Act I, Scene 1.

IPHIGENIA. Into your shade, 0 sacred grove, into the shadow of those trees whose topmost boughs are never still, even as into the holy shrine of the Goddess whom I serve, I come each time with fear and trembling, never feeling that I am on familiar ground. Many a long year have I lived here in concealment, and am still no less a stranger than at my first coming hither. For I long continually for the far-off and lovely land of the Greeks; fain would I cross the wide seas and share the destiny of those I love. Woe to that man who leads a lonely life far from father and mother, far from brothers and sisters. Grief will not suffer him to enjoy whatever happiness should befall him; thoughts of his home weigh heavy upon him, of that beloved home of his fathers where the golden sun first opened the heavens to his view, and where as he played day by day with his brothers and sisters bonds grew up between them as precious and tender as any earth affords.

Verily for a woman is life hardest of all! A man, if fate favour him, will rule, will win fame on the field of battle; or, if the Gods have prepared for him a hard destiny, will fall, the first of his family, and die a noble death. But, as for the woman—her happiness is enclosed within narrow bounds, she must perpetually owe her well-being to others, often to strangers; and if destruction overtake her home, some conqueror will lead her forth from the smoking ruins, where those she loves best lie slain.

Yea, and here does Thoas keep me in this holy place in a kind of honourable slavery. What a difficult lot is mine I To serve thee, O Goddess, who art pure to all eternity, against my will! For so it is; my life is perforce dedicated to thee in everlasting service. Yet in thee too will I never cease to place my hope—in thee, O Goddess, who received me, the outcast daughter of the greatest of kings, into thy gentle and holy arms. O Goddess, daughter of Jove, thou hast led away from the fallen walls of Troy the godlike Agamemnon, whose daughter thou didst demand and who brought her, his darling child, as an offering to thine altar; thou hast led him back, covered with glory, to his native land, where thou didst keep safe for him my sister Electra and the boy Orestes, and our mother—those dearest treasures of his heart. Even so, 0 Goddess, who saved me aforetime from death, save me now from life in this place, which is none other than a second death.

(Dr. Steiner): There we have Goethe's original experience of the theme. And now we must picture to ourselves how later on, when he was in Italy, Goethe took up the unfinished works he had begun in Weimar and found them, as he frequently expressed it, Gothic or Nordic in character, rather like some rough wood-carving—strong and original, but without the perfection of line that is to be found, shall we say, in Raphael's paintings or in the sculptures of Michelangelo. And this finer artistic forming Goethe felt deeply impelled to bring into his own work. You will remember, it was in the contemplation of Goethe's poetry that Schiller, when he was writing his Aesthetic Letters, rose to that lofty conception of beauty to which he gave expression in the saying: In the annihilation of matter through form lies the secret of the art of the Master. What does this mean? Let me put it in the following way.

We can for instance tell something, expressing ourselves simply and directly, straight out of our feeling, straight out of our perception. That will lead to one kind of writing. But we can then go further and try to find a form. And now we shall no longer have merely the original matter and the original feeling, prosaically expressed; now the effect will be produced, not by these, but by form, by picture, by rhythm. In other words, the matter will have been vanquished by form. And it was in this vanquishing of matter by form that Schiller, as he came more and more under the influence of Goethe, believed he had found the secret of the art of the beautiful.

We will now listen to the corresponding passage in the second, the Roman, Iphigenie. What has Goethe done here? We shall find that he has tried to achieve such a complete conquest of the original matter by form, as to allow the form to work upon the listener, whereas in the prose drama it wasmore the theme itself that left its impression upon him.

(Frau Dr. Steiner): Monolog aus Iphigenie auf Tauris.

Heraus in eure Schatten, rege Wipfel
Des alten, heil'gen dichtbelaubten Haines,
Wie in der Göttin stilles Heiligtum,
Tret' ich noch jetzt mit schauderndem Gefühl,
Als wenn ich sie zum erstenmal beträte,
Und es gewöhnt sich nicht mein Geist hierher.
So manches Jahr bewahrt mich hier verborgen
Ein hoher Wille, dem ich mich ergebe;
Doch immer bin ich, wie im ersten, fremd.
Denn ach, mich trennt das Meer von den Geliebten
Und an dem Ufer steh' ich lange Tage
Das Land der Griechen mit der Seele suchend;
Und gegen meine Seufzer bringt die Welle
Nur dumpfe Töne brausend mir herüber.
Weh dem, der fern von Eltern und Geschwistern
Ein einsam Leben führt! Ihm zehrt der Gram
Das nächste Glück vor seinen Lippen weg.
Ihm schwärmen abwärts immer die Gedanken
Nach seines Vaters Hallen, wo die Sonne
Zuerst den Himmel vor ihm aufschloss, wo
Sich Mitgeborne spielend fest und fester
Mit sanften Banden aneinander knüpften.
Ich rechte mit den Göttern nicht; allein
Der Frauen Zustand ist beklagenswert.
Zu Haus' und in dem Kriege herrscht der Mann
Und in der Fremde weiss er sich zu helfen.
Ihn freuet der Besitz; ihn krönt der Sieg!
Ein ehrenvoller Tod ist ihm bereitet.
Wie enggebunden ist des Weibes Glück!
Schon einem rauhen Gatten zu gehorchen,
Ist Pflicht und Trost; wie elend, wenn sie gar
Ein feindlich Schicksal in die Ferne treibt!
So hält mich Thoas hier, ein edler Mann,
In ernsten, heil'gen Sklavenbanden fest.
O wie beschämt gesteh' ich, dass ich dir
Mit stillem Widerwillen diene, Göttin,
Dir meiner Retterin! Mein Leben sollte
Zu freiem Dienste dir gewidmet sein.
Auch hab' ich stets auf dich gehofft und hoffe
Noch jetzt auf dich, Diana, die du mich,
Des grössten Königes verstossne Tochter,
In deinen heil'gen, sanften Arm genommen
Ja, Tochter Zeus, wenn du den hohen Mann,
Den du, die Tochter fordernd, ängstigtest,
Wenn du den göttergleichen Agamemnon,
Der dir sein Liebstes zum Altare brachte,
Von Troja's umgewandten Mauern rühmlich
Nach seinem Vaterland zurück begleitet,
Die Gattin ihm, Elektren und den Sohn,
Die schönsten Schätze, wohl erhalten hast;
So gib auch mich den Meinen endlich wieder,
Und rette mich, die du vom Tod' errettet,
Auch von dem Leben hier, dem zweiten Tode!

IPHIGENIA IN TAURIS

Act I.

Scene 1. A Grove before the Temple of Diana.

IPHIGENIA

Beneath your leafy gloom, ye waving boughs
Of this old, shady, consecrated grove,
As in the goddess' silent sanctuary,
With the same shuddering feeling forth I step,
As when I trod it first, nor ever here
Doth my unquiet spirit feel at home.
Long as a higher will, to which I bow,
Hath kept me here conceal'd, still, as at first,
I feel myself a stranger. For the sea
Doth sever me, alas! from those I love,
And day by day upon the shore I stand,
The land of Hellas seeking with my soul;
But to my sighs, the hollow-sounding waves
Bring, save their own hoarse murmurs, no reply.
Alas for him! who friendless and alone,
Remote from parents and from brethren dwells;
From him grief snatches every coming joy
Ere it doth reach his lip. His yearning thoughts
Throng back for ever to his father's halls,
Where first to him the radiant sun unclosed
The gates of heav'n; where closer, day by day,
Brothers and sisters, leagued in pastime sweet,
Around each other twin'd love's tender bonds.
I will not reckon with the gods; yet truly
Deserving of lament is woman's lot.
Man rules alike at home and in the field,
Nor is in foreign climes without resource;
Him conquest crowneth, him possession gladdens,
And him an honourable death awaits.
How circumscrib'd is woman's destiny!
Obedience to a harsh, imperious lord,
Her duty, and her comfort; sad her fate,
Whom hostile fortune drives to lands remote!
Thus Thoas holds me here, a noble man,
Bound with a heavy though a sacred chain.
O how it shames me, Goddess, to confess
That with repugnance I perform these rites
For thee, divine protectress! unto whom
I would in freedom dedicate my life.
In thee, Diana, I have always hoped,
And still I hope in thee, who didst infold
Within the holy shelter of thine arm
The outcast daughter of the mighty king.
Daughter of Jove! hast thou from ruin'd Troy
Led back in triumph to his native land
The mighty man, whom thou didst sore afflict,
His daughter's life in sacrifice demanding—
Hast thou for him, the godlike Agamemnon,
Who to thine altar led his darling child,
Preserv'd his wife, Electra, and his son,
His dearest treasures?—then at length restore
Thy suppliant also to her friends and home,
And save her, as thou once from death didst save,
So now, from living here, a second death.
(From the translation by Anna Swanwick.)

(Dr. Steiner): There you can follow how the poetry comes into being. The poet himself shows it to us through the forming of the language. And even as we recite the poem, we find we can learn from its fully-formed speech how to develop and form our voice for its recitation.

I must, however, warn you that if you take a work that is genuinely artistic in its language (say, this Iphigenie, or Tasso), and prepare it for recitation—and this will apply even more if you prepare it for dramatic representation on the stage—you will at once find yourself faced with a certain danger. One is inclined to skip lightly over the emotional experience of the theme, and go straight to the more or less technical forming of the speech. It will accordingly be good to undertake beforehand the following preparation. Naturally, there is as a rule no time for it; stage life, as we know, is lived ‘on the run’. Still, that is no reason why I should not explain what the ideal preparation would be. Select what is essential in the poem and change it back from poetry into prose—doing, in fact, the reverse of what Goethe did, when from his prose Iphigenie he formed his Iphigenie in verse. We ought really to do this with every poem we set out to recite, and while we are speaking it in prose, give ourselves up to the feeling the content awakens in us. And then, having in this way done our utmost to unite ourselves in feeling with the drift and tenor of the poem, we can pass on to the artistic ‘forming’ of our speech in the poem itself. And we shall find that, provided we are able to make right use of the powers we have within us for the forming of speech, we shall then quite instinctively bring the feeling of the content, not only into the word, but into the very way we form the words.

We must now at this point say something about these forces that man has within him for the forming of his speech. They lie, in part, deep within the human organism—those for instance that we employ for the utterance of vowels being down in the lungs. They are, however, mainly in the organs of the larynx. Some have their seat of action still higher. These last are the forces that come into operation when, for example, we use the nose in speech; and they are active also in forming the space at the front of the mouth, and so on.

When we begin to consider man as a speaking human being, it follows quite as a matter of course that we are taken back from speech to the anatomy and physiology of speech. And we may then be tempted to look away from speech altogether and take for our study the anatomy and physiology of the speech organs. What is there to prevent me from concluding that if I once learn how to manage my lungs, and my diaphragm, and my nose-organs, then I shall be able, if it is given me to have any ability at all in speaking, to speak in the way that is right ?

Now, unfortunately—forgive my use of the word in this connection!—a very ably developed and thoroughly scientific physiology of speech has made its appearance in modern times. On the strength of this theoretical physiology of speech, all manner of suggestions can of course then be advanced for the management of the speech organs—in speaking, and also in singing. There is no difficulty about that sort of thing today. The strange thing is, however, that whilst in regard to the physiology of speech something like agreement has been reached, the methods of teaching singing and speaking are many and various, and the representatives of each expound the matter in a different way and give different directions. Well, we can let that remain a little mystery; I have no desire to delve into it any further just now. This is, however, not the road that leads to health, whether we are aiming at healthy speech organs or healthy speaking. We must take our start, as I have frequently explained, not from the speech organs, not from anatomy and physiology however well recognised and established, but from speech itself. We have to learn to look upon speech as an organism on its own account, we have to see it as something objective, detached from the human being.

In this speech organism of ours we have then, to begin with, the system of the vowels, from the very sound of which we can recognise at once their organic character. Now if you were going to describe man, you would I am sure find it best to proceed with your description in some sort of order, to correspond with his organism. You would not think of saying, for example: ‘Man consists of head, legs, breast, neck'; you would be more likely to say: `Man consists of head, neck, breast, legs’. And here too we must look for the right order. The speech organism is of course always in movement, and the elements of speech naturally become intermingled; but we can nevertheless hold this speech organism before our mind's eye, and contemplate it as something apart from the whole organism of man, contemplating it objectively as a kind of image or spectre, if you will. We are not, you see, regarding man now in the way anatomists and physiologists do, who look at the physical body and think to have there the whole of man. No; for we are regarding man's speaking as something outside him, though of course dependent on him for its forming

Taking then, first, the vowels, we shall find we can arrange them in the following order:

aei/oäöüu¹

For what do we have when we give utterance to the vowels in this sequence: a e i o ä ö ü u We have, roughly speaking, all possible forms that the organs can take which come into use for the utterance of vowel sounds.

In a we have the speech organism wide open; it opens wide and lets itself right out.

This is less the case with e. The space through which the sound passes is somewhat narrowed; the e is, however, still quite far back in the mouth. The a is formed farthest back of all, and no forward part of the mouth interposes to modify the original elemental forming of the vowel a.

With i, the space through which the sound passes is still narrower; it is very nearly closed. The i passes through no more than a tiny rift. We are at the same time again still moving forward in the mouth.

We go farther forward and come to o. Here we are already in front of that narrow rift if we are forming the vowel in the right way. We go farther and farther forward, trying always to look for what is essential in the forming of the vowel, and come at length to ü and u in both of which the sound formation is very far forward.

While we are going through the vowels in this sequence: a e i o ä ö ü u, we have before us the speech organism as such, detached from the human being. And if we do this quite often, setting vowel beside vowel, careful always to seek out for each its exactly right place and not allowing one to merge into another, then the exercise itself will ensure that we have the absolutely right position in the mouth for each vowel. As you see, in our practice and training we take our start from speech. This then will be the first step. And now we can go further.

We can do exercises—I will presently give you some examples—which need not be clever or even sensible, since their sole purpose is to further the right speaking of vowels. Those of you who have already had lessons here in speech will know that for exercise we cannot give proper intelligent sentences; we have to give exercises in which each sound stands at the right place for it to find its way to the corresponding organ.

Suppose you take for an exercise the following sequence of words, giving special attention to the vowels:

Aber ich will nicht dir Aale geben,²

practising the sentence again and again with special intonation of the vowels: Aber ich will nicht dir Aale geben.

You will quickly be able to detect what this exercise does for you. As you do it, organ-forming forces begin to work in you. And you can feel where they are working, namely, in the direction of the organs that are situated farther back; as you continue to practise this sequence of words, you will find that lungs, larynx and even diaphragm are brought into a healthy condition.

For what are you doing when you speak the words: Aber ich will nicht dir Aale geben? You go, in the vowel, up to the point where the passage for the breath is most nearly blocked—a e i, speaking, so far, only vowels that lie behind this point. As you speak, you press back as it were at this point of greatest obstruction, not allowing your speaking to come beyond it. By this means you exercise lungs, larynx, and as far down as diaphragm. For you first move forward in the mouth up to this boundary line, but then go back again, keeping all the time strictly behind it. You have in the middle of the sentence i i i i; a e at the beginning, and a e again at the end. Working thus, you will be evolving from the speech organism no abstract physiology but a physiological forming of the organs. We have therefore here an important indication of methods that should be employed if we want to work beneficially on the more inward organs of speech. We set ourselves a boundary, when we put the i there in the middle of the sentence.

Take another sequence of words. As I said before, these sentences have no profound meaning, they are mere exercises.

O schäl' and schmor mühvoll mir mit Milch Nüss' zu Muss.³

The words have very little sense, but the sequence of sounds accords well with the ‘sense’ of a particular speech process. For here you have again i i i in the middle, and again you divide off with the same boundary line what you want to leave out; but this time, in the rest of the sequence all the vowel sounds lie, not behind but in front of the boundary. If you try to speak the sentence in the way it should be spoken, you will have in it all the resonances you need—nasal resonance, head resonance; you will have them all. The sentence is spoken forward throughout. To speak well in the more forward part of the mouth is rather difficult; it can, however, be learned. And this sentence, once we have learned to speak it rightly, will do wonders for the health and mobility of the organs that are situated farther forward.

O schäl' and schmor miihvoll mir mit Milch Nüss' zu Muss.

I want you to understand that we are here making a practical attempt to work from speech into the forming of the organs, so that these shall acquire the necessary faculty of vibration. To get the best value from these exercises, you should speak the first sentence ten times, and then the second ten times; then the first and the second—one after the other—ten times. In this way it is actually possible to bring about a modification of the forms of the organs; and that will be most advantageous for the right speaking of vowels.

And now let me tell you of an exercise that is useful for the right forming of consonants. I am giving these exercises now as examples; we shall have others to add as the course proceeds. Take the following sequence of words:

Harte starke—and now do not immediately continue the sentence, but make a pause with a a a—Finger sind— wait again, and say i i i—bei wackern—a a a—Lenten schon—a a a—leicht—i i i—zu finden—u u u.⁴ This is then the little monster of a sentence that you have to speak:

Harte starke—a a a—Finger sind—iii—bei wackern—a a a—Leuten schon—a a a—leicht—i i i—zu finden—u u u—.

What is the good of such an exercise? I was telling you the other day that when we classify consonantal sounds according to the way they are spoken, we have sounds we can call ‘blown’ or ‘breath’ sounds, and others that we can call sounds of ‘impact’, or ‘thrust’ sounds. In actual speaking, the sounds are of course mixed up together; in order therefore to speak artistically we shall have to acquire a fluency that allows these two kinds of sounds to work harmoniously into and with one another. If we succeed in bringing this about, we shall find that we attain at the same time something else; namely, that this co-operation of blown sounds and impact sounds works back physiologically upon our organs. And so, working this time with consonants, we shall once more be bringing our organs into right vibration.

But now, in this exercise, in between blown sounds and impact sounds, vibrating sounds are interposed, and also wave sounds. We start with a blown sound h, and follow it up with an impact sound t; but in between we have the vibrating sound r; then again: blown sound, impact sound, vibrating sound, impact sound. We make blown sounds and impact sounds alternate, but the vibrating sound r has to come between, and also, in a corresponding manner, the ‘glide’ l, the wave sound. Through the practice of an exercise that obliges us to alternate blown sounds with impact sounds just in this way, we bring about a right configuration of the organs of speech.

We have first to let out the breath, then pull it up short, and from time to time interpose now a vibrating movement, now again a wave-like movement. And an exercise that provides this alternation—here letting the voice come to rest as far back as possible, here going into the middle, then back again, then once more into the middle, and finally forward—an exercise like this, because it has its source in the speech organism itself, will produce fluency and variety in our speaking. And while we are thus continually bringing our voice to rest at different places of our speech organism in turn, pausing a little at the middle when we are there, at other times going to the periphery, now backwards, now forwards—while we are doing this, not only shall we be forming our speech so that it becomes whole and healthy, but we shall at the same time be promoting the health also of the several organs.

You will therefore do well to practise such an exercise, which allows the consonant element in speech to work formatively upon the speech organs. (In this first part of our lecture course I am concerned primarily, as you know, with the forming of speech.)

Harte starke—a a a—Finger sind—iii—bei wackern—a a a—Leuten schon—a a a—leicht—i i i—zu finden—u u u—.

Here again, it will be best to do the exercises in succession, one after the other. If we call the first exercise A, the second B, the third C, then it will be: ten times A, ten times B, ten times A B, ten times C, ten times A B C. One should then pass on to some poem that gives opportunity to put this all into practice.

Here, however, we find ourselves up against a difficulty. For it is not exactly easy to come across passages in poetry where vowels and consonants are arranged purely out of the configuration of the speech organism. Poets are not always such good poets as to achieve this instinctively! I have, however, found a few verses which do very nearly fulfil the requirements of speech formation in certain respects and can accordingly be useful to us.

After you have been right through the exercises, repeating them in the order I recommended, and have in this way achieved fluency and ease in the use of your speech organs, you may then go straight on to speak the following verse by Kugler:

Und der Wandrer zieht von dannen,
Denn die Trennungsstunde ruft,
Und er singet Abschiedslieder.
Lebewohl tönt ihm hernieder,
Tücher wehen in der Luft.

This stanza, taken immediately after the speech exercises, can help considerably, for it is founded upon the nature of the speech organs themselves. The sounds are not entirely right throughout; I would have preferred, for example, not to have here—in ‘der Wandrer’—an e and an a, but one cannot expect perfection. If you have practised beforehand the exercises expressly designed to promote fluency, then a little verse like this will help you to come quite naturally into a right sounding—especially of vowels, and also in some measure of consonants.

Another verse that can prove useful in this direction is a stanza taken from the Ausgewanderter Dichter of Freiligrath:

Ich sonne mich im letzten Abendstrahle
Und leise säuselt über mir die Röster.
Du jetzt, mein Leben, wandelst wohl im Saale,
Der Teppich rauscht und strahlend flammt der Lüster.

Twice in this verse we come almost to the very front of the speech organs, and that gives the verse again the same character that I was able to point out to you in the other. Compare especially the i ü, and then the o and a, etc.

I have found also in a poem of Johann Peter Hebel's a verse that can be particularly helpful for exercising the speech organs that lie in front of the i:

Und drüber hebt si d'Suni in d'Höh
Und luegt in d'Welt und seit: wos muss i se
In aller Früi—Der Fridli schlingt si Arm
Ums Käterli und s'wird erm wol und warm,
Druf hat erm's Käterli ä Schmützli ge.

This is an excellent exercise for the nose and the other more forward organs. It should be practised often, and I recommend that in between the verses you repeat every time the whole series of exercises that I gave before. Thus, you begin with:

10 times A
10 times B
10 times A B
10 times C
10 times A B C.

Then you recite: Und der Wandrer zieht von dannen. Then take again the above series: A, B, AB, C, ABC. Then: Ich sonne mich im letzten Abendstrahle. Then once more the series: A, B, AB, C, ABC. And finally : Und drüber hebt si d'Suni still in d' Höh—, finishing up, that is, with this capital and droll little verse. And you will see, your organs will become quite wonderful; you will in very truth be finding your way, by sheer persistent practice, into a right forming of speech.

(A) Aber ich will nicht dir Aale geben.
(B) O schäl und schmor mühevoll mir mit Milch Nüss' zu Muss.
(C) Harte starke—a a a—Finger sind—i i i—bei wackern—a a a—Leuten schon—a a a—leicht—i i i—zu finden—u u u—.⁴

• 1. See Pull-out.
• 2. Ch (as in’ loch’), g (hard).
• 3. Sch (sh), v (f). See Pull-out.
• 4. St (sht), ng (as in’ ring’), ei (as in’ height’), eu (oi), z (ts).
• 4. For the curiosity of the student, a translation is added here of the sentences and verses given in this lecture as exercises.
  (A) But I am not going to give you eels!
  (B) Do please shell me some nuts and stew them up with milk to make a tasty dish!
  (C) Strong and sturdy hands are not far to seek among good honest folk.
  (Und der Wandrer...:) And the wanderer forth he wanders,
  For the hour of parting's here,
  And the farewell song he's singing.
  To him God be with you 's ringing,
  Kerchiefs wave upon the air.
  (Ich sonne mich...:) Pond'ring I stand in the on-coming night,
  The elms are softly whispering above.
  But you now move through stately halls, my love,
  Mid tapestries and brilliant blaze of light.
  (Translation of verses by V. E. W.)
  The following rendering of the dialect verse hails from a remote village in the East Riding of Yorkshire:
  Aboonheead t' sun rises up i' t' sky,
  Peeps into t' world an' sey:
  What div ith see sea sean on t' moo'nin' ? Fred Hinging his aim round Katie, Feeling sea cuddlesome an' wahrm, An' giving her a reet good kiss.

My dear Friends,

We will now see how we can find the transition from practice in speech as such to dialogue, to the treatment of drama. For this is what is needed in the art of the stage—that from the right forming of speech a powerful new impulse shall make itself felt there. Many people today are deeply dissatisfied with the drama as it is, and the cause of their dissatisfaction lies to no small extent, lies indeed mainly in the fact that the stage has entirely lost the old traditions—I mean, the traditions of very long ago—and has not yet found any point of departure which could lead to the creation of something new. Truth is, the new thing needed never will be found until we approach the matter from a spiritual standpoint. Let us therefore now go on to consider what guidance a spiritual outlook can give for the treatment of dialogue, trialogue and so forth.

We will take for our starting-point a recitation that will be given by Frau Dr. Steiner; and since in the matter of giving artistic form to conversation Molière may be said to have brought drama to a high degree of excellence, we have chosen for our recitation a scene from one of his plays. We shall of course try to find also in German literature some similarly striking example,¹ but there is no doubt about it, in Molière we do have a particularly good demonstration of the way conversation should be treated on the stage, all the back and forth of retort and repartee. We will accordingly begin today with a scene from Molière.

(Frau Dr. Steiner): I am taking a scene out of Le Misanthrope. We are introduced to a coquettish young widow, who has many admirers and is on this account an object of envy to her not altogether faithful lady friend. She has a sharp tongue, this young widow, and has just been letting off witty remarks at the expense of some of her admirers. At this moment her false friend—in reality her enemy—is announced.

Acte III Scène IV

(ARSINOÉ, CÉLIMÈNE, CLITANDRE, ACASTE)

CÉLIMÈNE

Ah! quel heureux sort en ce lieu vous amène? Madame, sans mentir, j'étais de vous en peine.

ARSINOÉ

Je viens pour quelque avis que j'ai cru vous devoir.

CÉLIMÈNE

Ah! mon Dieu! que je suis contente de vous voir!

(CLITANDRE et ACASTE sortent en riant.)

ARSINOÉ

Leur départ ne pouvait plus à propos se faire.

CÉLIMÈNE

Voulons-nous nous asseoir?

ARSINOÉ

Il n'est pas nécessaire,
Madame. L'amitié doit surtout éclater
Aux choses qui le plus nous peuvent importer;
Et comme il n'en est point de plus grande importance
Que celles de l'honneur et de la bienséance,
Je viens, par un avis qui touche votre honneur,
Témoigner l'amitié que pour vous a mon coeur.
Hier, j'étais chez des gens de vertu singulière,
Où sur vous du discours on tourna la matière;
Et là, votre conduite, avec ses grands éclats,
Madame, eut le malheur qu'on ne la loua pas.
Cette foule de gens dont vous souffrez visite,
Votre galanterie, et les bruits qu'elle excite,
Trouvèrent des censeurs plus qu'il n'aurait fallu,
Et bien plus rigoureux que je n'eusse voulu.
Vous pouvez bien penser quel parti je sus prendre:
Je fis ce que je pus pour vous pouvoir défendre,
Je vous excusai fort sur votre intention,
Et voulus de votre âme être la caution.
Mais vous savez qu'il est des choses dans la vie
Qu'on ne peut excuser, quoiqu'on en ait envie;
Et je me vis contrainte à demeurer d'accord
Que l'air dont vous viviez vous faisait un peu tort;
Qu'il prenait dans le monde une méchante face,
Qu'il n'est conte fâcheux que partout on n'en fasse,
Et que, si vous vouliez, tous vos déportements
Pourraient moins donner prise aux mauvais jugements.
Non que j'y croie, au fond, l'honnêteté blessée;
Me presérve le Ciel d'en avoir la pensée!
Mais aux ombres du crime on prête aisément foi,
Et ce n'est pas assez de bien vivre pour soi.
Madame, je vous crois l'âme trop raisonnable
Pour ne pas prendre bien cet avis profitable,
Et pour l'attribuer qu'aux mouvements secrets
D'un zèle qui m'attache à tous vos interets.

CÉLIMÈNE

Madame, j'ai beaucoup de grâces à vous rendre.
Un tel avis m'oblige, et, loin de le mal prendre,
J'en prétends reconnaître, à l'instant, la
faveur Par un avis aussi qui touche votre honneur;
Et comme je vous vois vous montrer mon amie
En m'apprenant les bruits que de moi 1'on public,
Je veux suivre, à mon tour, un exemple si doux
En vous avertissant de ce qu'on dit de vous.
En un lieu, l'autre jour, où je faisais visite,
Je trouvai quelques gens d'un tres rare mérite,
Qui, parlant des vrais soins d'une ame qui vit bien,
Firent tomber sur vous, Madame, l'entretien.
Là, votre pruderie et vos éclats de zèle
Ne furent pas cités comme un fort bon modèle:
Cette affectation d'un grave extérieur,
Vos discours etemels de sagesse et d'honneur,
Vos mines et vos cris aux ombres d'indécence
Que d'un mot ambigu peut avoir l'innocence,
Cette hauteur d'estime où vous etes de vous,
Et ces yeux de pitié que vous jetez sur tous,
Vos freéuentes leçons et vos aigres censures
Sur des choses qui sent innocentes et pures,
Tout cela, si je puis vous parler franchement,
Madame, fut blâmé d'un commun sentiment.
‘A quoi bon, disaient-ils, cette mine modeste,
Et ce sage dehors que dément tout le reste?
Elle est à bien prier exacte au dernier point;
Mais elle bat ses gens et ne les paye point.
Dans tous les lieux dévots elle etale un grand zèle;
Mais elle met du blanc et veut paraitre belle.
Elle fait des tableaux couvrir les nudités;
Mais elle a de l'amour pour les réalités.'
Pour moi, contre chacun je pris votre défense,
Et leur assurai fort que c'était médisance;
Mais tous les sentiments combattirent le mien,
Et leur conclusion fut que vous feriez bien
De prendre moins de soin des actions des autres,
Et de vous mettre un peu plus en peine des vôtres;
Qu'on doit se regarder soi-même un fort long temps
Avant que de songer à condamner les gens;
Qu'il faut mettre le poids d'une vie exemplaire
Dans les corrections qu'aux autres on veut faire;
Et qu'encor vaut-il mieux s'en remettre, au besoin,
A ceux à qui le Ciel en a commis le soin.
Madame, je vous crois aussi trop raisonnable
Pour ne pas prendre bien cet avis profitable,
Et pour l'attribuer qu'aux mouvements secrets
D'un zèle qui m'attache à tous vos interets.

ARSINOÉ

A quoi qu'en reprenant on soit assujettie,
Je ne m'attendais pas à cette repartie,
Madame, et je vois bien, par ce qu'elle a d'aigreur,
Que mon sincère avis vous a blessée au coeur.

CÉLIMÈNE

Au contraire, Madame; et si l'on était sage,
Ces avis mutuels seraient mis en usage;
On detruirait par là, traitant de bonne foi,
Ce grand aveuglement où chacun est pour soi.
Il ne tiendra qu'à vous qu'avec le même zèle
Nous ne continuions cet office fidele,
Et ne prenions grand soin de nous dire entre nous
Ce que nous entendrons, vous de moi, moi de vous.

ARSINOÉ

Ah! Madame, de vous je ne puis rien entendre;
C'est en moi que l'on peut trouver fort à reprendre.

CÉLIMÈNE

Madame, on peut, je crois, louer et blamer tout,
Et chacun a raison suivant Page ou le gout.
Il est une saison pour la galanterie;
Il en est une aussi propre ä la pruderie.
On peut, par politique, en prendre le parti,
Quand de nos jeunes ans l'eclat est amorti:
Cela sert ä couvrir de facheuses disgraces.
Je ne dis pas qu'un jour je ne suive vos traces:
L'äge amenera tout, et ce n'est pas le temps,
Madame, comme on sait, d'être prude ä vingt ans.

ARSINOÉ

Certes, vous vous targuez d'un bien faible avantage,
Et vous faites sonner terriblement votre âge.
Ce que de plus que vous on en pourrait avoir

N'est pas un si grand cas pour s'en tant prévaloir;
Et je ne sais pourquoi votre âme ainsi s'emporte,
Madame, à me pousser de cette etrange sorte.

CÉLIMÈNE

Et moi, je ne sais pas, Madame, aussi pourquoi
On vous voit, en tous lieux, vous déchaîner sur moi.
Faut-il de vos chagrins, sans cesse, à moi vous prendre?
Et puis-je mais des soins qu'on ne va pas vous rendre?
Si ma personne aux gens inspire de l'amour,
Et si l'on continue à m'offrir chaque jour
Des voeux que votre coeur peut souhaiter qu'on m'ôte,
Je n'y saurais que faire, et ce n'est pas ma faute:
Vous avez le champ fibre, et je n'empêche pas
Que pour les attirer, vous n'ayez des appas.

ARSINOÉ

Hélas! et croyez-vous que l'on se mette en peine
De ce nombre d'amants dont vous faites la vaine,
Et qu'il ne nous soit pas fort aisé de juger
A quel prix aujourd'hui l'on peut les engager?
Pensez-vous faire croire, à voir comme tout roule,
Que votre seul merite attire cette foule?
Qu'ils ne brûlent pour vous que d'un honnete amour,
Et que pour vos vertus ils vous font tous la cour?
On ne s'aveugle point par de vaines défaites,
Le monde n'est point dupe; et j'en vois qui sont faites
A pouvoir inspirer de tendres sentiments,
Qui chez elles pourtant ne fixent point d'amants;
Et de là nous pouvons tirer des conséquences,
Qu'on n'acquiert point leurs coeurs sans de grandes avances,
Qu'aucun pour nos beaux yeux n'est notre soupirant,
Et qu'il faut acheter tous les soins qu'on nous rend.
Ne vous enflez donc point d'une si grande gloire
Pour les petits brillants d'une faible victoire,
Et corrigez un peu l'orgueil de vos appas
De traiter pour cela les gens de haut en bas.
Si nos yeux enviaient les conquetes des vôtres,
Je pense qu'on pourrait faire comme les autres,
Ne se point ménager, et vous faire bien voir
Que l'on a des amants quand on en veut avoir.

CÉLIMÈNE

Ayez-en donc, Madame, et voyons cette affaire:
Par ce rare secret efforcez-vous de plaire,
Et sans.

ARSINOÉ

Brisons, Madame, un pareil entretien:
Il pousserait trop loin votre esprit et le mien;
Et j'aurais pris déjà le cone qu'il faut prendre,
Si mon carosse encor ne m'obligeait d'attendre.

CÉLIMÈNE

Autant qu'il vous plaira vous pouvez arrêter,
Madame, et là-dessus rien ne doit vous hâter;
Mais, sans vous fatiguer de ma cérémonie,
Je m'en vais vous donner meilleure compagnie,
Et Monsieur, qu'ä propos le hasard fait venir,
Remplira mieux ma place à vous entretenir.

THE MISANTHROPE

by Molière

Act III Scene IV

(ARSINOÉ, CÉLIMÈNE, CLITANDRE, ACASTE)

CÉLIMÈNE

O Madame, what fortunate chance brings you here? In truth I had feared there was something amiss.

ARSINOÉ

I come to give counsel I feel to be due.

CÉLIMÈNE

La, Madame, to see you I'm happy indeed!

(Exeunt CLITANDRE and ACASTE, laughing.)

ARSINOÉ

Could ever departure more opportune be!

CÉLIMÈNE

Shall we be seated?

ARSINOÉ

There's no need for that.
Now friendship, dear Madame, should show itself most
In affairs that have major importance in life;
And as there is none that gives greater concern
Than that of our honour and general repute,
In proof of the friendship to you in my heart
With counsel I'm here that touches your honour.
I yesterday happened to visit some friends
Whose virtue is really exceedingly great;
Your conduct the subject of discourse became
And because it is talked of it was, alas, blamed.
The crowds whom you're willing each day to receive
Your dalliance which is the talk of the town
Were censured with rancour exceeding their due
And a rigour more great than I ever could wish.
You can, Madame, picture the part that I played;
I did all I could to defend your good name;
I spoke of the goodness you always intend,
And tried to stand surety for what's in your soul.
You'll admit that there is some conduct in life
That much as we wish to we cannot condone,
And I found myself forced to make the avowal
That you may be unwise in the way that you live,
Which has an appearance less good than it is;
That there is no scandalous story that wants
For list'ners who willingly take it as truth;
And that to your conduct you could if you would
Give a complexion less open to censure.
Not that I think you have really done wrong.
Preserve me, O heaven, from having such thought!
But people are readily led to believe
In what is perhaps but the shadow of crime;
And it is not enough of ourselves to approve.
Madame, I warrant you have too much sense
Not to accept this most excellent counsel
And not to see in it a gesture discreet
Of my zeal to assist in your ev'ry concern.

CÉLIMÈNE

O Madame, indeed I must render you thanks,
Your counsel compels it; and far from the thought
Of taking offence,I will instantly pay
Your favour by giving some counsel to you.
Now seeing the friendship you feel towards me
y repeating the rumours of me about town,
I'll take your example and tell what I've heard
When visiting people of singular merit.
They spoke of good done by a virtuous soul
And then conversation was turned upon you;
Your prudery, Madame, your outbursts of zeal
Were not considered as very good models.
Your outward behaviour affectedly grave,
Your constant harangues on wisdom and honour;
Your cries at the shadow of what is impure,
Which might have been meant in an innocent way;
The high estimation you have of yourself,
The pitying glances you throw all around,
Your lectures unending, your censures severe
On things that are really both harmless and pure;
All this, my dear Madame, I candidly say
Was judged very harshly by common consent.
What purpose, they asked, does her modesty serve,
Her outward appearance of virtue profound,
When indeed all the rest can give them the lie.
When prayers are in question her scruples are strict,
But her servants she beats and gives them no pay;
For deeds of devotion she shows a great zeal
But seeks admiration by painting her face;
She covers the nude with meticulous pains,
But yet has a love for the real that is there.
I was your defender, dear Madame, in all,
Assuring them calumny here played a part,
But the general view was in contrast with mine.
At last they concluded that you would do well
To pay less attention to actions of others
And give all your care to improving your own;
That one ought to reflect very long on oneself
Before one should dare other people to judge;
That in all the verdicts passed upon others
An exemplary life in the balance should weigh.
All this it is better to leave in the care
Of those to whom heaven has given the task.
Dear Madame, you also have reason too much
Not to accept this most excellent counsel,
And not to see in it a gesture discreet
Of my zeal to assist in your ev'ry concern.

ARSINOÉ

Whatever reprisal one had to expect
This answer of yours has exceeded all bounds.
O Madame, your bitterness makes me aware
This excellent counsel has given you pain.

CÉLIMÈNE

On the contrary, Madame, and were we but wise
Such mutual advice would be used for our good;
This blindness of ours where ourselves are concerned
Would thus in good faith be completely destroyed.
It depends upon you if with the same zeal
We continue to follow the path we've begun
And when we're together most faithfully tell
What each of us hears in respect of the other.

ARSINOÉ

Ah! Madame, it is not of you that one hears,
'Tis rather in me that the faults can be found.

CÉLIMÈNE

We can, Madame, find as I firmly believe
In ev'ry case something to praise and to blame;
And each one of us can claim to be right
According to age or according to taste.
For dalliance is there a season that's fit,
But also for prudery is there the same.
When brilliance of youth has taken its leave
We can tactfully make up our minds to be prude,
Thus cov'ring the ravages age has in store.
One day, it is true, I may walk in your path,
Age brings us all manner of things in its train;
And, Madame, we know that indeed it's too soon
When one is but twenty to act as a prude.

ARSINOÉ

Verily, Madame, you make a great boast
Of having a vantage that's modest indeed;
Besides, of your age one may certainly say
That you make nothing less than a terrible song!
Though older than you other people may be
It's hardly a difference that need be remarked;
I really don't know why you feel yourself roused
To harass me, Madame, in such a strange way.

CÉLIMÈNE

And I, my dear Madame, can really not tell
Why you should attack me whenever we meet.
Your plaints must you bring to me without ceasing?
And is it my fault if you do not receive
Attentions so readily rendered to me?
If my person is prone men's love to inspire
And if they continue to offer each day
Those vows that you certainly do not approve,
Then I cannot help it, and am not in fault.
You have a free field but I cannot prevent
Your lacking those charms we must have to attract.

ARSINOÉ

O heavens! D'you fancy that one is disturbed
By the number of lovers to which you make claim?
And that it's not easy for others to judge
What payment is needed to keep them attached?
With the world as it is can you make people think
It's your merit alone that draws all this crowd?
That it is honest love that burns in their hearts,
And that for your virtues they fall at your feet?
One is not quite blinded by empty pretence,
The world's not deceived; and one sees those endowed
With power to inspire the utmost affection
Who do not however have lovers around.
So, Madame, from this we may really conclude
Encouragement's needed to gain human hearts,
That no man will sigh for our beauty alone
And that for attention we always must pay.
Thus, Madame, don't puff yourself up in this way
Over successes that can't be called shining,
In your power to charm take a little less pride,
And do not treat others with such condescension.
And if our eyes envy success due to yours
I think we can do what others have done,
Discard all precaution and make it quite plain
As soon as we will we all may have lovers.

CÉLIMÈNE

Then have them, dear Madame, and let us all see
The secret you have to make yourself pleasing; And...

ARSINOÉ

Let us stop, Madame, for this conversation
Is much too exacting for you and for me;
And I should already have taken my leave
If I had not, alas, to wait for my carriage.

CÉLIMÈNE

O Madame, please stay just as long as you will,
For indeed there is nothing that need make you haste.
But that by my presence you may not be tired
A better companion I'll put in my stead;
The happiest chance has made Monsieur return
And he'll entertain you far better than I.

(Translation by V.E.W.)

---

(In the second edition of the original, a little-known scene was added, which Goethe wrote as an after-piece to Faust, Part I—a kind of playwright's joke!)

ZWEI TEUFELCHEN UND AMOR

(ZWEI TEUFELCHEN tauchen aus der rechten Versenkung.)

A. Nun, sagt' ich's nicht? da sind wir ja!

B. Das ging geschwind! wo ist denn der Papa?
Wir kriegen's ab für unsern Frevel.

(Sie sind herausgetreten.)

A. Er ist nicht weit; es riecht hier stark nach Schwefel.
Wir gehn drauf los, so sind wir bald am Ziel.

(AMOR mit übereinander geschlagenen Füssen und Händen wird durch die Versenkung links schlafend hervorgehoben.)

B. Sieh dort!

A. Was gibt's?

B. Da kommt noch ein Gespiel.'
O, der ist garstig! der ist gräulich!

A. So weiss und rot; das find' ich ganz abscheulich.

B. Und Flügel hat er wie ein Strauss.

A. Ich lobe mir die Fledermaus.

B. Es lüstet mich, ihn aufzuwecken.

A. Den Laffen müssen wir erschrecken.

A, a! E, e! I! O! U!

B. Er regt sich! still! wir horchen zu.

AMOR. (an die Zuschauer)
In welches Land ich auch gekommen,
Fremd, einsam werd' ich nirgend sein.
Erschein' ich—Herzen sind entglommen,
Gesellig finden sie sich ein;
Verschwind' ich, jeder steht allein.

A. (nachäffend) Allein.

B. Allein.

BEIDE. Wir beide sind doch auch zu zwei'n.

AMOR. Ja, die Gesellschaft ist darnach.

A. Er muckt noch!

B. Sing ihm was zur Schmach!

A. Das ärmliche Bübchen!
O, wärmt mir das Stübchen!
Es klappert, es friert.

B. O, wie das Kaninchen,
Das Hermelinchen,
Sich windet, sich ziert!

AMOR. Vergebens wirst du dich erbittern,
Du garstig Fratzenangesicht!
Verlust der Neigung macht mich zittern,
Allein der Hass erschreckt mich nicht.

(In den Hintergrund.)

B. Das ist mir wohl ein saubres Hähnchen!

A. Ein wahres derbes Grobiänchen!

B. Gewiss ein Schalk, wie ich und du.

A. Komm, sehn wir etwas näher zu!
Wir wollen ihn mit Schmeicheln kirren.

B. Das kleine Köpfchen leicht verwirren,
So gut, als ob's ein Grosser wär!

BEIDE. (verneigend) Wo kommt der schöne Herr denn her?
Von unsers Gleichen gibt es hundert;
Nun stehn wir über ihn verwundert.

AMOR. Aus diesen krummgebognen Rücken,
Aus den verdrehten Feuerblicken
Will immer keine Demut blicken;
Ihr mögt euch winden, mögt euch bücken,
Euch kleidet besser Trotz und Grimm.
Ja, ihr verwünschten Angesichter,
Du erzplutonisches Gelichter,
Das, was du wissen willst, vernimm'
Ich liebe, von Parnassus' Höhen
Zur Pracht des Göttermahls zu gehen;
Dann ist der Gott zum Gott entzückt.
Apoll verbirgt sich unter Hirten;
Doch alle müssen mich bewirten,
Und Hirt und König ist beglückt.
Bereit' ich Jammer einem Herzen,
Dem wird das grösste Glück zu Teil.
Wer freuet sich nicht meiner Schmerzen!
Der Schmerz ist mehr als alles Heil.

A. und B. Nun ist's heraus und offenbar;
So kannst du uns gefallen!
Erlogen ist das Flügelpaar,
Die Pfeile, die sind Krallen.
Die Hörnerchen verbirgt der Kranz:
Er ist ohn' allen Zweifel,
Wie alle Götter Griechenlands,<
Auch ein verkappter Teufel.

AMOR. Ihr zieht mich nicht in eure Schmach!
Ich freue mich am goldnen Pfeil und Bogen,
Und kommt denn auch der Teufel hintenach,
Bin ich schon weit hinweggeflogen.

TWO LITTLE DEVILS AND CUPID

by Goethe

(Two LITTLE DEVILS emerge through the trapdoor on the right.)

A. There now, didn't I say so? Here we are!

B. That was quick work! But where's Papa? He'll pay us out for all our pranks.

(They come forward.)

A. He isn't far away; there's a strong smell of sulphur hereabouts. If we go straight ahead, we'll soon be there.

CUPID is raised up through the trapdoor on the left. He is asleep, with hands and feet crossed.)

B. Look over there!

A. What is it?

B. Another playfellow for us! But what a loathsome, grisly object!

A. All pink and white! He makes me shrink with horror.

B. And look, he has wings like the wings of an ostrich.

A. I prefer bats any day.

B. Wouldn't I love to wake him up!

A. Come on, let's scare the silly fop! Ah, ah! Eh, eh! Ee!

O! Oo!

B. He's moving. Keep quite still and listen.

CUPID. (to the audience)
Whatever land is this I see,
I shall not here a stranger be.
When I appear, hearts come alight
And fellowship is their delight.
And when I go, each stands alone.

A. (mimicking) Alone.

B. Alone.

A. and B. (together)
But we are two, we're not alone.

CUPID. Is this the sort of company I'm in!

A. He keeps on muttering to himself.

B. Sing him something to make him cross!

A. Poor little fellow, he's freezing cold, shall we make him all snug and warm?

B. He's twisting and wriggling and looking coy, just like a prim little rabbit.

CUPID. Your sarcasms are all in vain
You ugly fright!
When love cools off, it makes me shiver,
But downright hatred has no fears for me.

(He moves back-stage.)

B. He seems a promising young cockerel.

A. A sturdy little churl!

B. A cunning rogue, for sure, like you and me.

A. Let's come a little closer! Let's flatter him and lure him on!

B. Easy enough to muddle that little head! We'll talk to him as if he were grown up.

A. and B. (together, bowing low) And where does this young gentleman hail from? There are many hundred like ourselves, but at sight of you we stand amazed.

CUPID. Such crooked, hunching backs,
Such warped and fiery looks
Will ne'er bespeak humility.
Bow and bend you as you may,
It suits you better to rage and spurn.
Ill-conditioned, of evil face,
Oh, you arch-Plutonic race!
Hear then what you wish to learn.
I love from fair Parnassus' height
To go to banquets of the Gods,
For then is God with God enamoured.
Apollo among shepherds goes obscure,
But I am welcome everywhere,
My presence gladdens king and shepherd too.
If to a heart I sorrow bring,
Then is that heart most richly blest.
Who is not glad my pains to feel?
Far better they than any weal.

A. and B. (together)
So now all's spoken out and clear,
And we are free t'enjoy your presence here.
This pair of wings, 'tis just a lie,
And for the arrows, they are simply claws.
Neat little horns that wreath of yours conceals.
Yes, without any doubt, he is—
As are all the Gods of the land of Greece—
Merely a devil like us, in disguise.

CUPID. You'll never drag me to your shameful depths!
In golden bow and arrow is my delight.
And should the devil himself come by,
These wings will have carried me far from sight.

(Dr. Steiner): When it is a question of giving form to a dialogue or to a wider conversation, what we have to look to most of all is that the art shall be true—true, that is, as art. Naturalism, which aims at imitating external reality, can never be true as art. For consider the very conditions within which we find ourselves on the stage. What we have to do there is obviously to represent, to act—and never to forget that we are acting. No servile imitation of real life can ever override our obligation to act. The acting will provide the material with which we have to work as artists; we shall have to find all we need in the acting itself.

The first thing to have in mind is that in art everything must be perceptible—must be immediately present to the spectator or listener. The moment he has to fill out what is given from his own resources, the moment he is obliged to add something of his own construction—for example, in the theatre, before he can understand some actor who comes on to the stage—we have come away from the realm of art. The artistic representation should comprise everything the audience needs for its comprehension. The artist of the stage has at his disposal, first of all, the word—the word in its artistic formation; and then he has also mime, gesture, posture. A genuine artist will endeavour to express by means of these everything the audience require to have before them.

One could point to many things in present-day civilisation that frustrate this ideal. An outstanding one is the fact that we have no longer today any true feeling for sound or for word, we have feeling only for ideas. We look through the word to its meaning, to the idea that is behind it. We have completely unlearned how to understand in hearing, and in ordinary life we are all too inclined merely to hear in understanding. There is an essential difference between the two,

Understanding in hearing
Hearing in understanding

and it is most important for you to be clear in your minds about the difference. It will help you to discern it if we recall at this point some things that I said in the earlier lectures, looking at them now from a rather different angle.

You will remember I pointed out that no single sound is ever formed by the human soul without its reflecting, in the case of a vowel, some inner feeling of the soul that may be experienced in connection with the world outside; or in the case of a consonant, without an endeavour to imitate, in the very way the sound is formed, some external object, some external being or process.

Whenever I intone the sound a (ah), then if I am not content with perceiving the meaning or the idea, but want to develop a feeling for the sound pure and simple, the intonation of a will, under all circumstances, imply an experience of wonder or astonishment. That this is no longer felt in the language of everyday intercourse, that the experience has completely faded out, makes no difference at all. And every time I intone i (ee), there lies behind it the joy and delight that the soul experiences with the assertion of the self. When I intone u (oo), there is always behind it some feeling of fear or anxiety. Each vowel sound expresses an experience of the soul occasioned by something in the world outside.

Every sound, on the other hand, that is consonantal in character expresses an effort on the part of the soul to imitate, in the forming of the sound, some external object or process. When I say the sound, I am of course obliged, in order to utter it, to have recourse to the help of a vowel; it is nevertheless the consonant with which I am here concerned.

When I intone b, there lies behind it an endeavour to imitate something that covers or protects. True, this original endeavour of the soul has today gone far down into the unconscious, has gone down, shall we say, into the stomach that digests food but not sounds. Nevertheless, it is still true that the intoning of b signifies that I am speaking of the shell or sheath of something. R denotes that I am endeavouring to form a sound-picture in imitation of a process of commotion and excitement, or trembling. The consonants imitate; they shape themselves in imitation of forms or processes, of things or events in the world outside.

It follows from this that wherever, for example, an a appears in a word, we shall ultimately find, hidden away within the word, the inner experience of wonder. For our present study we can naturally go no further than the German language; but the same holds good, as I shall show a little later, for all languages. The modifications that have come about are to be explained on quite other grounds.

Suppose you utter the simple word Band (a band or ribbon). There is, you see, an a in it. What lies behind this word ? The answer I am about to give is in reality more exact than all the explanations offered nowadays by learned philologists. I have no wish to call in question the learning of these scholars, but when it comes to treating of what is artistic in speech and language, they can offer us very little help.¹

What then can we find in a word like Band? Without a doubt, there is contained in it the fact that when the word first came into being, men felt it to be a cause of wonder that they could bind something together with a Band that then held. And it is wonderful—that we can gather a thing together and make it fast in this way with a Band. The vowel of a word will always reveal for us the inner experience of soul that gave rise to the word.

And when I have ‘bound’ something, then the Band is around it. B always expresses a covering, a wrapping round. Whether the covering be a whole house for a family, or merely such scant covering as a piece of ribbon, the sound b will always contain the meaning of wrapping or sheltering. N expresses a lightness of touch, suggesting something that easily flows or slips off—Band. And then the d expresses a making firm and fast; d gives one the feeling of something satisfactorily finished off. We fasten the Band. And there the word ends. At first the Band is loose—n; then we fasten it—d. Thus can one feel one's way through the whole word, sound by sound.

If men had always felt towards words and sounds as they do today, feeling merely the meaning and the idea, adopting in fact an entirely intellectual attitude, it would never have been possible for words to come into existence as words of a language. A language can be born only out of experience, out of inner soul experience; and as words signify something external, they have to be born out of an experience man has with something other than himself, with something, in fact, in his environment.

In the interjections we have opportunity, even now, to see how words were originally formed. Interjections are indeed the only instances left where men still feel today, though it be but feebly, what is really there in the word.

I said that u has always to do with an experience of fear or anxiety. Now f is always an indication that something is coming forth from its place of origin, is escaping from its corner. (Hence the German expression for knowing something very thoroughly: to understand it aus dem ff, to understand it, that is, right from its very beginnings. A keenly sensitive feeling is behind expressions of this kind.) And so, if from some corner you suddenly sense the approach of something that alarms you and fills you with fear, you will say: ‘Uff!’, and you will even direct the f sound inwards instead of outwards as you utter it.

What we are still able to experience with interjections can really be experienced with every single word. Here someone will very naturally interpose: ‘But if that were so, all languages would have to be alike! There could be only one language for the whole world!’ In reply, all I can say is that in reality there is only one language. That sounds very strange! Nevertheless it is so, there is one language; only, no one speaks this language. How is that?

Take the simple German word Kopf (head). Starting with the o sound, we have, in the first place, the inner experience of roundness. O is always something that embraces or surrounds, and in a mood of sympathy. Similarly, we could show with the k, the p and the f what the word Kopf wants to say. Primarily, however, Kopf expresses the round form of the human head. Kopf is the endeavour of the soul to imitate in word picture the shape and form of the head.

Now it is peculiar to the German to remark particularly the shape of the head, its spherical form, and to want to imitate that in speech. And he does it not only for the human head; he speaks of Kohlkopf² when he wants to imitate in speech the round form of the Kohl (cabbage). Kohlkopfis of course also the recognised technical term in thieves' language for the human head. (For thieves have, as you know, a language of their own. A thief would never say Kopf for a man's head but always Kohlkopf. They have their own names for everything )

If the Italian or the Frenchman had the same feeling about the head, if he also wanted to express its roundness, then he too would call it Kopf. He could not use any other word for it. Naturally the word would in his country have undergone some change, due to sound-shifting; but that does not affect the issue. The Italian does not, however, want to express the form or shape of the head; he wants to signify that something has been determined by the head, has been declared. So he says ‘testa’ (you have the same meaning in the word ‘testament’), denoting with the word the attestation given by the human head.

If the German felt a desire to express this fact about the head, he too would say ‘testa’, and not Kopf. For it is really so: for any one thing, only one word is possible so long as the thing is looked at from the same point of view.

Thus, it is definitely not in the making of their words that nations differ, but in what they feel and experience in the objects. One nation will draw attention to the spherical form of the head, another to the statements that proceed from the mouth. It would be quite possible to gather up all languages into one, and then in this universal language there would be Kopf, ‘testa’, and so on, and so on, all together; and each nation might then choose out the words that accorded with its character. The sounds in these word pictures have undergone some shifting in course of time; that is how the languages have come to be apparently so very different from one another. But the essence of the word persists; it is always there. And it is just in the most grotesque dialect words that you will often be able to recognise their original and essential element.

One can indeed make very interesting studies in this matter of dialect. The Austrian dialect contains, for example, the word bagschirli.³ The very sounds of the word will always give the Austrian the feeling that the thing described as being bagschirliis quaint, is rather funny, but has nevertheless to be taken seriously; he likes it for its oddness, but he knows he must not forget that it is, for all that, sober truth. Bagschirli has to carry, in fact, many nuances of meaning. And now, what is this word? It is simply the word possierlich (droll), translated into Austrian dialect. But the Austrian never feels in his word the nuance that possierlich bears. There is for him far too little heart in possierlich. To call something possierlich is as if one were looking down from a remote height of great learning. And the Austrian is not proud of what he has learned. He says he is, but in reality he is—inwardly—proud of what he has not learned! And so he can't leave the word as it is, he must adapt it to his lighter, easier way of taking life; and for his taste, in bagschirli he has a perfectly marvellous word picture. Analyse the two words from the point of view of sound, and you will find they bring you into a whole new world of experience—possierlich, bagschirli.

So, you see, the feeling for sound and the feeling for word are verily still there in man. They have only been pushed down in more recent times into the unconscious or semiconscious, into the realm of instinct. If, however, we want to qualify for speaking on the stage, we shall have to stop stressing the importance of meaning and idea, and begin to think again of the significance of sound and word. And that is what we have now to consider together: how an understanding for these things can be brought into the preparation of students for the stage.

When you are studying music, you learn many things that you would not think of playing at a concert. For it is certainly not customary to have five-finger exercises and suchlike performed in public. You learn how to do these exercises; then you go on working at them, until what you at first had to take pains to learn passes over into instinct, becomes use, becomes habit.

Where students are being prepared for the stage we do not always find things done in this way. Yet, there is such a thing as an ‘art ' of the stage; and he who would be an artist there must once more come to have a feeling for sound and for word, and out of this feeling develop the true artistic speaking that belongs to the stage.

Let us take first dialogue. Two people are standing there on the stage, engaged in more or less serious conversation. When we are facing merely the external world, then, if we enter fully into the experience, we feel in vowels and imitate in consonants; and if we have acquired a sensitiveness for sound, something very fruitful will develop out of our relationship to the things and beings of the world. But here we are facing a person; and we have moreover to reckon as well with the audience. For it is certainly my experience that the audience is quite an important factor in the art of the stage; I have never yet found that actors took much pleasure in playing to an empty house! The audience, then, the spectators, are also there as a third party.

Now a dialogue on the stage has to reveal the whole changing course of the reciprocal relationship between the two speakers. This means that each must have, as he listens to the other, the sound-feeling that the other is experiencing. Imagine you have the two actors before you. The first should be able, while listening to what the second is saying, to experience in a living manner the sound-feeling that is inherent in what is being said.

This will not necessarily correspond to the vowels and consonants that are uttered; for in our present-day language these will not always express the mood of the speaker. We do not, for example, say: Us nuhut Gufuhr, as we would have to if we were to form a word picture exactly to accord with experience; we say: Es nahet Gefahr (danger is near).

Us nuhut Gufuhr.
Es nahet Gefahr.

Owing to gradual metamorphosis, what was originally a true word picture has nearly faded away. The speech of the stage must, however, restore to the word its original truth. How is this to be done ?

Here we come to an important factor in the technique of the stage, to which we must pay careful attention. If you go back from German to Gothic—and even Gothic, you must remember, is a derived language—you will be astonished to find how often you will suddenly come upon vowels that reflect with absolute accuracy emotions of fear, wonder, etc., in words where in the newer language the vowels have no more than a neutral relation to experience. This lost relation of sound to experience has now to be supplied in another way.

We have on the stage the two actors, one speaking, the other listening. We must in some way bring it about that the second receives the content of what the first says in its true ‘sound ' significance. If someone were to say to me on the stage: Es nahet Gefahr, I ought of course to experience wonder (a). The fact is, we only do not say: Us nuhut Gufuhr, because a metamorphosis has gradually come about, which has led to the replacement of an expression of fear by an expression of wonder. Out of a kind of boldness, we have let fear and anxiety give place to wonder and astonishment. Such changes in sound can always be accounted for. The actor, however, whilst the other is saying: Es nahet Gefahr, will have to feel in himself the feeling u. This must go on, as it were, ‘behind the scenes’ of the acting. Hidden behind in the soul of the actor, the sound-feeling has to play its part. The listening actor must learn to hear this hidden sound. How is he to do so ? Naturally, not by bethinking himself while the other is speaking: Now I must feel an u. Rather must his training have induced in him such an exact and living feeling for the sound of each single consonant and vowel, that when the other speaks words suggestive of fear he will as he listens, irrespective of what vowels the words contain, experience instinctively in his soul the corresponding sound-feeling for fear. This must of course not wait for the performance; the actor must have the experience beforehand, in the rehearsals. If the other actor expresses wonder, astonishment, then he will feel a; if joy, he will feel i. If the words of the other show him to be surprised and taken aback, then the listening actor will feel au (ou in ‘loud’); and so on.

But now all this must come about in the soul of the actor as naturally as the vibration on the drum of the ear—which we certainly do not ourselves set going, but which is in very truth a gift of the Gods; otherwise, we would make as bad a job of hearing as we do of speaking! It should happen quite as a matter of course that when one actor expresses fear, the other's whole mood of soul is attuned to u; and when words are spoken that evoke sympathy, then the soul of the listener vibrates in ei (as in ' height '). This inner hearing has to become absolutely instinctive; it must simply be there of itself.

This then is what we must aim at in our training for the stage; and that is why we have to take our start from sensitiveness for word and for sound, instead of giving our first attention to ideas.

Think for a moment how it is with colours—with blue, for instance. Blue is not in reality simply blue. Take a blue surface and place it by the side of red. It is at once quite different. Place it next to violet; it is different again. By the side of red it is a much more intense blue than it is by the side of violet.⁴ The fact is, we never see a colour that is not modified by the colour that is beside it. And this is true of everything in life. Our impressions are determined and conditioned by neighbouring impressions, they receive their nuance from them.

Suppose one of the two who are engaged in a dialogue makes a remark that indicates danger. Instinctively the other will feel u u u. And now he begins to form his answer. His answer will sound altogether different when he utters it out of the feeling of u than it would if he were to speak it out of the feeling of a. It is the same as with the blue colour, which is different according to whether it is beside violet or beside red.

If the actors have learned to develop this sensitiveness for the sound-feeling behind each other's words, then the conversation will receive its right colouring. And the spectator down below in the stalls—yes, and even the spectator up in the gallery—will ‘hear ' this colouring. Naturally, he does not tell you so! He knows nothing about it, consciously—but for that very reason, knows it instinctively all the more surely. And if he hears the right colouring, the piece pleases him; if not, he doesn't care for it. That is the way it shows itself—the one and only way.

So here we have a definite suggestion for training. The student has but to practise himself in sensitiveness for all the several sounds—there are no more than thirty-two or thirty-three altogether—and the corresponding feelings will come, if he will only make up his mind to become conscious of them. And when once he has experienced these corresponding feelings and proved for himself how they arise in him when u, or o, or a, or i is intoned, then he will have to practise this hearing in the rehearsals, just as one practises the piano, playing at first each note consciously and gradually progressing to ease and fluency. Little by little, as the rehearsals proceed, the student will come to the point where he will have instinctively the right sound-feeling for the different parts that are being acted around him. When he has attained to this, he may be said to have completed his training in this respect.

Here again it has naturally to be a question of setting up an ideal. For in the rush of modern life a play will frequently have no more than two or three rehearsals—possibly even fewer ! It is, however, of no little importance that in a matter of this kind we should have before us an ideal. There is, you know, considerable difference of opinion on the subject of rehearsals. For Frau Wilbrandt, who had, by the way, an excellent speaking voice on the stage and divined instinctively much of what I have been describing—for her feeling, a whole series of rehearsals was never enough. She was frequently heard to say that one can only act a part really well when one is acting it in public for the fiftieth time; the first forty-nine performances are simply further rehearsals. Yes, she would repeat that again and again. And there is truth in it, for only by that time would the things of which we are speaking have become instinctive and spontaneous.

One meets also with other views. There was once a company that had played a piece fifty times. For the fifty- first performance the producer proposed to have the prompter's box removed, thinking that by now the actors must surely have their parts by heart. ‘Now, boys,’ he said, ‘today you are playing the piece for the fifty-first time; so we'll take away the prompter's box.’ One of the actors could not at first grasp the situation at all. After thinking it over he said: ‘But won't that mean that the audience can see the prompter?’ That the box was to be removed—that he could grasp; but the prompter—he couldn't possibly do without his prompter!

I can assure you, many changes will have to come about in connection with the art of the stage, and not only in practical matters of this kind; an entirely new approach is needed, we need to think of our work as actors in a new way. If, however, you once begin to put into practice the things of which we are speaking here, then as time goes on the various faults and failings will gradually all be overcome.

• 1. See p. 130.
• 1. It is interesting to recall here Rudolf Steiner's appreciation of August Fresenius in Chapter XX of The Course of My Life. For Fresenius, he says, philology was in very truth love for the word ‘...Whoever he adds would carry out a genuine and thoroughgoing research into the secrets of words will need to have insight into all the secrets of existence.’
• 2. The o in Kohl is long, and the o in Kopf is short.
• 3. -ir- (and -ier-) as ‘ear’.
• 4. Dr. Steiner illustrated this on the blackboard.