The Rudolf Steiner Archive

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

From the stretching moors, from the misty hollows,

Grendel came creeping, accursed of God,

A murderous ravager minded to snare

Spoil of heroes in high-built hall.

Under clouded heavens he held his way

Till there rose before him the high-roofed house,

Wine-hall of warriors gleaming with gold.

Nor was it first of his fierce assaults

On the home of Hrothgar; but never before

Had he found worse fate or hardier hall-thanes!

Storming the building he burst the portal,

Though fastened of iron, with fiendish strength;

Forced open the entrance in savage fury

And rushed in rage o’er the shining floor.

A baleful glare from his eyes was gleaming

Most like to a flame. He found in the fall

Many a warrior sealed in slumber,

A host of kinsmen. His heart rejoiced;

The savage monster was minded to sever

Lives from bodies ere break of day,

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

was not fated to glut his greed

With more of mankind when the night was ended!

The hardy kinsman of Hygelac waited

To see how the monster would make his attack.

The demon delayed not, but quickly clutched

A sleeping thane in his swift assault,

Tore him in pieces, bit through the bones,

Gulped the blood, and gobbled the flesh,

Greedily gorged on the lifeless corpse,

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

Sprang on the Sea-Geat lying outstretched,

Clasping him close with his monstrous claw.

But Beowulf grappled and gripped him hard,

Struggled up on his elbow; the shepherd of sins

Soon found that never before had he felt

In any man other in all the earth

A mightier hand-grip; his mood was humbled,

His courage fled; but he found no escape!

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

The fellowship of devils. Far different his fate

From that which befell him in former days!

The hardy hero, Hygelac’s kinsman

Remembered the boast he had made at the banquet;

He sprang to his feet, clutched Grendel fast,

Though fingers were cracking, the fiend pulling free.

The earl pressed after; the monster was minded

To win his freedom and flee to the fens.

He knew that his fingers were fast in the grip

Of a savage foe. Sorry the venture,

The raid that the ravager made on the hall.

There was din in Heorot. For all the Danes,

The City-dwellers, the stalwart Scyldings,

That was a bitter spilling of beer!

The walls resounded, the fight was fierce,

Savage the strife as the warriors struggled.

The wonder was that the lofty wine-hall

Withstood the struggle, nor crashed to earth,

The house so fair; it was firmly fastened

Within and without with iron bands

Cunningly smithied; though men have said

That many a mead-bench gleaming with gold

Sprang from its sill as the warriors strove.

The Scylding wise men had never weened

That any ravage could wreck the building,

Firmly fashioned and finished with bone,

Or any cunning compass its fall,

Till the time when the swelter and surge of fire

Should swallow it up in a swirl of flame.

Continuous tumult filled the hall;

A terror fell on the Danish folk

As they heard through the wall the horrible wailing,

The groans of Grendel, the foe of God

Howling his hideous hymn of pain,

The hell-thane shrieking in sore defeat.

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

Of mortal men in the strength of his might,

Who would never rest while the wretch was living,

Counting his life-days a menace to man.

Many an earl of Beowulf brandished

His ancient iron to guard his lord,

To shelter safely the peerless prince.

They had no knowledge, those daring thanes,

When they drew their weapons to hack and hew,

To thrust to the heart, that the sharpest sword,

The choicest iron in all the world,

Could work no harm to the hideous foe.

On every sword he had laid a spell,

On every blade; but a bitter death

Was to be his fate; far was the journey

The monster made to the home of fiends.

Then he who had wrought such wrong to men,

With grim delight as he warred with God,

Soon found his strength was feeble and failing

In the crushing hold of Hygelac’s thane.

Each loathed the other while life should last!

There Grendel suffered a grievous hurt,

A wound in the shoulder, gaping and wide;

Sinews snapped and bone-joints broke,

And Beowulf gained the glory of battle.

Grendel, fated, fled to the fens,

To his joyless dwelling, sick unto death.

He knew in his heart that his hours were numbered,

His days at an end. For all the Danes

Their wish was fulfilled in the fall of Grendel.

The stranger from far, the stalwart and strong,

Had purged of evil the hall of Hrothgar,

And cleansed of crime; the heart of the Nero

Joyed in the deed his daring had done.

Trans. C. W. Kennedy.

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

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

The sun makes music as of old

Amid the rival spheres of heaven

Of the poetry there is hardly a trace.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cambridge, E. J. W.

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.

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.

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.

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.