| 282. Speech and Drama: Speech as a Formed Gesture
07 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: Speech as a Formed Gesture
07 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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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:
or again, this one:
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.
(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 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.
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| 282. Speech and Drama: How to Attain Style in Speech and Drama
08 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: How to Attain Style in Speech and Drama
08 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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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.
(In the second edition of the original, the following example of Alexandrines from Faust, Part II, was added.)
(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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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| 282. Speech and Drama: The Secret of the Art of the Masters Consists in This: He Annihilates Matter Through Form' —Schiller
09 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: The Secret of the Art of the Masters Consists in This: He Annihilates Matter Through Form' —Schiller
09 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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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.
(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.
(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:
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:
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.
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.
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:
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.)
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:
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:
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:
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:
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.
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| 282. Speech and Drama: Sensitive Perception for Sound and Word Instead of for Meaning and Idea
10 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: Sensitive Perception for Sound and Word Instead of for Meaning and Idea
10 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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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.
(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,
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).
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.
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| 282. Speech and Drama: Some Practical Illustrations of the Forming of Speech
11 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: Some Practical Illustrations of the Forming of Speech
11 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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My dear Friends, I would like today to centre our study around a scene from a play of Hamerling's that can serve to illustrate many things that I have been explaining. A course of lectures on a subject of this kind is necessarily all too short, and I can in any case do no more than make a few suggestions in the hope that these may stimulate you in your work. None the less, although our time is short, I propose to use the present hour to throw light by practical example upon the importance of what I have said about developing, in preparation for speaking on the stage, a feeling for word and a feeling for sound, in contradistinction to the feeling for sense and idea. today, therefore, we will take this practical demonstration as a basis for our study; and it is my intention to speak the parts in such a way as will enable you to glean at least an elementary understanding of how a reading rehearsal should go, if it is to prepare the ground for the actual performance of the play on the stage. Thus, having in the first part of our course given our attention to the forming of the speech, we shall now be considering all that has to do with production as such, with the right forming of the stage-picture. It goes without saying that before any such rehearsal, the explanations I have been giving of what is required for an artistic way of speaking must have already taken root in the unconscious, and be present there as artistic instinct. Where mention is made of these matters at all in rehearsal, it will be presumed that in those who are to take part, the feeling for sound and the feeling for word have, by long practice, become a complete matter of habit. It will, in fact, be of quite other matters that one will have to speak there, alluding only as need arises to the fundamental principles of speech formation; for of these the actor should bring with him an intimate knowledge, no less surely than a pianist who is preparing himself—or, maybe, a pupil—for a concert brings with him the faculty he has acquired for piano-playing. The scene I propose to take is the opening scene of a drama of Robert Hamerling, entitled Danton and Robespierre, a play that is concerned, as the title tells us, with the French Revolution. I have chosen it because I think the moods that come into consideration for this scene—and I need not remind you how important it is for the moods to find clear expression in the performance—are such as can easily be conveyed to the minds and hearts of people in general. For they are unmistakable and sharply distinguishable in their colouring. The scene is moreover also valuable for us, in that the moods give opportunity for transforming, by stage technique, even the most prosaic content into an artistic formation of sound and word. We are here transported into an important moment in the history of the French Revolution, when the mood of the public was undergoing a change. That stage in the revolution is just being reached when the popularity of Danton is beginning gradually to give way before the popularity of Robespierre. A great number of people are on the point of transferring their loyalty and devotion from the one to the other. Let us first of all see that we understand the true nature of the people's loyalty to Danton. Some were loyal to him out of a sincere and faithful devotion, in others their loyalty was prompted rather by their own political aspirations; but all might be said to regard him with what I may almost call a savage admiration. Consequently, we find permeating the scene something of the sound- and word-feeling—I am speaking here from the point of view of stage technique—that results from the working together of a (wonder and admiration for Danton) and o (a certain rude affection for the man). The scene is pervaded by an a-o (ah-oh) mood, in the sense in which I have explained this to you in the earlier lectures. Tune your feeling to the sounds a-o, and you will have the mood that prevails at the beginning of the scene. Loyalty to Robespierre was of quite another kind. At first it only reached men's hearts in a fitful, spasmodic way. The lean and lanky man, looking so like a schoolmaster, whose words cut like knives, did not easily inspire admiration in his fellowmen; he had to seize on every opportunity to win it. In fact, the first stage of Robespierre's popularity was marked by a kind of wariness and caution. In the case of individuals as well as of the masses, it was out of a certain defensive attitude that admiration for Robespierre was born. Translated into feeling for sound, it is a sounding together of e (ay in ‘say’) and a. So that in the people's feeling for Robespierre we have the mood that you can hear in e-a. In this scene, therefore, which evinces throughout a delicate instinctive feeling on Hamerling's part for sound and word, we have to find the transition in the whole speaking of the parts from a-o to e-a. And we shall be able to do so if we look into the scene carefully. That is indeed the reason I have chosen it, because of all we can learn from it. Hamerling built up the scene with an instinctive discernment for what is required in dramatic art. I shall draw attention, as we go along, to features that would require to be noted in the reading rehearsals. My remarks will naturally be rather sketchy; in actual rehearsals, the various points would need to be further elucidated. For we have here a scene that can provide us with an excellent lesson in the very things we are concerned with in these lectures. Note how we are introduced, first of all, to a countryman who had been in Paris fifteen years before and never once since. The man has been deaf during the last six years, and on this account it has easily come about that he has as good as slept through whatever echoes of the big events penetrated into the provinces; he has heard nothing of all that went on. He was treated for his deafness by the village barber who was also something of a surgeon, as was still usual in those days, but with no particular success; and he was advised to go to Paris. One can certainly have one's doubts as to whether even in Paris the cure would be such an easy matter! However, here he is again in Paris, cured of his deafness and bearing his part in the change-over of moods that I have described—but all the time as one who has only just become able after six years to hear what is being said around him. You will find at once the basic tone for this man's speaking if you give yourself up to an a feeling that is tinged with o. Let us see what this will mean. For throughout the first part of the scene, the countryman will be the chief figure. The whole attention of the audience will be centred upon him. It might even be said that the other characters are present only in order to give colour and variation to the main interest that attaches throughout to this man. Actually, the success of the play as a whole will depend to a great extent upon how the part of the countryman is played in this first scene. We know of course that a signifies wonder and admiration. The mood is a little modified in this character of the countryman, but the actor will do the part well if he takes pains to speak, as much as he can, with his mouth open. (I shall be dealing with gesture and mime in the later lectures; today I will confine my remarks to the speaking.) This will allow the a mood, which is the prevailing mood of the scene, to pass almost imperceptibly into o, which is what the part requires. From the very outset, we sense also that a change of mood is imminent; we are moving towards the transition from the a-o to the e-a mood. This is portrayed for us with wonderful artistic skill. You can feel here with what a delicate touch Hamerling works; and that is what I want you to notice before all else—the artistic achievement, quite apart from the prose content of the scene. The countryman is put there on purpose that we may be still hearing the echo of the mood connected with Danton, while at the same time having our expectation aroused for the gradual transition to the mood that is connected with Robespierre, the mood that we can clearly detect in the second part of the scene where the conversation of the various characters goes clanging back and forth like sounding brass. So much for a rough sketch of the mood in which you will have to experience this scene if you want to take part in it and form your speaking in the right way. The scene is laid in an open space in front of Notre-Dame.
These citizens are fellows of quite another stamp than our countryman. They are Parisians, who exhibit to the full the mood that was then uppermost in Paris; and they give a new colouring to the countryman's words that have set the motif at the beginning of the scene. We are to think of the first citizen as having a kind of i (ee) mood, and the second a rather quieter and more serious ii (French ü in ‘du’) mood. You will remember how I explained these in the earlier lectures.
Yes, you are right! The audience will laugh at these words; but they must be spoken with all the seriousness of one who is taking a responsible part in a revolution. And that is a seriousness of an altogether different stamp from the seriousness with which we are accustomed to approach everyday affairs. You have to picture the countryman saying those first words of his alone, to himself. Then the citizens come an the scene. They stand at a little distance from him, and now he goes up to them.
The name of the month is not after all a matter that touches him very nearly; that he can accept. Now he is called upon to grasp the further fact that there are no longer any Sundays!
And now a sansculotte makes his appearance. When you come to look carefully at this sansculotte, you will find you can best enter into his part by combining the a mood with the i mood. For he has undoubtedly wonder and astonishment, and these have fired him with enthusiasm; but he has at the same time, as it were in the background, the pleasure and enjoyment that his own self-consciousness affords him.
The sansculotte has noticed that the countryman does not hear very well.
In those days anyone who dared in Paris address a man as ‘gentleman’ was hung up on the nearest lamp-post.
The day of the Girondists is past and over. The sansculotte imagines that the countryman is thinking of the autonomy that was enjoyed by the provinces when they were in power.
Momoro is a citizen too, and moreover, as we shall see, a man of some importance who stands with the whole force of his personality right in the immediate moment of the revolution. He is, however, at the same time, beginning to feel that the ground under his feet is getting a bit shaky. Fresh people now come forward and prepare the way for a new mood, the mood that I characterised as reminiscent of sounding brass. We are, in fact, at the moment when loyalty to Danton is passing away, in favour of loyalty to Robespierre. We must accordingly watch for die transition from the a—o mood to the e—a mood. Loyalty to Robespierre is quietly stealing in, and that fact must find expression in the whole mood of the scene from now on.
Momoro talks the most naturally of them all, and helps to lead over to the new phase of the revolution. He is, at the moment, in high esteem, and this must be apparent to the audience.
For at this point, in order to show how the mood is changing, moving all the time in the direction of the note that has been sounded by Robespierre, a new speaker steps forward from among the crowd, who is under a certain disability—a man with a wooden leg. The crowd, we shall find, is gradually working its way free of the completely different mood that has hitherto prevailed and beginning to enter into the mood that is connected with Robespierre. The i (ee) mood that belongs to him, begins to be heard.
Note the skilful way in which the personality of Robespierre is introduced. The sansculotte abandons his role as sansculotte, and suddenly shows himself as a marvellous portrayer of character. If this moment in the scene is rendered with the colouring that it has been my intention to give to it in my reading, then in this speech that the sansculotte addresses to the people around him, the audience will eel the swing-over of loyalty of which we have spoken. The critical moment of transition has come; and as we go on, I shall indicate here and there some of the points that it would be important for a producer to have in mind The second mood is now upon us, it overwhelms the scene as though with a confused and deafening noise; I compared it, you will remember, to the clash of sounding brass.
Here we have the ö (French eu in ‘feu’) mood. It has to be spoken forward; we must let the speaking strike on to the front part of the palate.
From now on, the women speak more in the ei (as in ‘height’) mood. With the entry of Robespierre into the conversation, the revolutionary impulses begin to be imbued with a sort of coy and affectionate enthusiasm—e a.
I wanted to show you by practical example how a scene like this should be treated. I have laid on the colouring a little more strongly than would be necessary in a performance, because I wanted you to have a particularly clear picture of how the different moods come severally to expression in the treatment of sound. We saw, for example, that the countryman has to be spoken throughout with the mouth open, for he is to reveal the a mood; a slight intoning of a should even be audible in every sound he utters. Similarly, you will find the clerk has to speak so that something of an i enters into each one of his sounds. His voice is always in front of that i-boundary in the mouth, of which I was speaking the other day, and is continually striking the front part of the palate. It is by paying careful attention to details like this, that we can gradually learn to give form and style to our speaking on the stage. |
| 282. Speech and Drama: The Moulding and Sculpting of Speech
12 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: The Moulding and Sculpting of Speech
12 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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My dear Friends, We will begin today with a recitation given by Frau Dr. Steiner, which will, I think, bring home to you with added force all that we have been considering in the last lectures. For the scene that will be read provides excellent opportunity for showing how one who seriously wants to be an artist in his work on the stage can find the way to a right forming of his speech. Whether or no we attain to this depends in great measure upon our ability to effect a certain inner adaptation of our speaking so that it may truly have the qualities both of sculpture and of painting. We shall very likely have some ,,trouble in getting rid of what might well be called the greyness of speech that is only too common on the stage today. I mean the speech that is content to remain at the prosaic level of the speaking we use in everyday life. We shall really have to bestir ourselves to effect a reform in this direction, for this latest phase in the development of acting is taking us farther and farther away from art. It seems indeed to be the aim and object of the modern actor to speak without any art at all, employing as he does for the stage merely the speaking of ordinary everyday intercourse. Judged from the standpoint of naturalism, the acting profession of the present day has undoubtedly succeeded in achieving a very high standard; the achievement, however, has nothing artistic about it. On many occasions during recent years I have been utterly amazed at the naturalistic performances I have witnessed on the stage. Again and again one has been confronted with the strange phenomenon of a play being acted without the least attempt to develop a style that could lift the performance to the level of art; one has had, on the contrary, the feeling of being transported into a stark realism of the most everyday description. Needless to say, we do not go to the theatre for that! Anyone who looks for nothing else but sheer naturalism in an artistic performance is like a person who doesn't care for a portrait painted by an artist; that doesn't please him at all, he would much rather have a photograph, preferably perhaps a coloured one, since he can understand that more readily. But the whole secret of art lies in this: in art we reveal truth by quite other means than Nature uses. Nature reveals truth more immediately. Truth must be present in Nature; and truth must be present also in art. The truth in Nature shines forth to the spirit : from the truth in art the spirit shines forth. Once we have grasped this fact and made it our own, we shall feel within us an urgent need to discover how art and style can be restored to the stage, and we shall not rest until we find it. I will tell you of something that can prove helpful in this connection. Practise bringing your speech organs into a kind of speaking the very nature and quality of which oblige you to diverge from the naturalistic speaking of everyday intercourse. You will have an example of this in the scene to which we shall presently be listening. The scene is taken from Lessing's play Minna von Barnhelm, in which one of the characters, Riccaut de la Marlinière, is a Frenchman speaking German. It is impossible to speak this part in an ordinary everyday manner; one has perforce to give a certain style to the speaking of Riccaut de la Marlinière. He is constantly interposing French words and phrases, and his German has always a French accent. Such a part could well be used as an exercise in the forming of speech; it will help the student to acquire a fluency that has style. This was indeed our reason for choosing the scene. (Frau Dr. Steiner): The scene is laid in a room in an hotel. Riccaut de la Marlinière enters expecting to find there Major Tellheim.
(Dr. Steiner): And now let us ask ourselves: why do we need speech formation as a special art on its own, within the realm of drama? Suppose you are taking part in a scene where you are engaged in conversation with another actor, and you stand there listening to him in just the same way as you would in real life. No one could call that art. In ordinary conversation we hear the other person's words, but pay hardly any attention at all to the sound of the words or the intonation; we do not stop to appreciate the forming of the speech. In fact, we hear as little of the forming of word or of speech as we see of a transparent pane of glass. We look through the glass to what is behind; and in ordinary life we look through -or rather, hear through-the word. The word has become for us trans-audible; we scarcely notice the word itself and the way it is formed. And this is what we must learn to do again. A serious effort must now be made to restore to the art of the stage the hearing of the word. We must not be content merely with looking through the word as one looks at trees through a pane of glass, looking through the word in order to see what the other person means, trying to catch his thought or his feeling, or some news he is telling us. We must learn to hear the word itself, and experience a real content in this hearing of the word. Thought is, in a way, the death of art; the moment something real that is seeking artistic revelation passes into the realm of thought, art has left it. What art would show forth to us, we must hear, we must see. But now, the art of the stage is concerned with human beings—with human beings who think and feel. A dramatic performance has to portray human beings; that is its concern. When, however, we form our words so that this formed word manifests itself as having an artistic value of its own, something of the human being is lost in the process. This has to be made up for; and the only way to do it is by mime and gesture. Here, you see, we have reached the moment of transition from the arts of recitation and declamation to the art of acting as such, and this is where we come up against the necessity for a specific and thorough training for the stage. Once again we can do no more at the moment than put forward a kind of ideal for such a schooling, in so far as mime, gesture and so on are concerned; for, conditions being as they are today, it can be only in the rather distant future that students of dramatic art will be able to receive a training that approaches it. The very cherishing of an ideal, however, the very setting out together in this way to consider what has eventually to be achieved, will help you to go forth in quest of that ideal, and to travel as far on the road as the limitations of the present time allow. Let us then put the question: What should a school of dramatic art be like? What form should it take? And here, right at the beginning, let me say a word that will, I hope, remove some misunderstandings. In a school of dramatic art, just because it has to do with living men and women who have their own individual forms of expression, it has necessarily to be a question of educating by means of examples, giving the students indications and directions, but always in such a way that these are understood to be examples,-single instances out of many. For in everything to do with the stage the freedom of the artist has to be most strictly respected. It will therefore not be a matter of providing students with instructions that have to be followed with a pedantic adherence to the letter; advice will be given of a good way in which this or that can be done, and then the students will be left free to form and develop their work in the spirit of the given indications. And this is how I mean you to take the description I shall now give of what should be a first step in preparation for speaking on the stage. At the beginning of this course of lectures I drew your attention to the gymnastics of the Greeks, showing you how these were developed instinctively from the organism of man. For the five main activities of Running, Leaping, Wrestling, Discus-throwing, Spear-throwing, do actually present in a kind of ascending scale activities that the nature of man may be said to require. In order to meet the needs of modern times there will obviously have to be some modification of the old forms. Nevertheless, we shall get a pretty good idea of how our gymnastic movements should be today if we study these five main activities, thinking of them as ensouled by the spirit. For so we may truly describe the gymnastics of ancient Greece; they were ensouled by the spirit—they had something of genius about them, and those who practised them came under an influence that was genuinely artistic, genuinely spiritual. We have not time now to consider the modifications that might have to be introduced; I think, however, you will grasp the essential point if, in making the following suggestions for training, I simply use the terms that belong to the gymnastics of ancient Greece. This then is how a training for the stage should begin—with a course of training in gymnastics, given in the spirit of the gymnastics of ancient Greece. The five main exercises, somewhat recast for the present age, should be well and thoroughly practised: Running, Leaping, Wrestling, Throwing the Discus (or some similar object), Throwing the Spear (or some similar object). Why do I recommend this course in gymnastics? Not in order that the actor may acquire skill in this direction; I have no desire to make an athlete of him. The art of acting, let me tell you, will never attain its true nobility if it is allowed to go the way of Reinhardt2 and suffer methods of the circus to be brought in; rather must it free itself entirely from any such connection and go steadily forward in pursuit of its proper aim,- namely, the worthy rendering on the stage of the poetry and art that are inherent in true drama. When we say that a training for the stage should begin with gymnastics, we have something altogether different in mind. We are thinking of the need for the forming of the word to become in the actor a complete matter of course, so that it takes place in him instinctively; and the gymnastics can give just the right help to bring this about. Mime and gesture too—these above all have to become a matter of instinct. They must of course avoid being naturalistic, they must have art, they must have style, they must be as though impelled straight from the world of the spirit; and yet they have to become for the actor as spontaneous and unpremeditated as the behaviour of ordinary persons in everyday life—of persons, that is, who are not affected, and do not give themselves airs. With the same natural spontaneity that belongs to everyday life must the actor be continually giving artistic form to his words, his gestures, his physiognomy.And so, while pursuing his conscious study of the art, the actor should at the same time be experiencing it instinctively; he has to be able to combine the two; while learning it, he must also live it,-otherwise his words and gestures will constantly give the impression of being artificial. And now, let us say, you learn Running. Then you will be learning how to walk on the stage—that is to say, your walking will give the right articulation to the word.
The spectator has, you see, to understand from gesture and mime what he is not able to receive through his hearing. What the actor speaks, we are to hear. What the actor does—his mime and gesture-that, out of a certain instinct, we are to understand. There, understanding is in place, since there art can enter in; for in ordinary life we do not use mime and gesture,--not, at all events, with conscious intent. By the exercise of Leaping, we learn how to modify our walking on the stage; one part of the text will require slow walking, while with another we shall want to walk more rapidly. We learn, in fact, to adapt our walking instinctively to the various ways of speaking which I described in an earlier lecture, showing you how the word can be incisive, full-toned, or long drawn out, can be abrupt or hard or gentle. Each of these qualities in speaking has to be accompanied by a corresponding modification of walking. On the stage, neither speaker nor listener may walk in an arbitrary manner. The pace has to be learned from the word; according as the word is incisive or full, deliberate, hard or gentle, so must we learn to bring our walking into the right measure, moving now more quickly, now more slowly, reaching even at times that utmost slowness that consists in standing still. And this we acquire instinctively when we practise Leaping.
We touch here a secret of human nature,-in so far as human nature may be allowed to have a say in the art of the drama. That the adaptation of walking to the character of the word is instinctively acquired through the exercise of Leaping is not a thing one can prove by argument, but only by experience. Put it into practice, and you will find that it is so. There are, I can assure you, many things in life that can only be learned by trying them out, and all the theories people build up concerning them are worth nothing at all. In the exercise of Wrestling one learns how to move one's hands and arms when speaking,-again instinctively. This is best learnt from Wrestling.
In the Throwing of the Discus, where man has to let his gaze follow the direction of the throw, follow the whole path taken by the discus after it is thrown, his look changing, adapting itself to correspond, adapting itself even to the movement of the hand—in Discus-throwing, paradoxical as it may sound, we learn play of countenance. A play of countenance that comes and goes without effort, implying full control of the facial muscles—this is what can be learned from Throwing the Discus. It can as well be the throwing of a ball, or other similar object; I use, however, the Greek term for the exercise.
Lastly we come to what may well seem strangest of all. And this again can naturally never be proved by argument, it has to be experienced. By practising Throwing the Spear, one learns to speak. Sticks can quite well be used instead of spears, but it must be exercise in this kind of throwing. For, as we practise Spear-throwing, our speech acquires the immediate effectiveness that enables it to work as speech, and not as an expression of thought. So, you see, the actor actually requires for his training that he should exercise himself in throwing things like sticks and spears! The alertness and care that are needed for it will draw the speaking away from the intellect, and take it right into the speech organs, allowing it to mould and form them. Spear-throwing is nothing less than the foundation for speech.
I mean that of course in the broadest sense. Then will follow the specific speech exercises which we went through earlier on. But if we are envisaging a properly ordered school for dramatic art, we should ensure that our students discover from their own experience that the throwing of long spear-like objects evokes in them an instinctive understanding for what has been given in these lectures in reference to the forming of speech. If all of you sitting here had for a long time been practising Spear-throwing, you would be in no doubt at all about the truth of my words. Things of this kind do not admit of theoretical proof; they prove themselves in the doing. The results of such a training will soon show in those who undertake it. Spear-throwing provides the exactly right occult training for one who would attain proficiency in stage speaking. So now you can form for yourselves a picture of what the beginners' class in a school for dramatic art should be like. And when, working out of the spirit of the whole, we come to consider the individual student, the human personality who stands before us as the subject of the art, and begin to study with him all the further details, we shall not communicate these in a dogmatic way as if they were rules, but rather as suggestions. All instruction for the stage must in fact be, as we said before, by way of suggestion and advice. In regard to what he has learned, the would-be actor has to be left absolutely free; he may carry it out precisely as it has been given him, or on the other hand he may, working out of the same spirit, do it differently. One of the very first things a student has to learn is that not for a single moment should there be on the stage an unoccupied actor. No one must ever stand on the stage, doing nothing. It is distinctly a fault if a moment occurs in a play when one actor is talking, and a few others, whose presence the scene requires, are simply standing about, doing nothing at all. The one who is doing the talking—he is talking; the others who are listening must every one of them be participating all the time in what he is saying. Suppose there are four actors on the stage and one is speaking; then the other three should also be acting, they have to play with the speaker, playing in mime and in gesture. This is where the art of production comes in. The producer is responsible for the picture that the stage presents throughout the play, and he must make sure that there is never on the stage an actor who is unoccupied. If an actor were to stand on the stage and listen just as in real life, instead of acting the listening, that would be an artistic fault. Listening on the stage with full inner experience must not be a real listening, it must not be naturalistic, it must be an acted listening. Along with everything else, it has to be drawn into the stream of the acting. And so the listening actor has to try to find at every turn a gesture that can rightly accompany the formed speech of the speaker. Naturalism on the stage has the same effect as marionettes. If we have the impression (as we very often have had in recent times) that the people up there on the stage are successfully evoking the illusion of naturalistic reality, then, judged from an artistic standpoint, they are no more than marionettes—the very antithesis of dramatic art. What is needed is that we should develop an inner perception for certain relationships of mime and gesture to the content of the spoken word. Suppose an actor has something intimate to communicate. The spectator must feel this; he must be able to know at once that information of an intimate nature is being given. He will not feel it if the actor walks backwards as he speaks; he will, however, if the actor places himself on the stage so that he can go forwards while he is speaking. Whenever you want to suggest intimacy, always move forwards, going from the back of the stage in the direction of the footlights. Technical details of this nature are often neglected on quite absurd grounds. I once knew a talented actor whose work on the stage reached a high standard in many respects, but who would not learn his part. He simply did not want to take the trouble! The consequence was, he was a continual source of annoyance to the poor producer, for he would say to the other actors: ‘As for you, boys, you can move about the stage or stand just where you like; I am going to plant myself here’; and ‘here’ was close by the prompter's box. And there he remained all through the play. In other respects he was an excellent actor. It is, you see, a matter of actually living all the time in the artistic; we must never forget to be artists. Suppose I have before me a little group of people to whom I am telling something, not now of an intimate nature, but merely by way of information. The spectator must be made to feel that the information is of interest to the others who are listening. How the latter should comport themselves, with that we will deal later; for the moment we are concerned with the speaker. If I want the spectator to have the impression that the group of persons to whom I am giving the information are taking it all in, I shall have to move slowly backwards within the group. The spectator, seeing this in perspective from his seat in the auditorium, will then feel that the listeners are following me with full understanding. Were I instead to walk straight through my group of listeners in the direction of the audience, the latter would receive the impression that my speaking goes past the listeners completely, that they simply do not understand it. Details of this kind belong to the inner technique of the stage. They are the elements from which we have to form the continually changing picture of the stage. If one drops into one of our modern theatres to see a play, as often as not it doesn't seem to get anywhere. For this is the sort of thing that is constantly happening. First, one actor will light a cigarette and puff away, then another will do the same—and so it goes on. This lighting of cigarettes is cultivated as an art; actors acquire a special dexterity in it. I have even observed that people rather like a scene that opens somewhat as follows. An actor comes on the stage and for quite a long time says nothing at all, lets the ` word ' retire altogether into the background. He sits down, and slowly pulls off one of his boots. He wants to show us in realistic manner that he has come home rather late. Then he puts on a slipper. All this time he has not spoken a single word. He pulls off the other boot and puts on the other slipper, still without speaking a single word. Then he proceeds to take off his coat, walks meanwhile a few steps across the room, as anyone might naturally do, and puts on his dressing gown. Next, he goes over to the corner of the room and lights the fire; he doesn't want to be cold. And never yet one word! And so he continues with his preparations for bed. Many different things may take place, of course, between taking off one's boots and turning in; but in order to carry out whatever little play of mime or gesture is involved in all this, what, after all, does the actor require? Certainly no serious study! He will have to be confident that he knows how people behave when they are at home; and then in addition he will need a little audacity to display himself doing such commonplace things. That is positively all he will need. A method of this kind can obviously never lead to the development of art on the stage. Under certain conditions it can have disastrous consequences. If the actors happen never in their lives to have seen what they are supposed to portray, then the result on the stage can be frightful. I recently witnessed a performance where one of the scenes was played at court, and it was only too evident that none of the cast had ever seen a court. We must look such things in the face; to do so will help to give us a true feeling for how things should be done if they are to be done artistically. And you will find that the dramatist and the actor, when both are truly artistic, will agree on this matter. Look at Goethe's best plays. You will not find in them many stage directions; actually, as few as ever possible! Turn up Tasso or Iphigenie. The actor is left free. And that is right; he needs his freedom. There was a time in Goethe's life when he was in contact with some very good actors, and he learned a great deal from them—helped of course by his own powerful artistic urge. Once when Goethe was beginning, quite in the modern style, to give the actress Coronna Schröter some detailed instructions for her part, she is said to have replied: ‘What you say, sir, is all very well; but it won't do, you know! I shall play the part in the way that suits me!’ And now look, on the other hand, at the stage instructions that you find in modern playwrights, sometimes whole pages of them. It is a perfect misery to have to wade through them. In fact, no sensible person will trouble to do so. He wants it left to him to supply these details out of his own imagination, as he reads the play. Yes, we have many such plays today, with their prolonged stage instructions and here and there a page of text in between. You have but to compare them with Tasso or with Iphigenie to see at once that the art of play-writing has suffered a decline, no less than the art of the stage. Everything the actor has to do must be done instinctively. If he is doing it in obedience to a strict injunction, it will look artificial, it will look studied. You must, however, realise how very much can find its way into the actor's instinct, can become instinctive in him. Think that you have before you the stage and the auditorium. The spectator is sitting there, and he has two eyes. If he had not these two eyes, then all the mime and gesturing of the actor would go for nothing. But now these two eyes are not just dead things about which we need not concern ourselves, they are alive. And a great deal of what happens on the stage, if it is to be rightly received, must take account of these two eyes. For the remarkable thing is that our eyes are not alike in the way they receive what comes into their field of vision. ; We are not of course generally aware of this in ordinary life, nor is the science that belongs to our age; nevertheless, it is so, our two eyes are not alike The right eye is more competent for understanding what is seen, whereas the left is adapted rather to taking an interest in the object at which we are looking. So this is the way we must think of the spectator as he sits facing the stage:
Say you are taking part in a play and have come to a passage where it is particularly important-and your own artistic feeling should tell you so-to succeed in arousing the spectator's interest. You will then need to walk, as actor, from left to right. This will mean that the eye of the spectator, as it follows you going (for him) in this direction ↙, will receive the impression of something that is interesting to him. If the passage in question is rather long, the actor will find it a good plan to go also backwards; the interest can quite well weaken a little without hurt. (See drawing.) This is simply a technique of the stage to meet the requirements of the eyes. But now suppose I have a passage where there is not the same call to stimulate the interest and feelings of the spectator, but where I want to appeal directly to his understanding, where I want perhaps to discuss or argue—as may often happen in a play. In this case, I shall have to move in the opposite direction for him ↘—that is to say, as seen from the stage, I shall have to go from right to left. These are things that need to be known. An actor should know how disturbing it is for the spectator, if when the words he speaks are intended to awaken interest, he moves in this direction: ↘ (as seen from the audience); it will mean that no interest will be awakened in the spectator. His interest will, however, be awakened when the actor goes, for his view, in this direction: ↙ These things simply are so. And they have to be felt, they have to be experienced, like everything else in art. [IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW] If we are once able to look with this kind of insight upon all the details of stage management, then we can work in perfect freedom—working out of the spirit—at the arrangement of our scenes. Suppose that, at a certain moment in a scene, someone comes in with a message. If I let him approach quite slowly, his arms hanging at his side, and go right up to the person to whom he is to deliver the message before he begins to speak (I am not inventing, I have seen this kind of thing over and over again!) then, so far as the spectator is concerned, there has been no message at all. If, however, the messenger begins to speak from as far away as possible, speaking also rather loud, louder than his fellow actors—then he does bring a message! As he comes nearer, he can draw back his head a little. That will create the impression that he knows very well what he has to say. And if he brings good news, he may add the gesture of holding up the right hand, with fingers outstretched. As a matter of fact, all that I have been saying applies to a message of good news. If it were a case of bad news, the messenger would have to comport himself differently. He would have to come in slowly, as though unwillingly, and then suddenly stop short and with tightly clenched hands deliver his message. The actor will of course be free to modify all this as he feels right, but he must at all events not make this gesture (hands crossed on the breast). These are some of the things into which one has gradually to work one's way. I give them as examples and intend them to be received as such, not as instructions. As we have seen, all training for the stage should be of this character. What the student has to receive is by no means a set of rules; rather is his training intended to have a stimulating effect upon his own activity. Particular instances are put before him which are then capable of manifold variation.
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| 282. Speech and Drama: Style in Gesture
13 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: Style in Gesture
13 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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My dear Friends, today we will take first a reading from Goethe that will illustrate for you many of the things of which we have been speaking in the previous lectures. You will have seen from the readings you listened to a few days ago—taken first from the earlier, and then for comparison from the later Iphigenie—what sort of an ideal for drama was living in Goethe at the beginning of his work as a playwright. He brought this form of drama to a kind of perfection in Götz von Berlichingen, also in some of the scenes in Faust, Part I. Goethe was working here essentially out of a feeling for prose—not yet out of an artistic forming of speech. The first Iphigenie, which may be described as the German Tasso, proclaims itself at once, in contradistinction to the Roman, as a striking example of well-formed prose, although a prose that has, under the influence of the poetic content, been allowed to run into rhythm. It was on his visit to Italy that Goethe began to interest himself in the artistic forming of speech. Contemplation of Italian art awakened in him a perception of how man's formative powers work, how they shape and mould a material artistically. With the whole strength of his soul, Goethe set himself to work his way through to what he now saw to be art in its purity. And this led him to feel that wherever possible he must re-mould his earlier work, he must form it anew, letting its form arise now from the language, from the formative qualities of speech. Goethe accomplished this in an eminent manner with the material he had at hand in his earlier Tasso and Tasso. And in Tasso he succeeded even in letting the speech shape the whole drama throughout. This was an achievement of remarkable originality. There is perhaps no other work of its kind where the conscious endeavour has been made to develop a drama entirely within the formative activity of speech itself. Now, it will of course be evident from what I was saying yesterday that speech formation alone is not enough; drama must have in addition mime and gesture. The intellect of the spectator—for that too should undergo artistic development as he watches the play—needs to see the gesturing as well as to hear the words. This was not sufficiently clear to Goethe at the time when he was working at his Roman Tasso and Tasso; he had not yet realised the importance of mime and gesture as an integral part of drama. Hence it is that we have in Tasso so striking an example of a drama where it is all a matter of speech, where everything follows from the forming of the speech. But now put yourself in the position of having to produce Goethe's Tasso. As you begin to develop your picture of the stage, scene by scene, you will find that many different possibilities are open to you for your stage settings. It will certainly not be easy to introduce modifications into the form of the speech, for speech has here been brought to a certain artistic perfection; but your picture of the stage you will find you can plan in the most varied ways. There is, however, a passage in Tasso where, as producer, you will come up against an insuperable difficulty. It is in the scene where Tasso makes himself intolerable to the Princess, acting in such a way as to give a most unfortunate turn to the whole drama. Here the producer is helpless. There is, in fact, no way out. Call on all the artistic means at your disposal, and see whether as producer you can make a success of this passage. You will not be able to do it. That such moments occur in plays must be known and recognised, if the art of the stage is to be cultivated in the right manner. You will of course finally manage to devise some way of meeting the situation, but you will not be able to give artistic form to your pis alle. This instance from Tasso can serve to show that in his work as dramatist Goethe did not altogether find the way from the forming of speech to the development of full drama that lives and weaves on the stage. That, one must admit, is an important fact; and the importance of it can be clearly seen in the further development of Goethe's work. For what do we find? In his Tasso and Tasso, Goethe may be said to live in the speech, to live in it as a supreme and perfect artist. In the sphere of speech, these two plays are unsurpassed. Goethe himself knew well of course that drama could not stop here, that it must develop further. While still in Italy, he composed also many scenes for his Faust. These, however, did not take on a Roman character. The ‘Witches' Kitchen’, for example, was composed in Italy, and is thoroughly northern, thoroughly Gothic in the old sense. Goethe knew that for these scenes he must wrest himself free of the Italian influence that surrounded him, must forget all about it and be a complete northerner. This comes out also in the letters he was writing at the time. What had been possible with Tasso and with Tasso was not possible with the material he was dealing with in Faust. And now we can follow the development a step further. Goethe began to write Die natürliche Tochter. In this play he shows that he wants to come right out on to the stage. He is not going to continue working in speech alone, he means to concern himself with the whole picture presented to the audience. He planned here a trilogy, but it was never completed; we have no more than the first part. As a matter of fact, only fragments, mere torsos, remain to us of all the plays that Goethe began after this time. Even Pandora—a work that was grandly conceived, as can be seen from the rough sketch the author made of the whole—was never completed. Faust alone was finished, but finished in such a way that only in the speech was the poet happy and successful; for the rest, he drew on tradition. The last grand scene is derived from the traditional imaginative conceptions of Roman Catholicism. Goethe did not find in himself the sources for that scene. Inherent of course in all this lies Goethe's profound honesty; Faust alone he finishes, and that, as can plainly be seen, out of a certain inability! The other plays he leaves unfinished, because he knew he could not complete them without entirely re-forming them. A dishonest artist would have finished them. Naturally, it is easy enough to polish off plenty of plays if one has no inclination or ability to delve down to the very deeps and make contact with the Archai of all creating. Oh yes, one can then complete many things to one's own satisfaction! A number of different people have set out to complete Schiller's Demetrius, for example, but not one among them all has left us an artistic creation; no single ending proposed can be said to develop the play artistically. And it is art that we must really begin again to care about and expect to find. We must get to know art in its foundations, we must develop again a genuine artistic sensitiveness. For a long time this has been lacking. Traditions have survived, they have been handed down; but sensitiveness to true art—that is what our civilisation needs. The art of the stage has unique opportunity for helping this sensitiveness to develop: it can turn to good account the living relationship that subsists between stage and spectator. Unless we seize on this opportunity, we shall not get any farther. In order to show you—or I should rather say, remind you, for I assume you are all of you familiar with the play—in order to remind you how far the forming of the speech dominated Goethe's dramatic work in the period of its highest attainment, we will ask you now to listen to the first scene from his Torquato Tasso. Frau Dr. Steiner will recite it for us. (Frau Dr. Steiner): Let me first recall to you the setting of the scene. It takes place in a garden ornamented with columns carrying the busts of epic poets. In the foreground are Virgil on the right and Ariosto on the left.
(Dr. Steiner): One fact has been entirely forgotten in the drama of recent years. When I tell you what it is, you will not very easily believe me; but I have been present at scarcely a single performance in recent years where the fact that we hear with our ears has not been forgotten. It seems such a simple obvious fact; and yet, from the point of view of art, it has been quite overlooked. The drama of our time has been working on the peculiar assumption that we hear- with our eyes ! It is accordingly considered necessary that whenever an actor is listening to another actor, he shall look straight towards him. In real life, it is certainly customary to turn to the person who is speaking, and it is perhaps justified there as a mark of politeness. Politeness is undoubtedly a praiseworthy virtue, it may even in certain circumstances be reckoned as one of the virtues that go to make up the moral code; and I am far from wanting to imply that there is no need for an actor to be polite; on the contrary! The actor on the stage, however, owes politeness first of all to the audience. (I do not mean some individual there; I shall have important things to say about the audience in the later lectures.) The only politeness that is due from the actor is in his relation to the audience, but in that he must not fail. It must never once be allowed to happen, for instance, that the audience see before them an actor speaking from the back of the stage, and four or five or more others standing in the foreground, turning their backs on the auditorium. That the stage should ever present such a picture is due to the intrusion there in recent years of the dilettantism that wants merely to imitate life. Blunders of this kind will disappear altogether as soon as we begin to take account again of style. And where a true feeling for style is present, what difference will it make? We shall find we are perfectly able to arrange our positions on the stage so that only on the rarest occasion does an actor need to turn his back to the audience—only, that is, where a particular situation in the play absolutely requires it. As a matter of fact, nothing should ever happen on the stage for which there is not a compelling motive inherent in the play itself. Take the case of smoking. In what I said yesterday I did not at all mean to convey the impression that I am against the smoking of cigarettes on the stage. But can there be any genuine motive behind it, when a number of persons, obviously merely to fill up dead moments with a bit of mime, are continually lighting cigarettes and smoking them in between their words, or even—as I have often seen—trying to cover their ignorance of rightly formed speech by standing there talking, holding cigarettes in their mouths as they speak? Yes, that does happen. All manner of detestable tricks of this sort have been finding their way on to the stage. If, however, a boy of seventeen or eighteen years old comes on the stage and lights a cigarette, then there may well be a perfectly definite motive behind the action: we are to understand that the young fellow is anxious to pose as grown-up. He wants us to see that he is quite a man. In that case, the lighting of the cigarette has behind it a conscious motive that originates in the play itself, and I would thoroughly commend it—as I certainly do when in the plays of today I see boys and girls of seventeen or eighteen (the age of the part, of course, not of the actor) lighting their cigarettes. There, it is right and good; the action must, however, always be prompted directly by the situation in the play. Do you see what is implied here—what demand we are making on behalf of art? We are asking that everything done on the stage shall be directly consequent on the inner texture of the play as an artistic creation. If our work is to have form and style, we must be able to see how every single detail in the acting springs straight from the fundamental intentions of the play. I have mentioned the matter of cigarettes merely as an example. Suppose it happens in a play that one person is giving a command, and one, two or three others are receiving it. There you have a clear situation to be staged. As to the manner and bearing of the one who is giving the command, I need only refer you to what I said the other day, when we went through the several gestures for the variously spoken word—the incisive, hard, gentle, etc. What we have now to consider is the behaviour, in dumb show, of those who are receiving a command. Naturally, what they would find easiest would be to stand with their backs to the audience, for then there would be no need for them to act at all. But there is no occasion for them to take up such a position; in fact, it mustn't be done, it would be quite inartistic. There are two things the audience must be able to see in one who is receiving a command. First, it must be evident that he is listening while the command is being given. And this, even when instead of facing the speaker he faces them, the audience will have no difficulty in seeing. If an actor who is receiving a command should ever turn his back to the audience, then we would have necessarily to conclude that he had some very particular reason for doing so. Imagine the speaker standing behind him, on his right; then the listener can still quite properly face the audience. He will be listening with his right ear and the audience will be able to see that he is doing so, by the way he turns just a little in that direction. No situation can possibly occur in a play where a listener is not perfectly well able to face the audience. And then, if the actor has his mime under proper control, the audience can see also in his countenance the impression that the command is making upon him. For that has to be seen too; it is the second of the two things that must be clearly visible to the spectator. The listener will therefore present to the audience a three-quarter profile more or less, his head inclined a little in the direction of the voice and slightly forwards. And if he has gone through beforehand the other exercises that I described yesterday, then as he assumes this position and enters into the feeling of it, his facial muscles will instinctively be set working in such a manner that the audience will see expressed in his countenance the nature of the command he is receiving. And if, in addition, he shows a tendency to move his arms and hands—not outwards, but more in the way of drawing them towards him—the gesture will be complete, will be exactly as it should be. And now, my dear friends, you will probably be wanting to say: But if I were to arrange the stage with three or four actors all listening in the way you describe, it would look stereotyped, it would look as if it were according to some set plan. Raphael would not have said so ! He would no doubt have introduced slight modifications into the gesture of the second listener, or of the third and so on, but the essential spirit and character of the gesture he would have maintained in them all. Raphael was not of course a producer; but he would, as onlooker, as critic, have demanded that gesture. He would, as I said, have modified it a little here and there, but the very similarity of gesture in the listeners would have impressed Raphael as aesthetically right. And should it ever be a case of some individual actor wanting his own way, then no question but that the stage picture as a whole must always receive the first consideration. What I have been describing has reference to the receiving of a command. We can, however, also consider how it will be with mere listening. One actor is speaking and others are listening. The gesturing here will naturally be not unlike what we have found to belong to the receiving of a command. The speaker's gesture will of course again be from among those I indicated in connection with the different categories that I named for the word : incisive, gentle, etc.; the precise gesture of the listener will have to be carefully determined in the following way. Let us suppose the content of what he has to say requires the speaker to speak quite slowly, so that his speaking falls into the category we named: slow, deliberate. We know then what his gesture will be. But what kind of a gesture will the listener have to make? The listener will have to adopt the gesture of a speaker who utters quick, decided words. Why is this? When someone speaks in a quick, incisive tone of voice, he tends involuntarily to make sharply defined gestures; you will remember how we designated them as ‘pointing’ gestures. The narrator, who is speaking slowly, will not make these pointing gestures; he will make the movements with the fingers that I showed at the end of yesterday's lecture. The listener, however, will—silently, to himself– accentuate, as he listens, the important words. He will thus be in • the condition for incisive speaking—speaking, as it were, inaudibly, within; and he will accordingly be right in making the pointing gestures. Then you will have a perfect harmony of gesture: the one making those finger movements that belong to the telling, the other making the’ pointing’ finger movements that rightly accompany the listening. These are suggestions that you can study and work out in detail for yourselves. Take another case. Again we have an actor relating something; but this time the content has the effect of making him speak his words out abruptly, as though they were cut short. This kind of speaking will always mean that the speaker particularly wants to drive home what he is telling; otherwise he would not tell it in that manner When the dramatist lets us see that a great deal depends on getting some information across to the listener, then the narrator will have to speak in this way, cutting his words short, and he will at the same time make the corresponding ‘flinging away’ gesture with his fingers—this gesture that you will remember I showed you before. The listener, on the other hand, will be true to his part and show the right response if he listens with all his ears—comes, that is, inwardly into the mood of a speaker who gives his words their full tone and value. Suppose someone wants to make sure of my taking in what he is telling me. Then I must stand before him in the manner of a full-toned speaker; for since I have to feel in full measure what he is saying, I must make the gesture that we saw to be right for the word that is spoken in full measure. These are ways to establish a right relationship between speaker and listener. It must only not be forgotten that what I have now been recommending should never be noticeable on the stage; it should have been so thoroughly worked with that it has passed over entirely into an instinctive sensitiveness for what is true in art. If ever a movement gives the appearance of being studied or artificial, that movement is immediately false. For in art, everything is false unless it is the artistic itself that the spectator has before him—the artistic itself as style. Consider in this connection what a difference there will be in their whole manner of speaking between some character in a drama who wants to convince, and one who wants to persuade. This difference must be brought out on the stage. Situations occur where we want to persuade another person, we want to talk him round. One can have this desire in a good or in a bad sense—or somewhere between the two. You have a classic and grand instance of persuasion in the famous saying of Wallenstein: ‘Max, bleibe bei mir! ’ (Max, stay with me!).1 There you have, not the will to convince, as will be evident from the context, but the will to persuade. Now, you could not imagine Wallenstein standing in front of Max Piccolomini, wringing his hands and saying: ‘Max, bleibe bei mir!’ But you can, and indeed you must, imagine him clapping Max on the shoulder, or showing at least an inclination to do so. That is the gesture that belongs properly to the words. Where, on the other hand, it is a question of trying to carry conviction by reasoning, the speaker must make some gesture upon his own person. He will have to clasp his hands, for example, or touch himself somewhere with his hands. He feels a need to discover within himself the power of conviction—as it were, to track it down. If, however, the speaker wants to persuade, he should make the gesture of touching the other person—or at least let it begin, making a movement, that is, which, if carried further, would be a complete gesture of touching. Note carefully also the fine distinctions we have to make for different kinds of persuasion. We may, for example, be using persuasion with the intention of giving comfort. Much will then depend on our powers of persuasion in the good sense of the word, for the one who needs comfort has not time to be convinced; what he wants, as a rule, is to be persuaded, not to be convinced by reason. We shall find, however, it makes a great difference whether we are in this way using persuasion to bring comfort, or are, for instance, wanting something from the other person. If we want to bring comfort, then we make this gesture of touching; it will work naturally and harmoniously, whether we only begin it, or carry it to completion. It need really only be begun. We can take the other's hand, or lay the palm of our hand on his forearm. The audience will then instinctively receive the right impression. This gesture will, however, not be right if you are wanting something for yourself, as in the famous example I quoted just now, not even if your wish be inspired by the very best intentions. ‘Max, bleibe bei mir !’ The actor who says these words will not lay his hand on Max's arm; he will have to place his hand on Max's shoulder or on his head, or anyway make a gesture of beginning to do so. Things like this will have to be grasped in all their exact detail, if we are ever to have again a genuine art of production that concerns itself with the whole practical work of the stage. And now let us go a little farther; for there are many more details of gesture and posture that require to be studied. We need, for example, to develop an artistic perception for the following. When a person is standing in front of you, you may be seeing him in profile, in part profile, or in full face; and there is a meaning for each of these three ways of being seen. Anyone who is an attentive observer of life will know how people sometimes place themselves instinctively so that others are seeing them in one or other of these ways. In real life a kind of affectation lies behind it, but in art it is done for artistic reasons. I once knew a professor (he was a German) who never lectured without presenting himself in profile to his audience—and not only before ladies, to whom he frequently gave lectures, but before his own men students too; and he knew very well what it meant. Standing in profile always calls up instinctively in the onlooker a sense of being in the presence of intellectual superiority. You cannot look at a person in profile without being impressed with his intellectual superiority—or inferiority, as the case may be; for in real life inferiority also occurs. The front-face view can never, for unprejudiced observation, tell us whether the person is clever or stupid. Looking him full in the face, we can remark whether he is a good or a bad man, whether he is kindly disposed or selfish; but if we want to observe whether he is clever or dull, we must see him in profile. And since one who makes use of profile is sure to be a person who believes himself to be clever, we shall know he is wanting in this way to show us his cleverness. The actor should also make here an additional gesture; he should at the same time hold his head back a little. Then the audience will be bound to feel that he is impressing his hearers with his intellectual superiority. If therefore you want the acting to be artistic, you must arrange that an actor who is to speak a passage wherein he has to appear superior to the one he is addressing shall turn his complete profile to the audience, holding his head back a little as he speaks. We must, you know, once and for all rid the stage of dilettantism. We must create again the possibility for students to learn the preliminaries for the art of the stage, just as painters have to learn how to use colour. For unless one has learned and studied these things, one is not an actor, one is not acting artistically, but at best merely performing à la Reinhardt or Bassermann! But now, suppose you stand before the audience in part profile. That will express, not intellectual superiority but intellectual participation in what the other is saying, especially if at the same time the head be inclined forward a little, so. A listener can in this way show to the audience that he is following the speaker with his understanding. It may, however, be that you want rather more the listener's feelings to be apparent to the audience. In this case, whilst the other is speaking, the listener must as far as possible allow the audience to see him full face. The situation on the stage can really come alive when the speaking is accompanied by these postures in the listener. Where the speaking is intended to make an impression on his intellect, you will choose for the listener the profile position; where it is rather his heart that is to be touched, you will let him stand full face to the audience. When details of this nature begin to be clearly envisaged and understood, then the art of the stage will be able to emerge from dilettantism and once again acquire content. We shall be able to see from the way an actor stands or walks, whether it is more with the intellect or with the feelings of the heart that he is participating in the situation. Passing on now to consider the will, we find that for the expression of will there has always to be movement, and here you will have to pay particular regard to what I said about form in movement. The expression of will or resolve calls forth in another an answering impulse of will. We know how this happens in life. Someone gives expression to his will in a certain direction. We listen to him. We can fall in with his will, or we can ourselves ‘will’ to hinder it. There you have the two extreme situations, and there are naturally many intermediate possibilities. A will that gives in to the will of the other must always be accompanied with a movement from left to right, either of the whole person or of the arms. Try it out for yourselves on the stage. Let one actor say something that has will in it, and another be standing there and making this gesture—that goes from left to right. You will feel at once that there is agreement on the part of the listener; the gesture expresses that he too wills the same thing Let him, however, make a right-to-left movement, and he is obviously on the defensive and may even be considering how he can put hindrances in the other's way. Still greater emphasis can be given to this’ will to oppose’ if the movement is made expressly with the head—naturally, the rest of the body also sharing in it. These are among the things that will have to be taught in a school for production that sets out to be comprehensive and take the whole art of the stage for its province. You will remember I told you yesterday—it may have seemed as though I were making rather paradoxical statements—I told you that in practising running one learns instinctively the walking that is required for the stage, and that leaping helps to modify the walking in the right way, making it now quicker, now slower, and that wrestling develops hand and arm movements, and so on. How is all this to be put into practice? The first thing the school will have to do is to arrange for the students to practise Running, Leaping, Wrestling, something in the nature of Discus-throwing, something like Spear-throwing; for that will help them to come easily and readily into all the bodily movements that are needed on the stage. Then we shall at any rate be saved from a feeling one has sometimes nowadays about an actor as soon as ever he comes on: that fellow, we feel, has no proper control of his body. How often we have the impression that all those people who are dancing and hopping about up there on the stage have not their bodies under control! They would have quite a different relation to their bodies if, right at the beginning of their training, they had practised these exercises. The next thing will be to draw forth from each exercise the particular ability it can develop for the stage. Let the students practise running for a quarter to half an hour, and then for half to three-quarters of an hour stage-walking; and the same with leaping and wrestling. For they must be able to unite the two : the exercise, and the skill in movement that the exercise helps them to acquire. And in order that, when they come to the last exercise, they may really succeed in drawing forth from their body the forming of the word, the four preceding exercises should be practised in the following way. For the practice of walking, and of modified walking, for the practice also of arm and hand movement and of play of countenance, you should have a reciter who does the speaking, while the student makes, in silence, the corresponding gesture or facial expression. And as far as these first four steps in the training are concerned, the same method should be continued even later on for one who is wanting presently to appear on the stage. He should practise his gestures, to begin with, without yet saying a word, while the speaker of the company does the speaking. This will give him the opportunity to make himself entirely familiar with the gestures in dumb play. When the students come to the fifth exercise, they can begin to speak; they can accompany the gesture with the speaking—which up to now they have been practising only separately, without gesture, in recitative. These two, gesture and the forming of the word, have then to be consciously combined, consciously fitted into one another. Only so will our acting have the necessary artistic style. We shall, you see, need to follow the example of certain directors of an earlier time and have a reciter. Laube,2 for instance, considered a reciter one of the requisites for the stage ensemble. Strakosch had repeatedly this part to perform. Only, Strakosch's inclinations did not allow him to be content with reciting; he was more disposed to train the students with a strong hand. It was really most interesting to watch how old Strakosch broke them in—going about it, you must understand, with the best will in the world, and not without something of real art in his method, judged from the standpoint of his time. When Strakosch was ramming something home to a pupil, you might have seen that pupil, at one moment standing bolt upright, and at the very next moment feeling as though Strakosch were going to dislocate his limbs, were going to bend his hip till the ends of the bone stuck out. Then again at another time you might have seen the pupil lying on the floor, with Strakosch on top of him—and that perhaps just when a performance was due to begin; and so on, through many other varieties of treatment. But there was temperament in all this. And the art of the stage needs temperament. I am far from saying that where such methods are in vogue, nothing can be achieved. Where there is genuine artistic striving, good results can be attained even with methods of this nature.The men of ancient India had a theory of the origin of man which, while it resembled our modern one, bespoke more feeling for the spiritual. For they too looked upon a certain species of ape as akin to man; but they were more consistent than we in their adherence to the mistaken theory. These apes, they said, can speak; they only don't want to—partly out of obstinacy and partly because they are a little bashful about it. If they are in any way human, if they are on the way to becoming man, then it follows that they must be able to speak. That was the conclusion, the perfectly correct conclusion of the ancient Indians. And I am always reminded of it when I meet with lack of temperament in the very people who need it. For I know well that these people have temperament; they are only unwilling to show it. I mean that quite seriously; the people of today are far more temperamental than they seem. We think it improper to show temperament; but it is by no means always so, and especially not in the case of little children. And yet how annoyed we often are when children begin to show temperament! But there too, you know, we shall have to learn to be more understanding! When we have a school of dramatic art, planned in the way I have indicated, we shall not need to have any misgivings about arranging for the students to practise leaping and wrestling and discus-throwing. If only the teacher has temperament, and does not go about with a long face, but is a person gifted with some humour, then that of itself will help to evoke in the students the necessary temperament. They will soon stop being shy of exhibiting it. We have the means at our disposal for evoking temperament, we only don't use them. And for art, in so far as its practice is concerned, temperament is an essential factor. My dear friends, we must know this; we must know how intrinsically temperament belongs to art. To write books on mysticism may not require temperament. If the books please, well and good; the readers do not the the author. But in those arts where the human being presents himself in person, there has to be temperament; there has to be also enhanced temperament—that is to say, humour. And therewith the moment is reached where it can all begin to be esoteric. And that is what we are minded to achieve in these lectures—that our study shall take us right into the esoteric aspect of the whole matter.
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| 282. Speech and Drama: The Mystery Character of Dramatic Art
14 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: The Mystery Character of Dramatic Art
14 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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My dear Friends, It is my intention today to add something to our previous studies that will, I believe, help you to a deeper understanding of dramatic art. For, as I indicated at the end of yesterday's lecture, that is the direction in which our studies are leading us—to an esoteric deepening of our whole conception of drama and of our own part in it. For the community at large, the situation is of course different; we shall be dealing with that later. But speaking for those of us who want to take a share in the work of the stage, we are called upon to fulfil a mission (if I may use such a word in this connection)—a mission on behalf of art and on behalf also of mankind. And before we can begin to have a true perception of that mission, we must learn to see how deeply our art is grounded in man as he is today, and we must also look a little more closely into the whole process of human evolution, in one phase of which we are now living. The actor must be able to experience for himself how the word, the artistically formed and spoken word, can reveal the whole being of man. This penetrating insight that can behold the word as a revelation of man cannot fail to give him a more spiritual conception of his calling; and once he has that, he will be able to arouse within him the necessary energy to make his work increasingly artistic, gradually bringing more and more artistic form into every detail of his acting. I will give you an example. An essential factor in the speaking of consonants is the part played by palate, tongue, lips, etc., in the forming of the word. And by looking a little deeper into the matter, we can see how the word on its part, in order that it shall acquire a fulness of content, catches hold of the experience which is associated with the region of each of the specified organs. We can quite well detect this, if we do not disdain to give our attention first of all to what presents itself to immediate perception, in order to pass on afterwards to its more spiritual aspect. Suppose we take our start from the ordinary physical sense of taste. There is positive ground, you know, for the fact that appreciation of art goes also by the name of taste; although when today we speak of taste in matters of art, and then again of the taste of a cucumber or of a veal cutlet, we have no longer that feeling of necessity which led men of an older time to label both with the same word. Consider how it is when you take some food or drink that can be described as bitter, that ‘tastes bitter’ in the ordinary material sense. Your palate and the back part of your tongue do the sensing of the bitterness for you. While the bitter substance is passing from your mouth into your oesophagus, and you are having the purely physical experience of bitterness, it is the palate that is engaged, in conjunction with the back part of the tongue. It is also possible to feel that something you eat tastes sour. The consumption of such a substance will lead you into a different physical experience. The task of mediating for you this perception of sourness you assign to the edge of the tongue. It is the edge of the tongue that is actively engaged in the experience of sourness. Or again, some food may taste sweet; then the tip of the tongue is mainly concerned. As you see, our relationship to the external world is in strict accordance with laws underlying our organism. We could never cajole the tip of the tongue into communicating to us the sensation of sourness or of bitterness; such foods leave it passive and inert. The tip of the tongue enjoys the distinction of coming into operation only when we take something sweet into our mouth. Now it is, as I have said, not without very good reason that we transfer the expressions sour, bitter, sweet, to the realm of the soul. We apply these terms to impressions that are of a moral nature—and we do so with careful discrimination. For we are not ordinarily inclined to picture, for instance, something sour before us as a result of the words another person speaks in our presence; his countenance however, may well cause us to speak of a sour face, and that out of a perfectly natural instinct. Whilst we do not readily feel a sentence to be sour, we have no compunction about calling a face sour. The fact is, the experience that makes you describe a face as sour calls into action exactly the same region in the mouth—namely the back part of the tongue where it goes toward the throat—as is engaged when you swallow vinegar. The experience is somewhat more spiritual, but it works in the same way. For there is an inner relationship between the two, and the relationship makes itself felt—instinctively, but unmistakably. The unconscious in us knows quite well the connection between vinegar and a sour face. There is just this slight difference in their working, that vinegar lays claim to the small and more passive organs of the tongue, whereas there are occasions when a sour face will call upon the more active parts of the same! We are here verily becoming able to behold the mysterious transition from inner perception or feeling to speech. For there is undoubtedly this real and living connection between them. When something makes an impression upon us in the moral sense and moves us to speech, then what happens is exactly the same as when some physical substance excites our sensation of taste. If you know this, then the knowledge will, evoke in you the power also to dive down into the more hidden regions of external reality. It will, for example, become possible for you to know that supposing you have to speak a sentence that refers, not without artistic feeling, to So-and-so's sour countenance, you will do well to carry in your soul at the same time a distinct after-taste of vinegar. Careful observation of life teaches that this will help; for there is a road that leads straight across from one experience into the other. Or, let us suppose, in the course of my part, I have to say, or am to overhear, that someone has a complaint against me. Then it will be good if I can instinctively arouse in the depths of my soul a sensation that resembles the after-taste of wormwood. Or again, let us say, I have to present on the stage some high official into whose presence a man is admitted who wishes to obtain for himself some office or other. The latter adopts a cringing attitude, and pours out on me words of the most fulsome flattery. This is a situation that may well occur in a play. In addition to all else that it will require—and the ‘all else’ will be substantially helped thereby—I shall do well to carry in me, while speaking, the sweet taste that sugar leaves in the mouth. And that will help with my listening too. If I am there in front of him, feeling in my soul, as it were, the after-taste of sugar, I shall—as the listener—instinctively assume the appropriate gesture. The question might well be raised: In expressing ourselves in this way, are we not adopting a rather realistic and materialistic point of view? Let me tell you, however, that the inducement to speak in this way follows as a direct result from that other study to which I have already alluded—the study, namely, of the historical evolution that has led up to our present drama. If we trace drama right back to the place of its birth, we come ultimately to what are known as the Mysteries. It is, in fact, not possible to have a worthy conception of dramatic art unless we are able to see its origin in the art of the Mysteries. Now, the art of the Mysteries had this aim in view: that what took place on the stage should proceed from those impulses that make their way into man from the spiritual world. But the art of the Mysteries sought also to follow how these spiritual impulses work right down into the details of the material world; so that, for example, those who had to take part in the ancient Mystery Plays would actually be given vinegar or wormwood, or some other substance, in order to prepare them for finding the right words and mime and gesture. And we, on our part, only begin to take our art seriously when, in our quest for artistic form, we do not hesitate to take account also of bodily experience. Otherwise our performances, where the acting must needs, from the very nature of the art, be carried right down to the fingertips—I might even say, to the tip of the tongue, for I have seen actors put out their tongue before now !—can never be more than superficial. Such revivals of primitive drama as can be met with in our time—the sort of drama to which I alluded the other day, for instance, when I told you of the Oriental performance I had witnessed in London—do certainly take us back to quite early stages of dramatic art, but not so far back as to give us any idea of the way things were done in the Mysteries. Plays of that kind we will therefore leave for the moment, we shall return to them later; just now we want to race back the art of drama to its source in the art of the Mysteries. If once the actor of the present day can come to understand the Mystery character of the great and noble art that he is following, he will begin to look on his work in a new way, he will begin to take it seriously. Fundamentally speaking, what the Mystery Play had to do was to show, through the agency of human beings, how the Gods intervene in the life of man on earth. Had we still today a number of plays of Aeschylus that have been lost, we would not, it is true, be able to learn from them the nature and character of the very most ancient Mystery art, but we would have in them echoes of this original art of the Mysteries. And then we would be able to ee that those who had to take part in the plays approached them with a certain awe and reverence. For these plays did not set out to represent events taking place among men on earth. Supersensible events were enacted, events that had indeed connection with human life on earth but took place among the Gods. The object was to show events that happen in supersensible realms among supersensible beings—to show these events in their influence upon the life of man on earth. In the most ancient times men shrank with awe from any direct representation of the supersensible. Rather had they the feeling that their part was to create a kind of framework on the stage for the Gods; everything must be so designed and ordered as to enable the spectators to feel that the Gods themselves have with a part of their being come down upon the stage. How was it sought to bring this about? To begin with, by having not individual actors that should represent Gods or human beings, but Choruses. These Choruses performed a special kind of recitative that was between speaking and singing, and was accompanied by instruments. In this way a form was brought into being and hovered over the stage, a stylised form that was absolutely real and was created out of sound and syllable and sentence, moulded and fashioned with an artistic sensitiveness far surpassing anything known in ordinary life. This form was conjured forth before the spectators, or rather the listeners, conjured forth from the word—the word with all its qualities of music and sculpture and painting. And the listener who lived in these older conceptions perceived—that is to say, did not merely have an idea of what was happening, but saw for himself that these Choruses gave the Gods the possibility of being themselves present, of being present in the musically and plastically formed word. Thus was the forming of the word in all its music and colour, in all its sculpted moulding, brought to such a degree of individualisation that it was able to betoken Divine Beings. This was in very truth attained in the Mysteries of ancient times. And while it was proceeding, the whole space was pervaded with what we today would call fear of the Divine, awe and reverence in the presence of Divine Being. This mood hovered there like an astral aura, mediating between what went on upon the stage and what the spectators were experiencing. The human being felt himself to be in the presence of a supersensible world. And that was what was intended. And it was further intended that in union with this feeling, another should rise up in the human being; he should feel that he is living in his soul together with the Divine. An inner life lived in close relation with the Divine was thus tho second aim that was cherished in these ancient Mysteries. First, fear of the Gods, in the best sense of the word; and then that man should have this experience of living together with the Divine. But now a new development. As time went on, men gradually lost the power to perceive spiritual reality in a form that was not outwardly tangible. The consequence was, it became necessary to put the human being on the stage. In earlier times, men had been able to perceive the contours of the Gods in the word—the word with its colour and its music, the plastically moulded word, the recitative. When they could do so no longer, the human being had to be there on the stage to present in his form and figure the contours of the Gods. But the people must not be allowed to forget that the human being on the stage is a God. Think, for instance, of the Egyptian Gods. Unless there were some special reason for it, they were not given insipid human countenances (I explained in an earlier lecture how I mean this to be understood). The Gods of Egypt, more especially the higher Gods—that is, those who ascend farther into the spiritual—had animal faces, bearing always in their countenance what was intended to typify the eternal. The human countenance is eternal in its mobility; it is eternally changing! Mobility had to be expressed in the gestures of the rest of the person, apart from the head. But there must needs also be duration, constancy; and that must be shown in the physiognomy. A human being cannot let his countenance remain permanently immobile; it would take on the expression of death or look as though he were afflicted with tetanus. If you want to show in the world of the senses that which endures and belongs to the spiritual, if you want to present this in bodily form in contrast to that which is continually changing, then there is no other way, you must have recourse to the animal countenance And so we find in the cult of the Egyptians the supersensible Gods with animal faces. When now the human being begins to appear on the stage, he too comes before us with a mask that is reminiscent of the animal. This development that we can observe on the stage is an outward expression of the inner development that was taking place in man's spiritual life. At his first appearance on the stage, the human being did not present man, he presented the God, and most often the God who stands nearest to man, Dionysos. And we begin then to have, in addition to the Chorus, the actor standing in their midst; first one, then two who carry on a dialogue, and gradually more. Only when we have learned to discern in the whole art of dramatic representation something of the magic of its birthplace in the Mysteries—only then is it possible for us to stand up before an audience as we should, carrying in us the knowledge of how drama has grown up out of the cult of the Mysteries, out of that cult whose whole purpose was to present what belongs to the supersensible world.1 In the Middle Ages there was still an understanding for this. If we go back to the time before worldliness began to get the upper hand on the stage, we shall find that dramatic performances were always in connection with worship, with the cult. The Christmas ritual which was intended to lead the people up to a lofty height where they might verily behold the Divine—this Christmas ritual we find continued, either still inside or in front of the church, in the form of a play. The acting was nothing else than an extension of the ritual that was performed inside the church. The priest who celebrated would afterwards appear as actor and take part in the play. We do not find in these plays the same holy feeling that pervaded the ancient Mysteries, where the drama was an integral part of the cult itself, directly belonging to the Mystery. In mediaeval times it was different; the ritual and the drama had each its own distinct character. One could nevertheless feel that they belonged together. And the sane kind of development went on in connection with the other festivals of the year. Having thus come to see that drama has a sacramental origin, we may now go on to consider the other, more worldly, factor that was brought in later on, and that has not the same close relation to cult and ritual. It has nevertheless a similar origin. When in very early times man looked out into the great world of Nature, he felt there the presence of the Divine, with whom he himself was connected; he felt the God in tho clouds, the God in the thunder and lightning. And still more did he feel the God entering into the word, into the artistically formed and musically modulated word, which the Chorus in the Mysteries placed out into the world as objective, created form. And now, as time went on, this very experience led man to perceive another secret. He began to learn that there is something in himself that is Divine, and that responds like an echo to the Divine that comes to meet him from the far reaches of the universe. And this led man to develop a new feeling about drama which we may describe in the following way. The ground had been prepared in far-off times by the Chorus, who produced the word wherein the God was able, not of course to incarnate, but to be incorporated. That was how it was in the Mystery Play, the original Mystery Play. Then came the time when, man being no longer equal to this experience, the actor was brought forward, not yet, however, for any other purpose than to represent the God. But now, as evolution proceeded further, the perception began to dawn upon man that when the human being presents his own innermost soul, then too he is presenting something Divine; if he can present on the stage the Divine that is in the external world, he can also present the Divine that is in himself. And so, from being a manifestation of the Gods, dramatic art became a manifestation of the inner being of man; it presented on the stage the human soul. And this inevitably led to the need to bring innermost human experience into the forming of the speech, to bring this same intimate human experience into the gesturing also that was done on the stage. And then there developed, in a time when its significance could still be instinctively felt, all that way of working with voice and gesture which I have been putting before you in these lectures, impressing upon you the need to renew it in our day, to put your whole will into getting it restored to the technique of the stage. We have seen how it takes us, on the one hand, to such things as Discus-throwing, and on the other hand to a sensitive perception of the after-taste, for example, of sour and bitter. Yes, we have to go on paths that may seem at first to lead us far afield, in order to find again the foundations upon which alone can be built the drama that portrays man. It will be helpful if at this point we make a kind of picture of how the evolution of drama has taken its course. Contemplate the picture, meditate upon it, and it will inspire you to enter with deeper understanding into the things that I have been expounding in these days in considerable detail and that will, I hope, become much clearer to you as I help you now to see them in a larger perspective. We can for the moment imagine that we have before us the stage of the present day (only, obviously no more than its barest outlines, if we are thinking of primeval times); and in the centre of the stage the word, produced by the Chorus in all its fulness of colour and tone and form. In the word men feel the presence of the God. The God appears in the word—in the music, in the painting, in the sculpture of the word. It is His will to appear to those who are present there, beholding. That is the first phase. The next phase is that in amongst the Chorus the human being begins to take a place, the real and actual human being. Before, it was the God—the God who was only `incorporated’ in the formed word. Now, man stands there; yet we still have the God, for man is only there to represent the God. He will accordingly have to learn how to speak from the Chorus, who used even to employ instruments in order to give greater strength to the voice. Man will have to learn from the Chorus; for his voice must not reveal what is within him, must not utter forth any human experience, no, it has to imitate what the Chorus places out objectively into the world. His recitative is to be a continuation of what was in the Chorus. In comparison with the mighty development of voice that was striven for here and that was rendered yet more powerful by the use of all manner of instruments (and this was not simply because they were acting in the open air and needed on that account to reinforce the voice, but for the reason I have explained, namely, that upon that stage should be heard speak the voice of the Gods)—in comparison, I say, with this development of voice in the earliest Mystery Plays, the speaking on our modern stage would sound to some Greek of ancient times who had understanding for these things like the squeaking of a mouse. Yes, it would indeed! For through what took place upon that stage of olden time, the Divine World rushed storming like a mighty wind. But now comes this further development, where man begins to grow aware that the Divine is also within himself. Representation of the God gives place to representation of man. It follows as a necessary consequence that man will have to learn to stylise his prose; for he has to carry into the external world the revelation of his own inner experiences. But for this it is by no means enough that we should behave on the stage as we do in real life. After all, what occasion is there to show that on the stage? We have enough of it around us all the time. No one with artistic feeling will be interested in a mere imitation of life, since life itself is always far richer than the poor husk which is all that imitation can produce. Consider for a moment how it is with some other art—say, the art of landscape painting. There would not be much sense in a painter's setting out to paint trees with the object of painting them so as to show whether they had needles or leaves, and then putting in some clouds up in the sky of various shapes, adding below a meadow and carefully reproducing there the colours of the different flowers. No one with artistic feeling could bear to look at such a picture. And why not? Because there are much more beautiful views to look at outside in Nature. Landscape painting of this kind does not justify its existence. No question but Nature can show us pictures of far greater beauty. But now suppose you have a painter who begins by feeling all around him a mood of evening time. The tree that stands there in the landscape is nothing to him, but the light on the tree, how the tree catches the light of the setting sun—that has a mood of its own, a mood that comes and goes in a moment. It will probably make no great impression on the dry and prosaic passer-by, but the painter can seize upon the momentary experience and hold it fast, if he have sufficient presence of mind (I mean that in the best sense of the word2). Then landscape painting begins to have meaning. For if we have before us such a painting, we are looking at the momentary inspiration of a fellow human being, at the momentary spiritualising of his sight. Through and beyond the painted landscape, we are looking into the very heart of the painter's temperament. For according as is a man's temperament, so does the landscape show itself to him, down to the very colours he finds there. With a genuine and elemental painter, it will really be so, that if the fundamental mood of his soul is melancholy, he will show us the shadow side of things with their darker nuances of colour. If again in his deepest being he is of sanguine temperament, then shades of red and yellow will dance for him upon the leaves wheresoever the sunshine strikes them. And if you should happen to look at paintings where these bright colours are seen dancing in the sunshine, and on making the acquaintance afterwards of the man who painted them discover that he is a melancholic, then that man is no painter; he has merely learned to paint. And there is a vast difference between being a painter and learning to paint—although one who is a painter must also learn to paint! This last fact is too often forgotten nowadays, and people jump to the conclusion that one who has learned to paint is no painter, and that he alone is a painter who has never learned to paint. That is, however, not correct. If you want to characterise the true painter, he is the one of whom you are bound to say when you see his pictures: He must indeed be a painter! And then you have to add, a little diffidently: And he must also have learned to paint! But if you meet with someone like I described just now, who paints. a picture that is entirely out of tune with his temperament, then you will have to say, taking care not to give offence (for one must always be polite): He has learned to paint!—adding, silently, to yourself: But he is, for all that, no painter ! I don't mean you to take this as a piece of advice! I am merely quoting what you will frequently hear people say in order to get out of the dilemma in which they find themselves when faced with the pretensions of would-be painters. Well then, it will, I think, be clear to us all that there is no point in reproducing on the stage what we have immediately present before us in real life. What is wanted is that the one who is there on the stage shall for the time let his ordinary self be forgotten, and become the human being who lives in speech in the way I have described. The spectator will then instinctively perceive around the actor an aura; as he listens to the formed speech, he will see before him the auric contours—perhaps of the incisive word, or perhaps of the slowly spoken, or again of the word that is abrupt, or the word that is energetically flung out. Living in this way in the speech, the actor becomes something quite different from what he is in life. In extreme instances you will recognise at once that this has to be so. Suppose you want to assign the part of a simpleton. It would never do to give it to an actor who is one already. A producer who allowed a rather silly, idiotic person to play the part would be the worst producer imaginable. To play the role of a simpleton requires the highest art; least of all is a simpleton equal to it. From a purely naturalistic point of view, it might, of course, seem best to look round for an actor who would play the part out of his own natural silliness. For the part to be played as it should be, however, something quite different is required. The actor has to know that the condition is due to an incapacity to let the forming of the speech make contact with the sour, bitter and sweet in the way I have explained. The simpleton does not succeed in building the bridge from these sensations to speech. The dramatist ought to take this into consideration in his composition of the text; he ought to know that such a person remains at the sensation, cannot get across to the speech which should result from the soul experience that belongs to the sensation. What will a good dramatist do in such a situation? (And the actor, you know, should always have the insight to see what the dramatist is doing; it should be quite clear to him from the whole setting of the play.) A good dramatist will want the role to be played by an actor who is a true artist and possesses to a rare degree the gift of gesture in the way I have described it, so that his gestures come right out of inner experience, bringing this inner experience to expression in style, in true artistic style. The art of listening—that is what the actor of the part will have to develop particularly, the art of listening with gesture. It may be the dramatist will not help him here; for the dramatists of the present day are not exactly great artists. But, although it is true that one cannot ‘corriger la fortune’, one can ‘corriger’ life, which means in the present instance one can ensure that art appears on the stage in a genuine and worthy manner by having the ‘foolish’ part acted with full complement of gesture, and especially of those gestures I described yesterday for the listener or onlooker. The main point is that the simpleton, when he is conscious of some sensation within him, should show by his whole attitude and gesture that he expects his environment to tell him how he is to put it into words. Get your actor to make listening’ gestures and be all the time gazing open-mouthed at the people around him, in the position for a; and your audience will not fail to receive the impression of a simpleton. Let him even try to caricature this a position right from the back of the mouth, looking intently on the people around, as though it were they, and not he, who should really be doing the speaking. And if the dramatist has failed to do his part in the matter, the producer should none the less require the actor to employ the relevant gestures; even if something quite different is being said around him, the actor can still make as though he were hearing from the talk of the others what he himself has to say. You have only to let him be perpetually giving the impression of being the echo of those who are standing around and be making also at the same time appropriate gestures, and you will have placed on the stage a faithful presentation of a simpleton. In real life you won't find it exactly like that. But now suppose you want to show on the stage the ‘wise’ man, generally a popular part with actors—but I myself would sooner play the simpleton. An actor who is playing the wise or ‘knowing’ man should show by his gestures that for his own understanding he is not very dependent on the others with whom he is conversing. His gestures will in fact be lacking in the very quality that I have said ought to characterise gesture; they will be lacking in life, being no more than lightly indicated, and containing always a subtle hint of the gesture of rejection that we saw must accompany the word of rejection or brushing aside. The wise man goes with the other speaker, follows what he is saying, but along with his gesture of understanding there will always be a touch of the gesture of rejection. And then, when his partner has finished speaking, he will wait awhile, and whereas before, when he was the listener, he inclined his head to hear what the other had to say, he will now perhaps throw it back; even the eyelids too can be held back a little. This will always >mean that the audience will instinctively have the impression that the ‘wise’ man is not going to enter fully into what the other has been saying, but intends rather to draw upon his own store of wisdom in order to show what is really essential in the matter. The audience will feel that he is talking more out of his memory than in response to what he has heard the other say. Your wise man should always give this impression. If he does not, the acting has been lacking in style. A very different kind of gesturing will have to be employed if you want to represent on the stage a gossipy old lady. She has, let us say, just come from an afternoon tea-party, and brings with her the manners of the tea-table. This old lady will have to accompany what she hears said with a motion of stout resistance, indicating that nothing the other has to say is right. And then, before the other has finished speaking, she should break in, with complete corresponding accompaniment of gesture to accord with every shade of speech formation. She must break in so suddenly that you feel she has no need to stop to think; she knows right away, as soon as ever she is confronted with the situation, what she will say to it. She should be beginning with gesture and word while the other's last syllable is being spoken. One must, however, be careful to let this last syllable be heard, so that the audience do not lose the thread. You must really ensure that such a scene is treated in the way I have described, for then it will have style. This gossipy old lady, coming in straight from the tea-table, is, you see, the exact opposite of the wise man. It could also quite well be a gossipy old gentleman, come straight from his evening glass with his pals; in that case the male quality of the talk would have to be brought out. And where the lady from the tea-party, before her partner has finished speaking, pokes out a finger, the old gentleman who also bursts in on the last syllable, will gesticulate with his whole hand, or his whole arm. That will be rendering the scene in style.
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| 282. Speech and Drama: The Relation of Gesture and Mime to the Forming of Speech
15 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: The Relation of Gesture and Mime to the Forming of Speech
15 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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My dear Friends, We must now go on to consider the question of how our dramatic performances can contribute to the artistic life of the community. We have spoken of what the actor should know and practise; how is all this to reach the public? How are we to ensure that our endeavours to give artistic form both to the whole picture of the stage and to the acting, shall awake an understanding for dramatic art? In order to answer this question, it will be necessary to say a little more about the training that a school of dramatic art should give. Such a school will have to develop in the students a thorough and penetrating understanding of mime, and of gesturing in all its forms. We have already spoken of these in more general terms; but only when the actor becomes alive to the necessity for a fuller and more detailed understanding of mime and gesture, can we hope—I will not say to educate the public (the description of people as ‘educated’ has by now come to have very little meaning), let me rather say, only then can we hope to evoke in the public a true appreciation of art. Let us therefore today continue our study of mime and gesture, going further into the kind of practical details that the professional actor needs to master. And here again I shall want you to take what I say not as rules but as examples, in the sense that I have explained. We will begin with an expression in mime that is quickly recognisable and that is bound to follow at once on the emotion producing it. I mean, the mime for the emotion of anger. We must first make sure that we understand how the emotion of anger works. When a person becomes angry, his muscles immediately grow taut, and then, after a little, slacken again. In real life, it is only the first part of the process that need claim our attention; but when we are studying how to act anger on the stage, we must see that the process is revealed in its entirety—first, tension; then, relaxation. And now, suppose we have a student who is to learn the mime and gesture that are relevant for the expression of anger, how is he to set about it? When he has worked sufficiently at the cultivation of his feeling for the individual sounds (for that will always be the first thing to be studied in a school of dramatic art), then we can take with him some passage in a play where a character manifests anger, and let the passage be spoken for him by the reciter. I have explained to you before that this is always the best way for a student to learn gesturing; only later on should he unite gesture and word. The reciter, then, will speak the passage as it should be spoken. The student, who will of course be following carefully the content of the words, will have to accompany them the whole time with an i e feeling. As he listens, he lets the i e feeling ‘sound’ in him, inwardly—i e, i e. This will of itself give rise to an inner experience, which he will then go on to express instinctively in some movement or other—with arms or hands, or with clenched fists; first tightening the muscles (i) and then again letting them go slack (e): i e, i e, i e. Please note that a physiological expression must always, without exception, be associated with a feeling for sound. It should be a strict rule for the student never in his practising to make any bodily movement or action without its being accompanied by a particular sound-feeling. Suppose we want to present a person who has been passing through some deep experience of sorrow or of terror. The emotional experience is in a sense past and over, but it has left its mark upon him; how is this to be shown? The actor will have to come on to the stage with relaxed muscles; that should be his physiological condition. And invariably, as he practises, he will have to accompany the slackness of the muscles with the e mood. Or again, consider how one would have to act someone who is anxious and troubled. Perhaps he comes on to the stage in this condition; or it may be that in the course of the scene he is distressed at something that is said to him. In either case, one should try to bring a light sound of ö (French eu in ‘feu’) into his speaking. This will mean that wherever we have to do with this feeling of trouble and concern, whether the person in question brings it with him or feels it arise in him through words he hears another speak, the actor will try to develop the mime in the ö mood—letting his hands fall slowly to his side and his eyelids droop. When I advise details of this kind, you must always remember that they are not intended to curtail the freedom of the individual artist; he is left to find his own way of carrying them out. If the person in question is very sorely troubled or is thrown into a condition of acute concern, then his lips will want to close up and his tongue to cleave to the roof of his mouth when he has to speak. And if later on he has to speak again in reply to what another has said, he will continue to utter his words, wherever possible, with lips pressed together. That will have a wonderful effect; you will find that his words have just the right colouring. If you bring on the stage two interlocutors, the first saying something that grieves and troubles the second, and the second answering in such a way that he produces even his a sounds with compressed lips, then the impression that the audience instinctively receive of the effect that the words of the one are having upon the other, cannot fail to be of the right colouring. Take an extreme case. One of them says: ‘Your brother has died.’ The other exclaims: ‘My brother! It can't be true!’ If the lips are at the same time pressed as near together as possible, the words will have their right colouring. If it is found necessary, as will certainly be the case with a prolonged condition of care and anxiety, to help out the mime with a made-up pallor, then the make-up should be accompanied throughout by this kind of speaking, where the lips are all the time held more closely together than usual. A made-up pallor should, in fact, never appear on the stage without this mime. It is, you must know, most important for the actor to realise that there are certain expressions of emotion that have to be represented with particular care upon the stage—not always as in real life. Sighing and groaning, for instance, can certainly play a part in the mime and gesture of the stage. They should never be practised by themselves; the student should be listening to a recited passage that displays pain or anxiety, a passage, however, that contains the implication that the sufferer is wanting to get over it. For when a person is completely overwhelmed with pain and sorrow, he does not groan or sigh; whereas one who would fain be rid of his suffering, one who is open to being comforted—he will sigh and groan. In real life this distinction may not always hold good; in art, however, it has to be strictly adhered to. If we mean our acting to have style, then groans and sighs can be allowed only when the person presented is going to find relief from his pain, to the extent anyway of being able to speak; he must not be struck dumb with sorrow. When therefore we have to reply on the stage to words that convey some shattering tidings, we should begin with groans and sighs—which we have also learned to produce with style. That will as it were open the way for us to speak. Whenever some emotion has to be expressed, the student should on every single occasion practise with it some bodily movement or action which again must invariably have its connection with formed speech. Suppose, for example, you are listening to a speech that is sad and sorrowful. As you listen, you will move your head, being careful, however, to do so without changing countenance. Head movements, with the countenance in repose—that will be right for listening to a sorrowful passage. For then something else follows of itself. The diaphragm, with all that is below it, comes also into movement, begins to make movements that are a kind of reaction to the movements of the head. It comes about quite naturally; the correct head movement will ensure that the diaphragm and abdomen are set in motion in the right way. And never allow yourself to forget that every such bodily movement has always to be practised to the accompaniment of formed speech. This then will be the posture for an actor who is listening to the recital of a sorrowful passage: he will listen with full consciousness, shaking his head, but keeping his features still. But now, let us say, you listen to a passage that leaves you cold, that has no interest for you. You will not move your head at all, you will simply stare with complete unconcern. It is not too much to say, for it is an established fact, that listening in this way with the countenance in repose and the head also quite still, as though one were on the point of falling asleep, gives rise to a slight glandular secretion, such as happens normally with a phlegmatic who is true to his temperament. This mime can indeed be a great help to you when you have to play the part of a phlegmatic, whilst the mime I gave before will help you to act a melancholic. We have thus here definite suggestions for the acting of these two temperaments. An actor preparing himself for the presentation of melancholic characters should listen to sorrowful passages, keeping his face quiet and making movements with his head, letting these then call forth their natural reaction in his body. And one who wants to prepare himself for acting a phlegmatic part should assume the physiognomy of beginning to fall asleep—keeping his face in repose, letting his eyelids and nostrils droop, and with the upper lip unmoved by any kind of voluntary effort. As he listens in this attitude, that fine glandular secretion which always goes with a phlegmatic temperament will begin to take place in him. Things like this will help you to see the spirit that should animate all your work. Suppose now you want to prepare a student for the part of a naive and sanguine character. You will have some sensational announcement read out to the actress or actor (for there can also be sanguine men!) and get her or him to make, while listening, powerful facial movements, movements also with the arms. Such gestures will lead instinctively into the impetuous and voluble kind of speaking that your student will need to develop. Should you want to prepare an actor to present a choleric, you will choose for him a passage where the speaker is pouring out abuse. You will find plenty of such passages in Shakespeare. The student, as he listens, will have to knit his brows and clench his fists. He should also plant himself firmly on the ground with all his muscles tense. From knees downwards, the muscles of his calves should be held taut; and he should all the time be conscious of standing on the floor with the whole sole of his foot. Then he will be ready for the part. For the practice of other arts, everyone knows we have to acquire a technique; and it is no different with the art of the stage. We have to acquire a technique that can start us off on the right road. And here I would like to draw your attention to two things in life that the science of today leaves unexplained. There are of course a great many things that science is unable to explain (do we not hear on every hand of the ‘boundaries of knowledge’?), but these are two that concern us in our present study. I mean laughing and weeping. Before these, there is for present-day science a ‘boundary of knowledge’ ; how laughing and weeping come about in man is admittedly an unsolved problem. There is, however, no need for the problem to remain unsolved. Take weeping. What does weeping signify? Weeping always goes back to this: somewhere or other the ether body is taking hold too strongly of the physical body. When man finds this condition painful, he tries to call back the force that is working from the ether body into the physical body, and raise it in the direction of the astral body.
He thus pours a counter-force into the astral body. The ether body is of course connected with the fluid element in man. So now you can see what happens. The ether body exerts its force in the direction, not of the physical but of the astral body; and the result of this, the projection of it in the physical, is that tears are released, the man weeps. And it is on this account that the shedding of tears brings relief. Try now to let ä ring out clearly, try to enter deeply into the experience of ä. You will then gradually acquire a play of countenance that will need but a few little drops of water placed here (on the eyes) for it to be weeping. Yes, it will then be weeping; no need at all for real tears to well up from within Having made yourself completely at home in this play of countenance and become increasingly conscious of what your nose and eyes are doing when you say ä, then if you take from a cup a few drops of water and place them on your eyes, you are weeping. You are acting weeping to perfection. We are here touching an important point. It is by no means our aim that sentimental spectators shall be able to say what I have heard said again and again of Eleanora Duse (but it was not true), that she wept on the stage. She shed real tears, so people said; and the statement was supposed to evoke one's enthusiasm for such an achievement. Similarly one has also frequently heard it asserted that Eleanora Duse, who was by nature quite pale, could raise a blush on the stage. Apparently she did blush; people only did not notice that she turned at the same time! Her face had been made up light on one side and darker on the other. It argues a little want of respect and proper appreciation to take for real some stage technique that can so successfully create an illusion. For illusions of this kind have to be consciously planned; one has to undergo a training for them—in this instance, by surrendering oneself wholly to the ä sound. Going on now to consider laughter, we find that where laughter occurs, something is lodged in the astral body that should have been grasped by the ego. It has strayed into the astral body, because man was not fully master of the impression. Say, a person looks at a caricature: perhaps he sees tiny little legs and an enormous head. What is he to make of it? He cannot quite master the impression; it is not what he generally sees in life. The impression slips down into the astral body—leaves the ego and enters the astral body. The person then tries to evoke a reaction from ether body and physical body. We have here, you see, a process that goes in the opposite direction. Something is present in the astral body, and the ether body wants to bring it down into the physical body. That is what laughter consists in. Something is being experienced in the astral body that the person cannot quite grasp; and laughter is the endeavour to show it up as foolish or ridiculous or the like by bringing it right down into the physical body. To produce laughter on the stage we must first of all make sure of the right mood, and then try to hold it. Let us set down once more the vowels in their sequence, beginning this time with u, the vowel that is nearest the front of the mouth: u ü ö ä o i e a. Take the o, and go past the i to e: o e. Or take the ä, and go over to a: ä a. The latter gives the mood rather less clearly; it comes out very clearly in the o e: o e, o e, o e, o e. And now take the passage that is to make you laugh, and try to bring this mood into it. First listen, that is, to the speaker saying the words that are to provoke laughter, accompanying his words all the time with o e, o e; then break out into laughter, and your laughter will be the very best stage laughter that can be had. The mime is created out of the formed speech. a e i o ä ö ü u Suppose you want to reveal in your countenance that you are giving your whole attention. You let a passage be read out to you that is of a kind to demand close attention. As you listen, you gaze steadily before you, holding within you all the time the mood of a a a. Then you gradually carry this mood up into your eyes, as though you wanted your eyes too to say a. You press up into that fixed gaze of yours the feeling that you have in the uttering of a. Your face will then show just the right expression for attentiveness. And now imagine another situation. Suppose an author has introduced into a comedy he is writing, an incident that did actually take place once in Austria. A party of people were met together in Reichenau and, being in a rather giddy mood, made up their minds to settle the question once and for all as to whether or no it were true, as some averred, that the editor of the Wiener Fremdenblatt, who was by the way a relative of the poet Heine, was a silly fool. They decided to send him an absurd telegram, and then to look in the paper next day to see whether he had been so stupid as to insert it, or just clever enough to take no notice of it. A little incident that would lend itself well as material for comedy! The telegram ran: The municipality of Reichenau has come to the decision to remove the Raxalp in order to give the resident Archduke an unimpeded view of the Styrian countryside. On the following day the telegram appeared word for word in the Wiener Fremdenblatt.1 Some of the party had wagered it would not appear; but others had been quite sure that Heine was stupid enough to accept it, and it was they of course who won the wager. And now suppose this little story is read out to you. You will have good reason to be surprised when you hear how it ends. You will in that case open your eyes as wide as ever you can, and intone i i i; then stop and with that whole i-intonation concentrated in one powerful impression, let the feeling that it leaves in you steal up into your eyes: i. Sure enough, your countenance will have the right look; it will bear the expression of dumbfounded amazement. Or again, let us say you are listening to a tale that is terrifying. Close your eyes, and intone u; stop, take the intoned u up into your eyes: u. Nothing could give your face the expression of terror so well as this. Carry the intonation of u into the closed eyes, and your whole countenance will bespeak terror. In this mime that results from u being pushed up into the closed eyes, you have a singularly good opportunity to observe how it is in the forming of the speech that you can call up the right play of countenance. Many of our inner experiences are connected with something outside us. And so if we want, for instance, to express contempt for some person or object, it will be from a consonant that we shall learn the right mime. Have an appropriate passage read out to you and, as you listen, intone n n n n n n. When you have practised this sufficiently for the right play of feature to appear in your countenance, then you will be able to bring that mime into your speaking, so that when you speak the words of contempt you will speak them as they should be spoken. But you have always, let me say again, to start from speech; it all follows from a right forming of speech. Suppose you want to express dejection. It is perfectly easy to learn, but it has to be learned. You have a passage read out that brings this mood to expression, and you intone the consonant w (v), combining with it as light a touch as possible of the e sound: w w w w . Then you fall silent, but remain in the gesture that is left in you by the experience; your gesture will be eloquent of despondency. If you want to express rapture, then you must try to attain a pure out-breathing, as we have it in h. You could begin by saying the word Jehova. Then, gazing upwards and with arms also raised, let the ho become sheer out-breathing. There you have the gesture for rapture: arms reaching upwards, eyes also gazing upwards. (With many people you will find that even the lobes of the ears are lifted and the nostrils opened wide; one can, however, leave that to the unconscious.) And all the time you will be intoning h, doing your best to bring it at last to mere out-breathing, as pure as ever you can make it. So long as the h is in combination with the vowel, it is not yet pure. That is why I say, you have to make strenuous effort to attain it: Jehova, ho ho ... ho ... h ... You did not hear anything then, but I was doing it, the pure out-breathing And you will have noted the change that comes over the upward gaze as soon as ever one passes from the intoning with vowel accompaniment to the out-breathing pure and simple. That, then, is rapture. Now for another mime and gesture that can also quite well be learned, and used always to be taught in the older schools of dramatic art. For we ought not to despise what was good in the earlier days; it has only to be evoked now in a new way; it has to be evoked out of speech—that is what is new about it. Imagine you intone a o, a o. While you intone, you contract your brow into vertical wrinkles and open your eyes as wide as ever you can: a o. And now drop the intoning, and you will have the right expression in mime and gesture for careful reflection and concern. This will only reveal itself fully when you have ceased intoning and carry in you the after-effect of the well-formed speech. But you must begin with the intoning, and then let the intoning pass over into your whole bearing and countenance. I know well what the natural rejoinder will be to detailed advice of this kind: But if we have first to learn all this, whenever shall we come to the point of being ready for the stage? You will find, however, that all the methods I am advocating will, if properly carried out, prepare you for the stage in a shorter time than is taken by the training given in present-day schools of dramatic art. As a matter of fact, hardly any of those who appear on the stage have attended these schools; since, generally speaking, students who have been trained in them do not turn out to be the best actors, any more than the best painters or sculptors are to be found among those who have been professionally trained. For as a rule the methods used in art schools are rather uninspiring. Students who have real talent soon grow impatient and take themselves off to pursue art on their own account. But with regard to the exercises and so on that I have been recommending—once you begin to know them and study them, you will find they are not, after all, so alarmingly complicated. And now I have something to say on more general lines in reference to a school of dramatic art. It is of great importance that an actor should have a good knowledge of eurhythmy. Not in order to perform it, for eurhythmy is an art that is performed on the stage on its own account. But to the full training of an actor, all the other arts have to make their contribution, and so too eurhythmy I do not mean that an actor should let his acting run on here and there into eurhythmy The result would be most inartistic. Eurhythmy can only be artistic when it is allowed to work in its own way—that is, to the accompaniment of recitation or of music. We must, you know, have a feeling for what it is in eurhythmy that makes it an art. Eurhythmy gives what cannot come to expression in music alone or in recitation alone; it takes these further, continues them. No one could feel it to be true eurhythmy if done to the accompaniment of singing. In singing, music has flowed over into speech. The eurhythmy would merely disturb the singing, and the singing the eurhythmy. Eurhythmy can be accompanied by recitation, which itself has nothing to do with bodily movement; for in recitation gesture has become inward. Eurhythmy can also be accompanied by instrumental music. But not by singing, if one wants to let eurhythmy work in a way that corresponds with its true ideal. Not therefore directly, but indirectly eurhythmy can be of the very greatest significance for the actor. For what have we in eurhythmy 9 In eurhythmy we have the full, the macrocosmic gesture for vowel and consonant. I (arm stretched straight out); a still more intensely pointed i (fingers also stretched). And now try to continue inwards the feeling you have in making the eurhythmy for i. I do not mean merely the feeling of having one's arm and hand in that position; the i lies in the feeling that is experienced in the muscle. Try to hold this feeling fast, within you; let it be for you as though a sword were being thrust straight down into your body. And now, still continuing this feeling, try to intone i. Then the right nuance for your i will come to you from the eurhythmy; your i, as you speak it, will have the necessary purity. And it will be the same with the other vowels and consonants. Continue their eurhythmy inwards; fill yourself with the ghost of the eurhythmic form, with its mirrored reflection, and while still feeling the form there within you, intone. In this way you will come to speak your vowels and consonants in their purity. So much for an advice of a more general kind concerning your training. If you will continue to keep all these things in mind, you will at length acquire a true understanding for what is essential in speech. For it is not enough for an actor to know his part. He must of course do that; but what matters above all is that he shall have the right thoughts and feelings concerning his calling. Otherwise he cannot really be an actor. No one can be an artist in any sphere who has not a true and worthy conception of the art he is following. By entering with your whole heart into such a training as I have here been indicating, you will come to have a pure—let me say, a religious—understanding of what speaking really is; and not only of speaking, but also of the mime and gesture that are connected with it. And that is what is needed. For such a conception of speech will, more than anything else, give you a strong and clear feeling of the place of man in the universe. Gradually you will come to appreciate man's true dignity and worth, beholding how he stands at the very centre of the world-all. Look at the animals. They too make sounds. Think of the lion's roar, of the lowing of the cow, or of the bleating of sheep and goat. The sounds uttered by these animals have the character of vowels. They are expressing what is within them—all the animals that lift up their voice in this manner. And then, as you go about Nature's world, you will also hear quite different forms of utterance, such as, for example, the sounds that are made by cicadas and other insects, where the sound is produced by the movements of certain limbs or organs. There you have sounds that show a decided consonantal character. And then at last you come to that wonderful development of sound that means so much to man—the song of the birds! In the singing of the birds you have music. So that while you hear vowels from the higher and consonants from the lower animals, the birds give you the possibility to hear music in the animal world. But now what about that sound you hear when you go out into the country and listen to the cicadas or other insects? Go close up to one of them and watch it. Out of the question for you to have the impression that the cicada is wanting to say something to you with this consonantal sound that it produces ! You have before you the simple fact of an insect in action—that is all! And then what are we to say of the animals that low or bleat or roar? Such sounds do no more than express self-defence, or resistance, or again a sense of well-being; they are far from revealing any inner experience of soul. Finally, in the singing of the birds, you can distinctly feel that the music does not live inside them. The simple and natural feeling about the singing of the birds, you have when you compare the one or the other variety of it with the corresponding flight, with the beating of the wings. For it is true, there is a harmony between the external movements the bird makes in flight and the music it produces with its voice. And now, turn right away from the animal world and listen to the inwardness, to the artistic forming of inner experience, that reaches you through the vowels as spoken by man! Listen again to the experience in and with the external world that reaches you through the consonants as spoken by man. Listen, I say, to human speech, listen to it also in its connection with mime and with gesture; and it will not fail to beget in you a right and true feeling for the significance of man in the universe. For verily it stands there revealed before you in what speech can become in man. Then your heart and soul will receive the right orientation, and the way will lie open for you to enter further into the more esoteric aspect of our theme. And this is what we shall be doing in the remaining lectures.2
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| 282. Speech and Drama: The Artistic Quality in Drama. Stylisation of Moods
16 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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| 282. Speech and Drama: The Artistic Quality in Drama. Stylisation of Moods
16 Sep 1924, Dornach Translated by Mary Adams |
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My dear Friends, today we will begin with the recitation of a scene where we can trace the workings of a conscious endeavour on the part of the dramatist to bring style into drama. I will say only a few words in preparation, for you will find that the scene itself will show you how a real poet—in the best sense of the word—relates himself to this question of style, how he deals with it in practice. Schiller's early plays were, as we know, not characterised by style. Die Räuber certainly not, but neither can Fiesko nor Kabale—no, nor even Don Carlos, be said to have attained to style. Then, for a while, Schiller's creative powers in that direction were exhausted, and he had to devote himself to other activities; and it was during this time that his relations with Goethe underwent a change. It is not too much to say that, having seen what Goethe's genius could create, Schiller took this work of Goethe's as the foundation for a further development of his own artistic ideal. Goethe's dramas became for him a kind of school at which he studied and prepared himself for new activity in the same field. We can follow the process step by step in the interchange of letters between the two poets, and in the records of their conversations. Nor need we be surprised that Schiller, who saw in Goethe the artist par excellence, should take him for his pattern, the Goethe who had created an Iphigenie and a Tasso, dramas where the language reaches a high level of style. Not that Schiller had any thought of letting drama develop exclusively in the 'direction of style in speech, he was naturally concerned for the totality of dramatic art; but from this time on, he devoted his best effort to the attainment of style. We can see it already in Wallenstein; and in the later dramas, in Maria Stuart, in Die Braut von Messina, in Die Jungfrau von Orleans, we find him concentrating more and more on the development of style in some aspect or another. In Maria Stuart, from which our scene is taken, we have an attempt to develop a style that is different from that of Die Braut von Messin—a style, namely, in the treatment of mood. For what is so striking in this play is the successive moods that pervade the different scenes. The moods are of course evoked by the characters, especially by the prominent part taken in the play by two such antagonistic characters as Mary, Queen of Scots herself, and Queen Elizabeth; but altogether the drama runs its course, fundamentally speaking, in moods; we can even say that the characters live out their parts in moods. You need only study a few of these individually to see how they pass through mood after mood, as the situation changes. Take the momentous scene that Frau Dr. -Steiner will presently read to us, a scene that is outstandingly characteristic of the whole play. You have here an excellent example of stylised mood. There is, to begin with, the mood that can be observed in Mary herself, and that plays no small part also in the drama as a whole, the mood that arises from the fact that Mary is at first committed to the charge of a kindly inclined gaoler but comes later into the custody of one who is rigid in the discharge of his duties; and then we have all that happens as a result of the change. The mood is still at work in this remarkable scene that is so teeming with interest and incident, and we shall be able to watch how the characters of Mary and Elizabeth unfold under its influence—the characters also of others who are present. I draw your attention to this because I want you to see how earnest Schiller is in his striving for style. After Wallenstein he sets out, in fact, to give each play style in a different way. Of the significance of this for the actor I will speak later, after you have listened to the scene. Let it suffice now to point out that in Maria Stuart it is moods that are stylised, whereas in Die Jungfrau von Orleans it is events: the successive events come before us there in truly grand manner. And then in Wilhelm Tell we have a stylising of character; Schiller attains in this play to what may verily be called a painting of the human soul. In Die Braut von Messina we find him endeavouring to follow Goethe as closely as possible by developing style in the inner form and picture of the stage. Lastly, he sets out with the intention of giving style to the whole interworking of men and events. That was in his Demetrius, which he did not live to finish. So now we will ask you to listen to the scene in Schiller's Maria Stuart that portrays the development of the situation to which I have alluded. (Frau Dr. Steiner): (Dr. Steiner): And now, my dear friends, if we take such a work as Maria Stuart, and consider it as an example of a drama that owes its creation to a definite artistic resolve, the question may well present itself: How is the actor to find his right relation to a play of this kind? This we have now to consider, and we shall expect to find here again specific laws upon which the actor can base his endeavours. In some dramas we can see quite clearly, when we look into the question of their origin, that it is the theme, the plot with its characters, that has inspired the dramatist to write bis drama. This was true more or less of Schiller when, as a young man, he set himself to compose Die Räuber. All through the play we can see that what interests him is the subject-matter in the widest sense of the word. He is attracted by the event and the characters that take part in it; he wants to make poetry of them. The same can be said even of Goethe in one period of his life. At the time when he was beginning to compose Faust and was writing also Götz von Berlichingen, his main interest was in the plot and the characters. Faust is a character that interests him intensely. And then, what a Faust can experience—that too has a great attraction for him. And in Götz von Berlichingen it is in the first place the Nero himself, and then the time in which he lived; these two themes were of lively interest to Goethe. But now look at Schiller embarking upon his Maria Stuart. We have here quite another situation. Maria Stuart is the result of a conscious endeavour on Schiller's part to be an artist in the realm of drama. His whole desire is to compose plays that shall be artistic; and he looks round for material to serve bis purpose. He looks for a material that will lend itself to the style he wants to develop. His starting-point was by no means the story of Mary, Queen of Scots; he sets out in search of a theme upon which he can successfully create a drama where it shall be the moods that give style to the piece. Now the initial purpose of the dramatist is of no little significance for the actor; and if we are making plan for a school of dramatic art, we ought certainly to arrange that both kinds of drama are studied. The students should practise with dramas where the poet's interest lies mainly in the plot,—such a drama, for instance, as Götz von Berlichingen, or Die Räuber; and they should work also with dramas like Maria Stuart, Die Jungfrau von Orleans, Die Braut von Messina, or Wilhelm Tell. And while the students are studying in this way the different dramatic styles, that will also be the moment for them to pass from a study that concerns itself purely with acting to a study that, instead of merely asking all the time: How are we to do this?—How are we to do that?, takes rather for its theme the entire play itself as a work of art. I will give you an example. Wilhelm Tell is a play that provides excellent opportunity for an actor to develop style in his work by studying the style of the piece. But it should be made clear to the student that in this play Schiller's style comes to grief in many places. The fact will be forcibly brought home to you if you should ever happen to hear some orthodox professor of literature interpreting one of the scenes in a way that may possibly accord with the illusions of a professor who has more credulity than discernment, but does not at all accord with real life. What a wonderful scene that is,' you might hear him say to his pupils, where Tell declines to attend the meetings the others are holding, declaring that he is a man of deeds and not of words, and that he will leave it to them to do the talking, and hold himself ready to be called on when the moment for action has come.' I did once hear a credulous professor speak in this way to a still more credulous audience of both young and old! And then all too easily such a view becomes the accepted interpretation and is handed down and repeated as if it were an indisputable truth. And we can see it spreading like a disease through the schools, and indeed wherever it has a chance to push its way in. No one stops to ask : But is it possible that Teil should speak like that? For it certainly is not possible! True, Tell had the character that Schiller means to give him. He was not a man of many words ; you would not find him taking a front seat in the meetings and making grandiloquent Speeches. But he would be there. He would be sitting at the back and listening. Tell was not the kind of man to boast that he let the others do the talking and wanted only to be called on when it was time for action,—which would give the impression that he had himself no idea as to what ought to be done! It is simply not true, the way Schiller makes Tell speak in that passage, and the student has here a good opportunity of learning to judge for himself without bias,—and that is supremely important where art is concerned. What Schiller has done in this passage is to push the stylisation too far. Then it can become routine,—which it must never do, it must always have life. And now let us suppose, die actor—or the student—takes a drama of the one or the other kind as subject for his study. How will he proceed with a drama like Die Räuber or Don Carlos? or, on the other hand, with a drama like Maria Stuart or Die Braut von Messina? For a drama of the first kind, the right course will be to work only for a shorter time at the development of mime and gesture whilst another does the reciting, and to lead over quite soon to simultaneous speaking and acting. There must of course always be first the practice in gesture to the accompaniment of a reciter, but in this case not for long; the student should as soon as possible unite the gesturing with the spoken word. With a drama of the second kind, the actor or student will require to practise the silent gesture and mime with a reciter speaking the words for him, for a much longer period. He should indeed defer till as late as possible the union in his own person of gesture and word. By following this method he will attain a result which there is no need to attain in the former type of drama and which could even perhaps be detrimental there to the performance of his part. I mean the following. The gesture, having through long practice come to rest, as it were, in die actor, continues to be present there in him and co-operates in the forming of the word,—the actor of course meanwhile quite unconscious of the process ; it happens instinctively as far as he is concerned. And if we want to stage a drama that is first and foremost, in its whole intention, a work of art, dien we have to make .sure that all through our study of it we succeed in uniting the art of the acting with the art, the poetry, that is in the play itself. Only then will the art of the acting make its right contact with the audience; and upon that, after all, everything depends. The audience will not easily be brought into a mood that grips them in their very soul, if we put before them a realistic scene which is, in addition, realistically acted. It is quite possible to fascinate people with a realistic scene, so that for the moment they give their whole attention; but if we sincerely want to reach our audience, there can be no better way than by lifting them right out of naturalistic experience, and taking them up to the level of art. Let us take now the scene that has been read to us and imagine we have to consult together how we shall proceed to stage it. Giving our attention first to the question of scenic effect, how shall we create the right environment for die words that are spoken in this scene? To build up a décor from a naturalistic point of view, to paint, let us say, a forest as naturalistically as possible, would most certainly not achieve our object. For could anyone imagine that such a scene as this (the scene ends, you will remember, in a manner that is directly contrary to the will of everyone present, takes them one and all by surprise),—could anyone imagine that the motif of the scene could be rendered with style if we set out to surround it with the mood of a forest? The one and only thing to do is let the surroundings of the scene present, by your artistic treatment of them, the mood that belongs to this juncture in the play. I must here allude to a request that has been handed me in writing, asking if I would add a little more to what I said the other day about the painting of stage scenery. But, my dear friends, so far as my memory goes, I have not spoken at all on this subject. What I said then was in reference to landscape painting.1 We were considering the character of art in general, and took landscape painting for our example. I do not like to be misunderstood in this way. I have up to now said nothing whatever about painting for the stage. As a matter of fact, the very first thing you must realise in this connection is that for stage d&or, painting as an art does not come into question. We have to rely on our equipment for stage lighting, etc., to do the painting for us. To return to the scene from Maria Stuart, our main concern should be that the speakers have around them the mood of the scene with all the successive changes it undergoes. Now on the matter of moods there is bound to be always some difference of opinion, but 1 think no one will find it seriously discordant if we propose to arrange for the whole stage to be suffused during this scene with a reddish lighting. The colour will naturally have to change a lade as the scene goes on, but can always keep a fundamental reddish tone. At the end of the scene, where Mary speaks so sharply, the reddish tone can, as it were, pierce inwards into itself and become dazzling yellow. There will also be not a few other modifications here and there. For example, right at the beginning of the scene, where Mary is in a thoroughly sentimental wein, you can introduce into the general reddish mood a bluish-violet mood. That then will be your first question settled. And now, how are you going to see that your wings and back-drop make their right contribution to the mood of the scene? Impossible to have there a realistically painted picture of a bit of forest. Trees, however, you must have; and what about their colour? The scene demands that the colouring of the trees shall harmonise with the mood of the lighting. You cannot paint into a red mood trees that are absolutely green; you will have to introduce a touch of red into their colour. And in order to provide something on which the eye can rest when Mary grows sarcastic, you can take yellow also on to your palette,—I should rather say, on to your brush; for one should never paint from a palette, but always with water colours. Then the actors will have around them a true picture of the mood of the scene. And it will be the same with all your arrangements for the staging of the play. When you come to the question of costume, you must realise that it is of no use to set about inventing all manner of fancy dresses which only make the wearers look queer and awkward. That is not the way to attain style. Costumes should be cut to suit the wearers; it is in the colour that you will have to let style come in,—in the choice of colour, in the harmony of the colours worn by different parts. And here one will not be so childish as to snatch at the first idea that offers, which would naturally mean in this rase that Mary should wear black. Black should appear on the stage only in the rare cases where it is justified from an artistic point of view. As a matter of fact, on the stage black obliterates itself, makes a void. Devils, or beings of such ilk, we can allow to appear in black, but we ought never to think of using black for any other purpose. Mary will have to be dressed in dark violet. Her colour should be chosen first. (For the achievement of style, it is always important to know where to begin.) Then, with Mary in violet, you cannot do otherwise than choose for Elizabeth a dress of reddish-yellowish colour; and the colours of the other characters will be gradually shaded as taste requires. Working in this way, you will get your picture. And you will see, your audience will understand it. Provided it has been faithfully built up on these lines the picture will make its appeal. For how is it that the actor of today finds it so difficult to carry bis audience with him? Simply because we are not sufficiently in earnest about this question of style. We want to attain style, but we do not set about it seriously enough. We ought not really to complain so muck of the audience; it is never die audience who are to blame. It is the art itself that is wanting! But, my dear friends, how can we expect to achieve art if, behind the founding of our theatres, lie impulses and motives such as are disclosed in the following well-authenticated incident? A big theatre was once started in a town by a journalist who was also a playwright, and who took on himself the direction of the theatre. It was named after a distinguished classical author. Externally, you see, the founder was trying to do die thing in style. ‚Arrangements were also made for a speech to be given at the opening ceremony, in which very fine things were said about this author, and about the splendid future that the theatre would have if it followed in his footsteps; for he had himself been eminent in the art of the stage and had laid down many golden rules for its practice. If now a true devotion to art in the highest sense had begun to manifest in the work of that theatre—naturally, fare of a lighter kind being offered also now and again in deference to public taste—it might have been in quite good style to open the theatre with a Speech of this kind. But style has to be something inward; it has to be livingly experienced. And I would ask you now to judge for your-selves whether there really was style in the enterprise, when I tell you what took place immediately after the official opening,—despite the high-sounding words that had been spoken by the director. There had of course been other Speeches too, including one by the chairman of the theatre committee, who spoke in becoming terms of the director, and so on, and so on. Yes, there was style in the opening ceremony; but of what kind? There was no life in it!—as all too quickly became apparent! For what happened when the function was over and the audience had dispersed? Among the people around such a director there will generally be some who are sincere idealists. Not many; but there will be a few. One such—or perhaps only a semi-idealist—went up to the director and said: ‘I wish you all success! Running your theatre in the way you have described, you will be helping to revive and restore art.’ To which the director replied: But it's the profits I'm after!' Yes, you see how it is! The style of which the opening ceremony gave promise has all crumbled to dust. It was not in the man's heart, not in his inner being. Style has, in fact, become in our day something which people no longer feel in life, they are insensitive to it; and that is why I find it so important to impress upon you that he alone can hope to achieve style in art who sets out in all seriousness to live in it.
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