The Rudolf Steiner Archive

To-day we must bring this course of lectures to its conclusion. It has, naturally, only been possible to give certain guiding lines; much still remains unsaid and must be reserved for a future occasion. It seemed to me better to develop these guiding lines in a really fundamental way out of the nature of eurythrny itself, rather than to attempt a more encyclopedic survey of the whole domain of eurythmy.

It is of the greatest importance that each individual eurythmist should strengthen this power of creating the movements out of an inner activity, for it is in this way alone that a true understanding for eurythmy can be developed.

I shall deal first (my attention having been drawn to the matter) with the two sounds g and v (German w). Let us first take the g. In modern languages,—in modern European languages, at least,—this sound has not the same significance as it had in earlier times. For this reason we have not considered it until now. The sound g, when properly formed—gg—signifies an inner strengthening of the self, a strengthening of the soul-forces, a concentrating in itself of everything in the human being which naturally spreads outwards. It is therefore the sound of speech which, so to speak, holds our being together, in so far as the latter is a vessel for natural forces. This is the sound g.

Perhaps Frl. V. . . . will make the movement for g, in order that you may see how well the character of this gesture is adapted to show this inner strengthening and concentration. The warding off of everything external and the welding together of everything inward is expressed in the gesture for g.

Now we come to the remarkable sound v. We find this sound less frequently in the more ancient languages, in the Oriental languages that is to say. It expresses a special need of the human soul. It is as if the human soul were not used to the shelter of a firmly-built structure, but felt compelled to wander. Instead of the firmly-built house which may be experienced in the b-sound, instead of this solid house, the soul feels the need of a tent, or of the shelter of the woods. In the v-sound there lies the feeling of what may be described as a moving shelter.

This is why one always feels, with the sound v, that one is, as it were, carrying a shelter which is constantly being set up anew. Everything of a wandering nature, where the essential element is movement, must be experienced in this sound. It is the surging of the waves which is expressed by a strongly formed v; when delicately formed it expresses the sparkling of the waters. This will help you to realize what must be felt in the sound v. Now it is a remarkable fact that, when using the sound v (German w), one quite naturally finds oneself repeating it. One feels compelled to repeat it several times in succession. Something seems amiss if one simply says: ‘es wallet’; one wishes to say: ‘es wallet und woget, es weht und windet, es wirkt und webt,’ and so on. There is, in short, no sound which leads so naturally into the sphere of alliteration as this sound v. An alliteration can be made up with other sounds, but in no other way will it come about so naturally.

Perhaps Frl. S. . . . will demonstrate the sound v. You see how it demands a gesture filled with movement. V may thus be said to be that sound which permeates being with movement. Will you now show us, just going round in a circle without actually showing the structure of the alliteration,—we shall add this shortly, an alliteration built up on the sound v. In this example there are also other alliterated sounds; but observe how slight an impression they make when compared to one built up on the v-sound (German w). Thus we have

Wehe nun,
Waltender Gott,
Wehgeschick naht.
Ich wallete
der Sommer und Winter Sechsig ausser Landes,
Wo man mich immer scharte

(now comes the other alliteration)

In die Schar der Schntzen,
Doch vor keiner Burg Man den
Tod mir brachte.

Then we have a very marked alliteration, built up on m; you will feel this strongly, yet not so strongly as in the case of v:

Nun soll mein eigenes Kind
Mich mit dem Schwerte hauen,
Morden mich mit der Mordaxt!
Oder soll ich zum Morder werden?

One cannot help feeling that every alliteration based upon the v-sound appears to come about quite as a matter of course, whereas all other alliterations, no matter what sound is repeated, have the effect of being drawn out from the v.

Alliteration is an essential and fundamental element in poetry, especially where the sound v is experienced in a living way. In this connection we must develop a two-fold feeling. In the first place there lies in the nature of alliteration,—that is to say, when the first letter of certain words is repeated,—something which takes us back into earlier stages of European culture. Wilhelm Jordan has attempted to revive alliteration, and has indeed succeeded in introducing it into his work with a certain strength and conviction. In modern German this element of alliteration appears somewhat out of place. A feeling for it, however, can always be recaptured if one has the gift of going back in imagination to an earlier epoch. The short poem which I have read to you is taken from the Song of Hildebrand. Hildebrand was long absent from his native country, and on his return journey he met his son Hadubrand with whom he came into conflict. It is the battle between these two which is related in this alliterative form,—a form which was at that time an instinctive and completely natural means of expression.

An alliteration may be shown in the following way: Let a number of eurythmists form a circle, and now,—because the very essence of alliteration is consonantal, although not invariably based upon the v-sound,—they must emphasize the alliterated consonants by stepping round this circle. The vowel sounds do not form part of the alliteration; for this reason they may be shown by another group of eurythmists who stand inside the circle, making the movements for the vowels.

I will ask several of you to show the alliteration in the poem I have just read. Will you take your places in the circle; and now three others must stand in the centre and show the vowels.
The alliteration will be particularly strongly emphasized if, whenever a new alliterated sound occurs, it is shown by a different eurythmist, the preceding eurythmist at the same time repeating the previous sound. Only those vowels which follow directly after the alliterated consonant should be shown by those in the outer circle. The other vowel-sounds must be done more as an accompaniment by those standing in the centre. In order to make the whole thing quite clear let us take this example and do it quite slowly, those in the outer circle moving to the alliteration:

Wehe nun,
Waltender Gott,
Wehgeschick naht.
Ich wallete
Der Sommer und Winter
Sechsig ausser Landes,
Wo man mich scharte
In die Schar der Schützen,
Doch vor keiner Burg
Man den Tod mir brachte.
Nun soll mein eignes Kind
Mich mit dem Schwerte hauen,
Morden mich mit der Mordaxt!
Oder soll ich zum Mörder werden?

The alliterated consonant and the vowel sound immediately following it must be carried round the circle from one eurythmist to the next.

This will show you how in fact movement, and also restraint may be brought into such a poem sheerly by means of alliteration.

We will now pass on to something else, something which will help us to make of the human organism a fitting instrument for the service of eurythmy. In this connection it is very necessary to gain an understanding of the difference in eurythmy between walking and standing. Standing still always signifies that one is the image, the picture of some-thing. Walking, on the other hand, signifies that oneself will actually be something. When working out a poem in eurythmy you must be able to feel whether, at a certain point, it is a question of describing or indicating something or of representing the actual nature of something in a living way. It is according to this that one must decide whether to stand still (a lessening of the movement tends already in this direction), or whether to pass over into movement. We shall find that we have less occasion to stand still than to move, for there lies in the very nature of poetry the tendency to express something living, something which is, not merely that which signifies something. Here it is well that we should know how the human body is related to the whole cosmos. The feet of man correspond to the earth, for in their very structure they are suited to the earth, Where we have to do with gravity, with the weight of the earth,—and this feeling of the weight of the earth is present in nearly all forms of human suffering,—we must endeavour to express this in eurythmy by a graceful use of the feet and legs.

The hands and arms reveal the life of the soul. This soul-element is the most essential part of what may be brought to expression in eurythmy, and this is why in eurythmy the movements of the arms and hands play such an important part. Here already we pass over into the realm of the spiritual, for it is in the transition from one sound to the next that we find the best means of expressing that which is spiritual. In language the spiritual element finds expression in the mood of irony, for instance, or roguishness, in every-thing that is to say which emanates from the human spirit (aus dem menschlichen Spiritus), from man himself in that he is a spiritual being, gifted with intelligence in the best sense of the word. Such things must be indicated by means of the head, for the head is the instrument of the spirit.

We must become conscious of such things; then we shall be able to express them in the right way. It is specially important to be able to use the head in the most varied manner according to the possibilities of its organization.

Fri. S. . . . will you turn your head towards the right. The turning of the head towards the right may always be taken to signify: ` I will ' ; naturally I do not mean these two words merely, but everything which contains the feeling: ` I will.'

On the other hand, when you turn your head towards the left it signifies : I feel.' Thus, everything in a poem where the mood of `I feel' is dominant we must turn the head towards the left.

Now bend the head towards the right. This bending movement of the head (forwards towards the right) signifies: ` Iwill not.' Bend it in the same way towards the left and it signifies: ` I do not feel this, I do not understand it or realize it.'

And now bend the head forwards, straight forwards. You will see how natural this movement is if you do the following: Frau Sch. . . . will you stand facing Frl. S. . . . in profile, and do these movements. We must suppose that Frau Sch. . . . says: ` It is the gods who inspire the human heart with willing service.' Frl. S. . . . gives an eurythmic answer: ` You are too clever for me; I do not understand you.' She shows this by means of the aforesaid gesture, carried out clearly and definitely. You will find numberless opportunities of applying this movement. It signifies a sinking into oneself when faced with something which one is not able to understand.

Then, further, so that we may have at least one example, I must point out that the twelve gestures related to the Zodiac and the seven gestures related to the moving planetary circle may be made use of in a variety of ways. Quite apart, for instance, from what was said yesterday with regard to rhyming we must learn to understand such an exercise as the following:

Fri. S. . . . and Fri. V. . . . will you demonstrate what I am now going to describe. Fri. S. . . . will you make the gesture for Leo, and you, Frl. V. . . . the gesture for Aquarius; now, as I read this little poem, try to show it in eurythmy. In the case of the emphasized rhymes, the rhymes which fall on an accented beat, you, Fri. S.. . . must make the gesture for Leo. With the unemphasized rhymes, thus those which do not fall on the accented but on the unaccented beat, you, Frl. V. . . . must make the gesture of Aquarius. Make the movements standing still, choosing perhaps the vowel sounds, and only making the zodiacal gestures at the end of the lines so that we may really see their effect when they follow immediately after the rhyme.

Es rauschst das Bachlein -Ether Gestein... .

(You, Frl. V. . . . must hold the sound)

Ein Weidenbaum driiber gebogen,
Drauf sitzt des Miillers Büblein klein,
Im Schosse ein kleines Zitherlein,
Die Füsschen bespiilt von den Wogen.
Es kommt ein Mann des Wegs zu gehn,
Er bleibt so still, so schweigsam stehn
Sieht zu dem sinnigen Knaben;
Hatt' auch ein Büblein klein,
War auch so still und auch so fein.
Das liegt nun draussen begraben.

You see how the rhyme may be emphasized in this way by means of the zodiacal gestures. I am drawing your attention to such things so that you may be able to work out similar exercises for yourselves, thus gaining assurance and certainty in the development of eurythmic gestures.

I will now ask a number of eurythmists to come forward and make various movements as I explain them: Number one must place the feet together, stretching the arms out so that they lie in a horizontal direction, on a level with the shoulders.

Number two must stand with the feet slightly apart, holding out the arms in such a way that the hands about correspond with the level of the larynx:

Now for number three: stand with your feet somewhat further apart, and hold the arms in such a way that, if a line were drawn from hand to hand, it would pass just below the heart.

Number four: stand with the feet still further apart, quite wide, holding the arms right up above the head. The hands must be held in such a way that they could be connected with the feet by means of a straight line.

Number five: stand with the feet in a similar position to number three, and now hold the arms in such a way that a line drawn from hand to hand would pass at the level of the top of the head.

Here (in the case of Number two) the line passes across the larynx; here (Number one) the line is quite horizontal; here (Number four) it is high up above the head; and here (Number five) it is just at head-level. Continue to hold all these gestures.

Number six: you must stand with the legs close together, with the arms held upwards in an absolutely vertical line: To these gestures we must add the following words:

Ich denke die Rede—I
Ich rede—II
Ich habe geredet—III
Ich suche mich im Geiste (meinen geistigen Ursprung)—IV
Ich fühle mich in mir—V
Ich bin auf dem geistigen Wege—VI
Ich bin auf dem Weg zum Geiste (zu mir).

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

[IMAGE REMOVED FROM PREVIEW]

I think speech I speak
I have spoken
I seek for myself in the Spirit
(my spiritual origin)
I feel myself within myself
I am on the spiritual path
I am on the way to the Spirit (to myself).

Approximately in this way. And now you must try to pass from one position to the next. Frl. V. . . . will you do this? Place yourself in front of each one in turn, and, as you take up each position, you must feel impelled to express the words that are said by means of the gesture being carried out by the eurythmist standing behind you. As Number one, you have to begin:

Ich denke die Rede

Passing on take up your place in front of Number two:

Ich rede
Ich habe geredet
Ich suche mich im Geiste
Ich fühle mich im mir
Ich bin auf dem Geistwege.

In this way we get the whole series of gestures.

Ich denke die Rede
Ich rede
Ich habe geredet
Ich suche mich im Geiste
Ich fühle mich in mir
Ich bin auf dem Wege zum Geiste (zur mir).

If, when teaching eurythmy to adults, a beginning is made with this very exercise, it will certainly help them to find their way into eurythmy easily and well.

These gestures, when carried out in this way one after the other, form an exercise which may be classed among those having a harmonizing and curative effect. Thus, when anyone is so much disturbed in his soul-life that this disturbance works itself out into his physical body, manifesting itself in all sorts of digestive troubles, then this exercise, taken in such a case as a curative exercise, may always be given with the greatest benefit.

And finally, my dear friends, I must once again impress upon your hearts the fact that really good eurythmy can only be achieved when there is the determination always to make a thorough and careful preparatory analysis, of anything which is to be interpreted by means of eurythmy. Every poem must be studied in the first place with a view to discovering which are the most fundamental sounds. If in a poem expressing the feeling of wonder, the wonder experienced by the poet, we find many a sounds, then we may be quite sure that this poem is well suited to eurythmy, for it is the sound a which expresses wonder. The poet himself has felt that a is specially related to the mood of wonder. And the eurythmist will be able to intensify the effect by laying stress on the movement corresponding to the sound a. In eurythmy it is even more important to concentrate on the sounds contained in a poem than on the actual sense-content of the words. For the sense-content is the prose element. The more a poem depends upon its sense-content, so much the less is it a poem; and the more the sound-content is brought out, the more a poem is dependent on sound, the nearer it approaches to true poetry.

As a eurythmist, then, one should not take one's start from the prose-content, but should enter so deeply into the nature of the sounds as to be able to say: When many a-sounds occur in a poem it is obvious that it is a poem based upon the mood of wonder and must be so expressed. This shows us the attitude we must have towards language as such. Further we must seek in poetry for those characteristics of language which we have already mentioned here,—what is concrete, for instance, what abstract, and other details of this kind. This means that one must first enter into the nature of a poem and study it according to the structure and formation of its language, only later trying to express it in eurythmy.

In eurythmy there is still another thing to bear in mind, and that is the way in which, in the eurythmy figures, I have tried to portray Movement, Feeling and Character.¹ This is another field of study for eurythmists. The movement must be felt as movement, and is depicted as such in the figures. As a eurythmist one lives in movement. We must, however,—more especially when a veil is floating around us, but also when we are not actually wearing one,—picture this veil as expressing the aura (see Eurythmy Figures). It is only when one bears this in mind that one can bring the necessary grace and beauty into the movements. Let us look at the eurythmy figure for I. The 1-sound itself lies in the movement; but that which can be added to the 1 as feeling, is shown by the fact that here, in the region of the arms, the aura is quite wide, becoming narrower as it hangs down. You must imagine that your arms reveal your feeling by means of the floating aura of the veil. The dress which here appears somewhat wider at the bottom must be studied in a similar way. This is how one must picture oneself. As a eurythmist, one should always feel oneself attired in dress and floating veil as I have indicated here in the figure.

Character also is of the greatest importance. When stretching out the arms one should actually feel that here (see figure) the muscles are stretched and taut. Everywhere where character is indicated by means of its corresponding colour there must be a tension of the muscles. This must also be shown by the eurythmist. And here again, for example, (see figure) you must use the legs in such a way that you really experience this muscular tension. The eurythmy figures are intended to show such things and have been designed accordingly.

When you have in this way made a study of each separate sound, your whole organism will be so sensitive to sound that you will feel: This whole poem is built up upon the mood of l, let us say, or upon the mood of b; and it will then be possible for you to create your interpretation of a poem out of the sounds themselves.

All these things must be very carefully borne in mind when it is a question of teaching eurythmy. In educational eurythmy it is naturally important to introduce such movements of the body as can work with moral benefit upon the soul-life, and serve to further the development of intellect and feeling.

In artistic eurythmy the essential thing is that the soul should gain the power of working through the medium of the body. Thus the movements of eurythmy, these gestures as they are shaped and formed, must be felt to be absolutely natural, indeed inevitable. One must feel that they could not be otherwise, that it is only by means of these very gestures that certain moods or artistic concepts can be expressed.

Yet another thing must be borne in mind, and that is the fact that the learning of eurythmy entails an actual trans-formation of the human organism. Any performance which reveals the slightest trace of struggle between body and soul must be looked upon as unfinished and imperfect. In a eurythmy performance the whole body must have become soul.

A programme is sometimes given—as you yourselves know—which has been prepared with unbelievable industry and is then shown for the first time. One can enjoy such a programme, where everything is fresh and spontaneous, where there is still a struggle with the form-running, and where on occasion the arms are not moved but thrown about, appearing so heavy as to be liable at any moment to fall to the ground. There is spontaneity in all this and it gives us a certain pleasure.

Then the time comes when the programme is taken on tour and given perhaps in some ‘two dozen' towns. (As a matter of fact, I believe this has never actually happened, but it might well happen.) The programme is, as I said, performed in about two dozen towns and the eurythmists return. Then,—because Frau Dr. Steiner has had no time to prepare a new programme,—this old programme, which we saw some six weeks ago in all its youthful spontaneity, is presented again. Now the pleasure is of a very different kind. Everything has become easy and fluent. One notices, too, that the eurythmists, because they have visited new towns and learned to know fresh conditions, are stimulated by the outer world and have gained a certain inner enthusiasm. All this has had its effect on the movements and they have become effortless and free. The performance is now sheer delight, and one can only exclaim: ‘Oh, if this programme could be performed fifty times more, how beautiful it would be then!'

We must have an understanding for these things. Every artist whose work is bound up with the stage knows the truth of what I have just said. A good actor would never think that he has mastered a role before he had played it some fifty times. With the fifty-first performance he might perhaps think that he could play the part, for then every-thing would have become second nature. We, too, must acquire this attitude of mind, my dear friends. We must develop such a love for anything which is to be shown in a performance that we simply cannot put it aside. Indeed no one but the onlooker may be permitted to find an often repeated item dull or tedious! It is in the sphere of art above all, that it is important to realize this; one must come back to a thing again and again. In a place where I once happened to be staying, I had the opportunity of seeing a play repeated fifty times. I went every evening to see this same play and allowed it to work upon me. By the fifth evening I did perhaps have a certain feeling of boredom, but by the fifty-first evening I was not in the least bored. Even though the performance, in a small provincial theatre, was very mediocre, so much could be learned from its very imperfection that this experience,—peculiar though it was,—could be of life-long benefit. As a matter of fact, I did not like the play in question; as a play it did not interest me at all. (It was Sudermann's Ehre.) I could not stand the play; nevertheless, I saw it performed fifty times by a some-what mediocre cast. My aim was to enter into all the details unconsciously, thus experiencing it purely with the astral body. I wished to take it right out of the realm of conscious perception and simply to live with it.

People must learn,—and now, when I am speaking about eurythmy, I will take the opportunity of mentioning it,—people must learn the value of rhythm, even in more complicated matters. We say the Lord's Prayer not fifty times only, but countless times, and we never find it tedious. Notice is seldom paid to the fact that such things are connected with experiences of the human organism, experiences which are apparently more or less immaterial and to which our Karma leads us at one time or another.

With this, my dear friends, we must bring this course of lectures to a close. From the way I have developed the subject, you will have realized that my first aim has been to show you that it is out of the feelings, out of the soul-life, that eurythmy must proceed. Eurythmic technique must be won out of a love for eurythmy, for in truth, everything must proceed out of love.

How much I myself love eurythmy, my dear friends, I have told you recently in the ‘News Sheet'.² I said then how earnestly I wish that the great devotion demanded of all those actively engaged in the work of eurythmy,—work which was begun by Frau Dr. Steiner, begun by our eurythmy artists here in Dornach and which has gradually won wider recognition and esteem,—how earnestly I wish that all this may be rightly appreciated; for it cannot be too highly prized in Anthroposophical circles. It is my hope that this course of lectures may have contributed something towards the furthernace of eurythmy in this respect, in that all of us who are gathered together here,—whether as eurythmists who already know the fundamentals of eurythmy, as beginners, or indeed as those merely interested in eurythmy, that all of us here will feel ourselves as the helpers and promoters of eurythmy, of this art which springs from no humble source, but has as its lofty origin, that cosmic knowledge which creates from out of the spirit. If we feel ourselves as the helpers of eurythmy, either in an active or in a more passive sense, then eurythmy will be able to fulfil the mission which it can and should fulfil in the general development of Anthroposophy.

When people will see in beauty the spirit working in human movement, then this will make some contribution to the whole attitude which humanity, through Anthroposophy, should take up towards the spirit.

Let us think of all the many things which have grown up out of anthroposophical soil, forming together one great whole; and then, inspired by the Anthroposophy in our hearts, let us build up and develop each separate activity as it should and will be developed if we prove ourselves worthy of the real aims of Anthroposophy. This course of eurythmy lectures may perhaps have done something towards this end.

• 1. See page 274. The Eurythmy Figures.
• 2. S. page 260.

Introductory words to the Eurythmy performance given in Dornach, 26th December, 1923, on the occasion of the Foundation Meeting of the General Anthroposophical Society.

The nature of eurythmy has certainly been repeatedly discussed before the most varied groups of our friends, lately also it was presented in the most varied way in the Goetheanum,¹ and it is indeed unnecessary to speak at this performance, which is to be given exclusively to our friends about the essential nature of eurythmy, about the basic principles, which are known to all. Yet I should like to characterize again and again from a certain standpoint both the way in which eurythmy stands in the artistic development of the present and what its position among the arts in general is. To-day I will speak a few words about how eurythmy must in fact, as it were from its very nature, be drawn out from the being of man by a spiritual world-conception, which, in accordance with the signs of the times, is making itself felt in our present age.

We look at another art which portrays the human being—the plastic art, which portrays him in his quiescent form. Whoever approaches plastic art with a certain feeling for form, whoever experiences the human being, human characteristics, through a plastic work of art does so in the best way when he has the feeling: here the human being is silent, speaking through his quiescent form.

Now we know that in the eighteenth century Lessing wrote a paper on the limits of plastic art,—it was not called that, but that was its content,—in which he said that sculpture should in its very nature be a manifestation of that which is at rest, of that which is silent in man,—in man as a being placed into the cosmos. So that sculpture can only express that which manifests itself as silence, as stillness, in the human being. Hence any attempt to represent the human being in movement through the medium of sculpture will undoubtedly prove to be an artistic error.

In times gone by, indeed up to the time of the Renaissance, it was a matter of course that plastic art could only represent the human being in a state of rest. For it may be said: This age, which began with ancient Greece and ended with the Renaissance, was mainly concerned with the development in the human being of the intellectual soul. With regard to the inner configuration of man’s being, the sentient soul, the mind soul and the consciousness soul,—it is the mind soul, embracing as it does all that is connected with the human mind, that holds the middle place; and the mind is in fact permeated with that quiescent feeling which also comes to expression in the quiescent human form.

We live to-day in an age in which we must advance from the feeling element in man to the will element; for fundamentally speaking it is the descent into the will element which, if consciously achieved, would enable us to-day to attain to spiritual insight.

This brings us to the point where we may turn our spiritual gaze to the human being in movement; not to the human being who, as the expression of the Cosmic Word, remained silent in order to rest in form, but to the human being as he stands in the living weaving of the Cosmic Word, bringing his organism into activity in accordance with his cosmic environment.

It is this clement in man which must find expression in eurythmy. And if one is able to observe things from the point of view of the spiritual science which is suited to the humanity of to-day, one will always have the feeling that form must become fluidic. Let us look at a human hand. Its silence finds expression in its quiescent form. What then is the meaning of this quiescent form when the human being as a whole is taken into consideration? Its meaning is apparent when the quiescent element of feeling is allowed to hold sway as it did hold sway from the age of the ancient Greeks to the time of the Renaissance. There is certainly great significance in such a gesture as this, in which I indicate something with my hand, then allowing it to remain in a state of rest. But it does not enable us to understand what must be realized to-day with regard to man, it does not enable us to understand the human being in his totality.

It is indeed impossible to understand the human form, when observing the human being as a whole, unless one is conscious of the fact that every motionless form in man has meaning only because it is able to pass over into definite movement. What would be the significance of the human hand if it were compelled to remain motionless. Even in its motionless state the form of the hand is such as to demand movement.

When one studies the human being with that inner mobility which is essential to the Spiritual Science of to-day, then from out of the quiescent form, movement reveals itself on all sides. It is not too much to say that anyone who visits a museum containing sculpture belonging to the best periods of plastic art, and who looks at the figures with the inner vision arising out of the spiritual knowledge of our time, will see these figures descend from their stands, move about the room and meet each other, becoming on all sides enfilled with movement.

And eurythmy,—now eurythmy arises naturally out of sculpture. And to learn to understand this is our task also. To-day people gifted with a certain spiritual mobility feel disturbed if obliged to look for a long time at a motionless Greek statue. They have to force themselves to do it. This can, and indeed must be done in order not to spoil the Greek statue in one’s own personal fantasy. But at the same time the urge remains to bring movement into this motionless form. As a consequence there arises that moving sculpture to which we give the name of Eurythmy. Here the Cosmic Word is itself, movement. In eurythmy man is no longer silent but through his movement communicates innumerable cosmic secrets.

It is indeed always the case that man communicates through his own being numberless secrets of the universe. One can, however, have yet another cosmic feeling. Anyone who has a living understanding for such descriptions of cosmic evolution as are to be found in my Outline of Occult Science will realize from the outset that, in the case of the human form of to-day, it is as though one had allowed an inner mobility to become dried up, to become rigid. One need only to look back to the time of the Old Moon. The human being was then in a continual state of metamorphosis. Such a definitely formed nose, such definitely formed ears as man has to-day, these did not exist at that time. The once mobile forms had to become frozen. He who with his vision can transport himself into the time of the Old Moon, to him people to-day often appear as frozen, immobile beings, incapable of metamorphosis. And what we achieve by means of eurythmy, when we make it into a visible speech, is no less than this: The bringing of movement, of fluidity, into the frozen human form.

This demands a study which must in its very nature be artistic. In this sphere everything intellectualistic is positively harmful. Eurythmy is and must remain an art.

Just consider for a moment that some such eurythmy form as you have sometimes seen here in connection with poems which really have in their experience and structure the profundity, for instance, of the poems of Steffen, just consider that such a form would best be found when, let us say—one imagines ten or twelve people of the present day. You are certainly all individually different with regard to your external form; but one can say of every person, no matter whether he has a round or long head, a pointed or blunt nose,—one can say of every person how, in the case of a poem, he would move his etheric body. And it would certainly be interesting for one to take those sitting in a certain row and show how, in the case of a poem, each one of those sitting here would move in accordance with his own form, if this came about entirely from the individual characteristics of the person in question. Here are sitting, for instance, eight people in this row. In such a case quite different eurythmy forms would arise from the human form. This would be very interesting. One would have to look at many people in order to say how the human being would move for “Und es wallet und woget und brauset und zischt”.

And then one gets the idea of how the forms are necessary. Thus eurythmy is born wholly out of the moving human form, but one must be able to take up such a standpoint that, when asked why the form for a poem is such and such, one must say: Yes, that is how it is! If anyone demands an intellectual explanation in justification of such a form, then one will feel annoyed to give it, because that is really inartistic. Eurythmy is created entirely out of feeling and can also only be understood through feeling.

Of course one must learn certain things, the letters must be learned, and so on. But after all, when you write a letter, here also you do not think about how an i or a b is written, but you write because you are able to do so. The point, then, is not how the eurythmist must learn a, b, c but to enjoy what comes out of it in the end.

What must develop out of eurythmy is a newly created, moving sculpture. And for this living sculpture one must of course make use of the human being himself; here one cannot use clay or marble. This leads into a realm of art which, in the profoundest sense, touches reality just where sculpture departs from it. Sculpture portrays that which is dead in the human being, or at least that which is death-like in its rigidity. Eurythmy portrays all that in the human being which is of the nature of life itself. For this reason eurythmy can call forth the feeling of how the universal cosmic life laid hold of man and placed him into earthly evolution, giving him his earthly task. There is perhaps no other art through which one can experience man’s relationship to the cosmos so vividly as one is able to do through the art of eurythmy. Therefore this art of eurythmy, based as it is on the etheric forces in man, had to appear just at that time a modern Spiritual Science was being sought. For it was out of this modern Spiritual Science that eurythmy had to be born.

• 1. See Rudolf Steiner, foreword to a eurythmy performance in ‘Das Goetheanum’ Year 3, No. 7. 23rd Sept., 1925.

From the ‘News Sheet’ (Nachrichtenblatt) Year I. No. 22, June 8th, 1924

During the time from the middle of May to the middle of June, Frau Marie Steiner with the eurythmists from the Goetheanum is undertaking a eurythmy tour through the towns of Ulm, Nurnberg, Eisenach, Erfurt, Naumberg, Hildesheim, Hanover, Halle and Breslau. The accounts of this journey, which I receive here in the Goetheanum, speak of a profound interest which the comparatively large audiences take in the art which has arisen out of the anthroposophical movement.

That here and there a few noisy disturbers bring discord into the otherwise very gratifying reception cannot alienate him who knows the obstacles which must always, in every sphere of life, be contended with when that to which people are accustomed is faced by something new.

One would like to expect from the Anthroposophical Society that it should bring its full inner support towards the endeavours which are active in the art of eurythmy. For only with such inner support can the warmth be sustained which is necessary for those who dedicate themselves to these endeavours.

It is not everywhere known within the Anthroposophical Society upon what foundations such endeavours are built up. At the Goetheanum, under the direction of Marie Steiner, constant work is going on in order to carry out all the practices necessary before the performances. In all this work great devotion is indispensable from all those taking part. And from outside it is not always apparent how wearing it is, in artistic work, to make tiring journeys from town to town, how fretting to unfold the artistic mood during these fatiguing journeys. To succeed in carrying out such endeavours in the available circumstances certainly needs much devotion and a true enthusiasm for the cause.

Eurythmy as an art is the fruit of the spiritual impulse working in the anthroposophical movement. That which lives in the human organisation as soul and spirit comes to visible manifestation through eurythmy. Its effect upon those watching it depends upon the inner perception that in the externally visible movements of people and groups of people soul and spirit visibly unfold themselves. He only who has the artistic conception of what lies in the audible word can unfold the right sense for how the audible can, in eurythmy, be transformed into the visible. One has, as it were, the human soul-being before one’s eyes.

And into this evident revelation of the human soul-being resound the arts of recitation and of music. It can be said that the art of recitation experiences in the strivings of eurythmy the essential conditions of its being. Recitation is, of course, connected in the first place with the word. But the word easily succumbs to the temptation to stray away from the artistic. It tends to become the content of understanding and feeling. It is, however, only the formation of this content which can have artistic effect. When recitation appears at the side of the eurythmic art of movement it has to unfold its formative character in full purity. It must reveal what can work formatively and musically in language. Necessary for eurythmy, therefore, was the development of the art of recitation, as this has been made possible by the devotion of Marie Steiner to this part of the anthroposophical movement. Within the Anthroposophical Society one should follow up what has arisen since the time when Marie Steiner, with a few eurythmists, began the work in 1914 in Berlin. Eurythmy could only unfold itself as a visible art of speech side by side with the artistically conceived audible art of speech. He only who has the artistic conception of what lies in the audible word can unfold the right sense for how the audible can, in eurythmy, be transformed into the visible. From the side of the public that only can be of interest which shows artistic merit. For the members of the Anthroposophical Society the point is intimately to share in the becoming of such a striving. For this is a part of the anthroposophical life.

In such a sharing the noblest human elements will be able to develop. And in such a development lies indeed one of the grandest tasks of the Anthroposophical Society.

Our musicians who place their artistic gifts at the service of eurythmy are bringing, I am convinced—through the way in which they do this and through the great enthusiasm which ensouls them in their work with the related art—they are bringing music forward in a quite special direction. I believe, indeed that the musical sense which lives in them finds its true liberation when placed in this connection. In any case, in the work of our musicians within the framework of eurythmy activity there is a deeply satisfying expansion of the musical into the general sphere of art. And its fruitfulness is shown again by the beautiful working-back upon the specifically musical.

From Marie Steiner’s efforts in the sphere of eurythmy there has arisen the Eurythmeum in Stuttgart. This is based upon the idea of a eurythmy conservatorium. Eurythmy in all its branches is taught there, lectures being also given in such auxiliary subjects as poetry, aesthetics, history of art, music theory, etc. All this in accordance with that artistic conception in the light of which eurythmy must stand. What has arisen in this way in Stuttgart carries within itself many possibilities of further upbuilding. It is deeply satisfying to see how many members from the circle of our society devote themselves with the warmest participation to the furtherance of eurythmy endeavours. This participation is in process of growing in a gratifying way. Through this there has entered into our movement a feature which is entirely consistent with the fundamental conditions of its life. For art stands midway between the revelations of the sense-world and spiritual reality. It is the aim of anthroposophy to place the spiritual world before mankind. Art is the reflection of the spirit in the sense-world. If art did not grow upon anthroposophical soil this could only result from some lack in this soil itself. In anthroposophical circles insight into this has been steadily increasing; it is to be hoped that such understanding will ripen more and more.

To-day I should like to give you some indications about our art of eurythmy.

We must realise that every art is limited in its sphere of work by the means of artistic expression which stand at its disposal. And an art only gains a true life of its own when, in its struggle towards achievement, it makes use simply and solely of those means of artistic expression which lie within its own sphere.

Let us take as an example the art of sculpture. The plastic art, the art of sculpture uses as its means of expression form, surface; and it must, when for instance it represents an animal form or a human form, take as its basis the fact that everything which is bound up with the human being or the animal has to, be expressed by means of the modelled surface, and must consequently be carried out by the specialized technique of the same.

Let us suppose, then, that we wish to represent a smooth-coated animal. In such a case we should have to handle the marble, the bronze or the wood, in a manner quite different from that which we should have to employ if we wished to represent a rough-coated animal. We are always compelled, through these artistic means, to bring something to expression which does not actually lie within their sphere. Thus, for example, in the art of sculpture, we are obliged to use the way in which we treat the surface of our material as our means of representing that which is present in the human being himself as colour, as the natural flesh-colour. For this reason it would be wrong if, instead of modelling a statue, one tried in some way to represent the human being by means of a plaster cast. This might indeed, as far as the form is concerned, be in complete accordance with the human being, but it would only be reproducing the naturalistic human form. Such a reproduction could never give the impression of the actual human being. For in the case of the actual human being the effect is produced in the first place by means of the colour of his flesh, by his colour,—it is produced by many other things as well, for instance by his expression. All this cannot be brought into the art of sculpture. We must, therefore, give to the surface a moulding and shaping which is different from the naturalistic human form if we wish to produce an impression of the human being as a whole.

In the art of painting, for example, we again have to do with a working upon a surface. And here, in the figures we are representing, we must express by means of the treatment of colour all that is expressed in actual reality by means of form. In recent times this artistic insight has been in a measure lost, and, because people really have not understood how to confine their work in any particular art to the limits of its means of expression, the naturalistic element has crept into art to an ever greater degree. And this naturalistic principle, because it is confined in any art to a limited means of expression, brings in its train something which is inartistic and lifeless.

When, for instance, we are considering the stage, we must realize that a scene taking place on the stage and representing some aspect of life must necessarily be something quite different from the same scene taking place in ordinary naturalistic circumstances. The stage may be said to throw life up into relief, and, in arranging everything to do with the stage, we must always reckon with this fact. We must, for example, know what is signified when an actor moves from the back of the stage towards the front. On the stage this has a significance which is indeed quite different from what it would have if anyone moved in a room from the back towards the front. We must take the whole milieu into account; we must reckon with the auditorium. For a dramatic work of art unfolds itself in an interplay between that which is taking place on the stage and in the auditorium.

Suppose, for instance, that in a drama one of the actors has to speak a passage which, according to its content, is intended to produce the effect of something specially intimate. This effect of intimacy could never be produced by the actor moving backwards, but the effect of intimacy is conveyed when the actor moves forward towards the front of the stage. Generally speaking, everything on the stage has a significance other than in daily life. When an actor moves from the right side of the stage (as seen from the auditorium) towards the centre, this means something entirely different from what it would be if he moved towards the centre from the left side.

We must master the means at our disposal in the sphere of dramatic art. We must reckon with the movement of the actor in this or that direction of the stage. It is not without importance when we say to ourselves: What should be done by someone wishing to express a feeling of intimacy? In naturalistic art people as a rule would merely be of the opinion that the actor should be made to catch his breath. But this, in certain cases would not produce such an effect upon the naive onlooker as would the simple method of making the actor take three, four or five steps forwards.

Let us take another art,—one which in our present age is least of any rightly understood; let us take the art of recitation and declamation. When people’s attitude towards recitation and declamation is such that they believe that everything should be spoken in as naturalistic a way as possible, that all emphasis should be as naturalistic as possible, then the result is indeed inartistic. The art of declamation and recitation depends upon something quite different; here the whole point is that one knows how to study, asking: What is the character of the vowels, what the character of the consonants, what the special mood which lies in the vowel e or the vowel a? How is the pure a-mood affected by m? How is the pure a-mood affected by l? And further one must understand how such moods as lie in the vowels or consonants may spread their colour over a whole line; one might perhaps extend such a mood over a whole monologue, speaking of one monologue as being recited in the e-mood, of another in the a-mood,—that is to say, one can develop the whole atmosphere and mood of some special sound, of a or e, of m or l.

Thus it is absolutely possible to develop from out of the special means at our disposal in any situation an artistic method of treatment, which does indeed define the art in question. Apart from this the point is in recitation and declamation to realise the essential difference between the epic, the lyric and the dramatic mood. And further, just in this art, quite special attention must be paid to the naive impressions of the onlooker,—besides doing everything possible to develop the artistic feeling of whoever has to recite or declaim. This could never be achieved by naturalistic methods; it can only be achieved when one understands how to give shape and form,—the right shape and form,—not only to single sounds, but also to sentences, and even to whole passages. This is why I have repeatedly said that in the accompaniment of eurythmy by recitation and declamation the important thing is always to bring out the musical and imaginative element lying in the poet’s treatment of the language. That which in ordinary naturalistic life is attained by means of emphasis must here be attained by means of the whole forming and shaping of the speech itself.

Now when we look at eurythmy from this standpoint,—in so far as it is the aim of eurythmy to be a true art,—we must ask ourselves: What are its artistic means?—You have certainly all attended performances of eurythmy, and consequently you will know that here, in the first place, we have to do with a movement of the human limbs, of the hands and arms more especially,—but also, at least in indication, with a movement of the whole human body. This is the means of expression for eurythmy as an art.

Thus it is the movement itself which we have to consider in the first place. And the onlooker first gains a really satisfying impression of eurythmy when he is able to perceive something in the movement as such, in the movement, for example, which belongs to a vowel or a consonant, that is to say, in the plastic form which appears as a consequence of the movement. This is of the first importance. But also we should not forget that eurythmy really is an actual visible speech, and as such it is an expression of the soul, just as is the speech which manifests in sound. So that everything which is to be represented in eurythmy must depend solely upon such means as can produce upon the eye just such an effect as the language of sound produces on and through the ear.

Thus it would be quite wrong if anyone were to think that ordinary mime or play of feature can have any significance in eurythmy. This play of feature, this use of facial expression is quite without significance; only that has significance which really belongs within the sphere of movement. The onlooker must, then, be able absolutely to forget, in the essence of the movement, anything which depends upon mime or any other use of the face, or upon the face itself. Speaking in an ideal sense either beauty or lack of beauty in the face of the eurythmist is quite without importance. The attention must be absolutely concentrated upon the movement itself.

But in its movement eurythmy is itself a language; it is the expression of the human soul. And no one,—let us speak for example of a sculptor or an actor,—would be able to give form to a sound or a combination of sounds, or be able to give shape to a surface, if he did not possess feeling, the feeling for the curved surface or for the structure and formation of sounds. It is not so much a question of the performer, just at the moment of performance, having a feeling for what ought to be called up in the audience or for how it should be called up (for this would only lead him into error) but the point is actually to feel the structure of the sounds the shape and form of the sounds. The sculptor too must have a feeling for his surface. The sculptor has a different feeling according to whether he feels a round or a flat surface. This is not a feeling that one wishes to display; it is the artistic feeling which is developed by the artist within the sphere of his means of artistic expression.

The eurythmist also can develop such a feeling. And, in a performance of eurythmy, it is only when the right feeling, the right inner attitude towards the movements is present, that a real effect upon the soul of the onlooker is achieved.

Let us realize for once what this can mean. Let us take some movement,—any sound, which would make the eurythmist move the hand and arm in this way, and then hold it for a moment (demonstrating the movement);—here we have the movement or the plastic posture into which the movement has led us over.

Now the effect of this movement will only be ensouled when the eurythmist, apart from making the movement, actually feels in the movement itself the sensation, here in this upward direction, of something of the nature of tangible air. The sensation must be somewhat different from that of ordinary air; it is as if we had to do with air which is perceptible, tangible; it is as if something were twined around the arm, something we had to carry. We may think of this as the feeling; the arm is moved in such and such a way and the feeling ensues; the eurythmist feels something touching the arm quite lightly, a slight pressure, even a slight tension. If we represent this in somewhat expressionistic form, we may say that here, as it were, we fashion a veil. And the onlooker sees, when the eurythmist really uses the veil with skill, all this expressed in the veil. The veil is arranged so that the eurythmist feels a slight pressure here, a slight tension there; and then the onlooker sees what the eurythmist feels. It is possible in the movements of eurythmy to pour one’s whole feeling into the forms taken by the veil.

This is, of course, speaking of the matter from a very idealistic point of view, for such things cannot be achieved all at once; they should, however, at least form a goal towards which the eurythmist must gradually strive. This is why the addition of veils to our performances of eurythmy was completely justified. For the veil is, in its very nature, of real assistance to the onlooker, helping him to see in the external plastic movement what the fluidic feeling inherent in the movements of eurythmy is. And again, when we have such a working together of movement and feeling as I have described, then already we have represented some part of the soul life. For in the place of thought we have movement, and we contact the feeling quite directly. Further, something of very real assistance to the onlookers would be brought about if the colour of the veil were to have some special relationship to the colour of the dress; for it is in the dress that the movement is really brought to expression, while feeling is made visible by the veil.

Thus we are able to present, in beautiful expressionistic form this interplay between movement and feeling. And one may say that if, for instance, the dress is of a colour which corresponds in some measure to the e-sound,—when the dress is of some special colour,—then the veil must be of another colour. These two colours must, however, stand in a relationship towards each other corresponding to the relationship between movement and feeling.

Of course, in an actual performance of eurythmy, this cannot be carried out exactly, for it is obviously impossible to change dress and veil for each separate sound. I have already pointed out, however, that we may, if we penetrate with artistic feeling right into the essence of the whole matter, speak of certain moods; we may speak of an e-mood or an u-mood, and it is possible to carry this over, not merely into lines and verses, but into a whole poem. And when we have a feeling for the fact: This poem is written in the mood of i, and that poem in the mood of e;—or when, let us say, we are able to feel: In this poem when, having two eurythmists, we arrange that one expresses the character of the e-mood by means of dress and veil and the other the character of the i;—then once again we are able to bring to a somewhat more complicated expression, in the interplay of these two moods, the actual mood of the poem.

Such experiments in the harmonizing of dress and veil have, of course, already been attempted in poems as a whole; for it is these things which must form the basis of our work. But they cannot be said to rest upon mere nebulous fantasy; they must be experienced with inner artistic feeling, they must be studied artistically. Only then can they be represented with such reality and truth that the onlooker, even if completely ignorant of the whole matter, will nevertheless have, albeit in quite a naive way, the corresponding impression.

Now, however, in a performance of eurythmy we must consider yet a third element. This is the element of will, the character. If you take some sound and picture how it should be represented in eurythmy, you will say to yourselves: In the movement, in the first place, we have represented something which is similar to the whole treatment and formation of speech in recitation. The whole way in which speech is treated, whether pictorial or musical, is expressed in eurythmy by means of the movement.

The feeling which the reciter also brings into his recitation, the feeling, this is made really visible in what the eurythmist himself must experience in his own fantasy. It is as if there were here a slight feeling of pressure, there of tension, and this has a great effect upon the movements; quite naturally, quite instinctively, the movements themselves become different with the differing feelings of the eurythmist. This is what permeates the whole thing with life and soul. And it is good when the eurythmist is not merely master of the external movement as such, but when this feeling also is present. In the forming of an e, for instance, one does, quite definitely, have a slight sensation in some place or another; and it is good when one is able, in imagination, to give oneself up to these slight sensations. Then the movement itself gains a soul-quality quite different from that which it has when carried out mechanically.

But the reciter also introduces into his recitation an element of will. He speaks quietly, let us say, in one place; he gains strength; often he speaks out quite loudly. This is the will-element. And this will-element,—which I should like in the realm of art to name ‘character’,—can also be carried over into a performance of eurythmy. Now suppose that in some sound or other you have to hold the arm in this way,—and the hand here,—(demonstrating the movement). Quite involuntarily, out of your own instinctive artistic feeling, you will create something different when you hold the hand relaxed, yielding it up to its own weight, or when you stretch it out. And just as the reciter by exerting more or less strength and power in his speech, brings character into language, so too you can bring character into eurythmy.

You will, for instance, give a different character from what you are showing by means of your arm, when, as a eurythmist you do not merely give yourself up to your fantasy, but actually bring this fantasy into outward expression. Let us say that in the case of certain letters, or in some passage which you wish to express, the forehead takes on a slight tension, or you feel in some movement that you exert a certain strength of the muscles of the upper arm, or you have the feeling, that at some point you must put down the foot quite consciously with a certain pressure on the floor;—all this forms the third element which must be brought into eurythmy, the character. Thus we really have the possibility of expressing the whole soul life in a performance of eurythmy.

Now you see, my dear friends, the remarkable thing is this: If one really puts into practice the thoughts which I have just set before you, then, simply by expressing eurythmy in a certain way, one creates the impulses which underlie what is being sought after to-day as a special form of art,—expressionism in art. For eurythmy is, from a certain point of view, absolutely expressionistic. Only it does not make use of the many absurd means which are made to serve so-called Expressionism; it makes use of those means whereby one can create forms of expression really artistically. It makes use of movements of the physical body, and by this means feeling is poured into the limbs, character is poured into the limbs, as I have just described.

Now in our performances, which are still, of course, only at the very beginning of their development, we have always endeavoured to carry out just these things of which I have been speaking, to carry them out in such a way that the sounds have been treated at least according to these principles. We have endeavoured to find for each sound a justifiable means of expression, justifiable, because in the choice of one colour the movement is definitely represented, in a second colour the feeling (this is shown in the veil and is consequently only to be seen at a performance), and in a third colour the character is brought to expression. So that in eurythmy you are able to represent each sound by means of colour, according to movement, feeling and character.

In this way one may perhaps achieve a two-fold result. In the first place one may see in how far eurythmy can attain to what is artistic by its own means. For everything which is to be achieved artistically in the realm of eurythmy, limited as this is to the stage where everything has to take place,—all this may be summed up in Movement, Feeling and Character, as I have explained them here. The sculptor must achieve everything by means of his treatment of the surface, the reciter by his forming and shaping of the sounds the musician by his forming and shaping of the tones; and so also must the eurythmist achieve all that is possible to achieve by means of movement, feeling and character. What lies outside this must not be considered. This is the sphere of expression for the art of eurythmy, and by these means everything has to be achieved.

From lectures given on 4th August, 1922 (Dornach) 26th August, 1923 (Penmaenmawr).

We have recently made the attempt here at Domach, to produce figures representing the movements of Eurythmy. And at the performances given at Oxford¹ we showed how an understanding of eurythmy may be helped by means of such figures, and how they may serve to clear up our ideas with regard to the nature of this art. From what I am now going to say in this connection you will see that in these figures I have at least attempted to further the understanding of eurythmy from more than one point of view.

In these figures I have been able to reproduce just those three elements of eurythmy of which I have previously spoken. It is possible by this means to increase the appreciation of the onlookers; and at the same time the eurythmists themselves may learn infinitely much from looking at these figures, because they represent those elements of eurythmy which are absolutely essential. As I am showing you these representations, I must ask you first of all to notice that they should not in any way be copied or imitated: Reproduction strictly prohibited. That is the first point. And the second is that, if I now show them to you, you will not all push forward and thus cause confusion.

We have, in the first place, tried to represent the letters of the alphabet in the way I have just described. Thus you see here, in these figures, representations of the human being from which everything not belonging to the sphere of eurythmy has been omitted. You must not expect either pictorial or plastic representations of the human form; for here the human being has been depicted entirely from the point of view of eurythmy. It is, then, only the eurythmic aspect of the human being which has been taken into account; but every sound has been represented with the utmost completeness and detail. For this reason the eurythmy figures have no faces, or, to be more correct, their faces are used to express the character of the movement, the form of the movement, and so on.

Thus, taking these figures in their order, you have: A. E. I. O. U. D. B. F. G. H. That part of the figure which would usually represent the face is here formed in such a way as to represent the movement. This can, of course, only be indicated; but it is quite a good eurythmic exercise to picture oneself in fancy as really appearing like the figure in question. Proceeding, then, we have the letters: T. S. R. P. N. M. and L.

Let us, for example, take this eurythmy figure, which represents the experience lying behind the sound H. Now one might ask: In which direction is the face looking? Is it looking upwards or straight ahead?—This is really a matter of no consequence; we are concerned with something quite different. In the first place this figure, taken as a whole, represents the eurythmic movement, that is to say, the movement of the arms and of the legs. In the second place the figure shows how in the forms of the veil, in the way in which the veil is held, drawn closer, thrown into the air, allowed to fall or to undulate, the actual movement, that is to say, the more intellectual expression of the soul life in eurythmy, can be made more deeply expressive.

The significance of the different colours is always indicated on the backs of the figures. Then, in certain places, as for instance here on the head, we have the indication as to where the eurythmist, in carrying out the movement, should exert a certain tension of the muscles. Let us now examine this eurythmy figure and we shall see how the effect of the movement is made more complete by means of the treatment of the face. Observe how here, where blue is painted on the forehead, there is a tension of the muscles, as also here at the nape of the neck, while here (indicating the figure) the muscles are left more relaxed. In eurythmy one can differentiate quite exactly between the experience of moving the arm with the muscles relaxed and the experience of moving the arm with muscles that are stretched and tense, or with an exertion of the muscles in the fingers for instance. Thus, when taking up a bending posture, the feeling is quite different when the muscles involved are consciously exerted, from what it is when these muscles are allowed to relax and the back simply bends of itself. By means of this muscular tension, which must be inwardly experienced by the eurythmist, character is brought into the movement.

Thus it may be said: In the way in which the movement is formed there lies,—or rather the movement itself actually manifests,—all that the soul wishes to express by means of this visible speech. In the same way, however, as words have their timbre, their own special tone, brought about by the feeling lying within them, so too the movement,—by means of the way in which it is coloured by fear, for instance, when this is expressed in a sentence, or by joy, or delight,—so too must the movement be permeated by feeling. And this can be done by the use of the veil, by the way in which the veil is made to undulate, to float in the air, to sink down, and so on. Thus, movement accompanied by the veil is movement permeated by feeling. And movement accompanied by this inner tension of the muscles, is movement which carries with it the element of character. When a eurythmist experiences this tension or relaxation of the muscles in the right way, it can also be perceived by the onlookers. There is no necessity to explain and interpret all this, for the audience will actually feel everything that can be brought into the language of eurythmy by means of character, feeling and movement.

The figures arose through the initiative of Miss Maryon;² they have, however, been further worked out according to my indications.

Looking at the way in which these figures are carried out, both as regards the carving and the colouring, we find that the essential thing is to separate all those elements in the human being which do not belong to the realm of eurythmy from those elements which are in themselves eurythmic. If a eurythmist were to use charm of face in order to please, this would in no way belong to eurythmy; the eurythmist must understand how to make use of the face by means of the muscular tension of which I have spoken. For this reason anyone possessing a truly artistic perception will in no way prefer a beautiful eurythmist to one who is less beautiful. In all these matters no attention need be paid to what a human being looks like, simply as a human being, apart from the movements of eurythmy; such a thing must be left entirely out of account.

Thus in the formation of these figures, we have represented only that part of the human being which may be expressed through the movements of eurythmy.

It would indeed be a very good thing if this principle were more generally applied in the development of art as a whole; for it really is necessary, in the case of any art, to separate those things which do not come within its sphere from those things which should be expressed by means of its own special medium. And in the case of eurythmy, in the case of a manifestation of the life of the human body, soul and spirit which is so direct and so true, one must be specially careful to ensure the putting aside of all those elements in the human being which do not definitely belong to the art of which we are speaking.

Thus I have always said, when asked at what age a person can do eurythmy, that there are no age limits; beginning at three until the age of ninety, the personality can fully find its place in eurythmy, for every period of life can—as in other ways also—reveal its beauties in eurythmy.

All that I have been saying is related to eurythmy in its artistic aspect, to eurythmy purely as an art. And it was indeed as an art that eurythmy first came into being. At that time, in 1912, there was as yet no thought of anything else; the aim was to bring eurythmy before the world as an art.

Then, when the Waldorf School was founded, it was discovered that eurythmy could also be an important means of education, and we have since been able to prove that eurythmy is completely justifiable from this aspect also. In the Waldorf School eurythmy has been made a compulsory subject from the lowest to the highest class, both for boys and girls; and experience has proved that this visible speech or visible song, which is learned by the children, is acquired by them in a way which is just as natural as that in which they acquired ordinary speech and song in their earliest childhood. Children accept eurythmy as something quite self-understood. And we have also noticed that all other forms of gymnastics, when compared with eurythmy, prove themselves somewhat one-sided. For these other forms of gymnastics bear within them, as it were, the materialistic ideas of our age, and are based mainly upon the laws of the physical body. The physical body is of course also taken into account in eurythmy, but here we have a working together of body, soul and spirit; so that eurythmy may be said to be a form of gymnastics which is permeated through and through with soul and spirit. The child feels this. He feels, with every movement that he makes, that he is not forming the movements merely out of physical necessity. He feels how his life of soul and spirit flows into the movements of the arms, into the movements of the whole body. The child comprehends eurythmy in the inner depths of his soul. And now that we have a certain number of years of experience in the Waldorf School behind us, we are able to see what eurythmy is expecially able to develop. It is initiative of will, that quality so much needed by modern man, which is specially cultivated by eurythmy as a means of education. One must, however, be quite clear that, if eurythmy were only to be introduced into schools and not given its full value as an art, a complete misunderstanding would arise. Eurythmy must primarily take its place in the world as an art, just as the other arts also have their places in the world. We are taught the other arts at school when they have an independent artistic existence; and eurythmy also can be taught in the schools when, as an art, it is acknowledged and appreciated, thus becoming part of our modern civilization.

Later on a considerable number of doctors found their way into the anthroposophical movement, and through their activities the art of medicine began to be cultivated from the point of view of Anthroposophy. At this time the need made itself felt to apply the movements of eurythmy,—movements which are drawn out from the healthy human organism and in which the human being can be revealed and manifested in a way which is in truth suited to his organism,—to apply these movements in the realm of healing. Looked at from this aspect eurythmy may be said to be that part of the human being which demands free outlet. Anyone understanding the nature of a hand will know that a hand in the true sense is simply non-existent when it is regarded as something motionless. The fingers are quite without meaning when they are regarded as something motionless; their meaning first becomes apparent when they grasp at something and take hold of it, when movement arises out of the quiescent form. One can see the inherent movement in the fingers and hand. It is the same with the human being as a whole; and that which has come into being as eurythmy really is the healthy outpouring of the human organism into movement. Thus, when eurythmy is applied as curative eurythmy in the realm of therapeutics, the movements, although similar in nature, differ from those of artistic eurythmy; for they must, when used curatively, work back with a healing influence upon some particular part of the organism.

In this case, again, we have had considerable success in our treatment of the children in the Waldorf School. Natur-ally a real insight into child-nature is essential. Let us suppose that we are dealing with a child who is weak and ailing. He is made to do those movements which could help to bring about recovery. Results have proved, this can be said in all modesty,—that we have here had the most brilliant success. But all these things, and everything arising out of them, can only be successful if eurythmy as an art is really brought to complete development.

A statement must here be made: we are at the beginning. We have, however, certainly progressed some little way with eurythmy, and we are seeking to develop it ever further. At first, for instance, there were no silent forms at the beginning of a poem, which represents what can be expressed as introduction and again what can be expressed as the drawing to a conclusion. At first, too, there were not the changes of lighting, which must also be so conceived that the point is not that each separate situation should be followed by one or another lighting effect; but a light eurythmy has itself come about. The essential matter is not how a certain light effect is suited to what is happening at a particular moment on the stage, but the whole eurythmy of light, the play of one lighting effect into another, which itself produced a light eurythmy,—this bears within itself the same character, the same kind of experience, which otherwise comes to expression on the stage in the movements of a single human being or a group. Thus in the development of the stage picture, in the further perfecting of eurythmy, much will have to be added to what we are now able to see.

The wooden eurythmy figures are carried out in a special way. You must not look for anything in the nature of a plastic reproduction of the human form. This belongs to the sphere of sculpture or of painting. Here, in these eurythmy figures, it is only that part of the human being that is truly eurythmic which should be represented. Thus there is no question of a beautiful plastic reproduction of the motionless human form; the point here is to reproduce that aspect of the human being which is able to express itself in movements subject to form and themselves formative.

By means of these figures, certain details of the eurythmic movements, postures and gestures can be brought out and emphasized. These figures are only intended to reproduce such eurythmic impulses as can actually be led over into movement. In each figure there is embodied a three-fold eurythmic impulse; the movement as such, the feeling lying in the movement, and the character which wells up from the soul and pours itself into the movement.

• 1. These figures which are carved out of wood and coloured, are made at the Goetheanum at Dornach, where they may be bought. They were shown for the first time at Oxford, during a Conference at which Rudolf gave a course of lectures on the Art of Education.
• 2. Edith Maryou, sculptress at the Goetheauum (died 1924)

The fact that eurythmy originated within the Anthroposophical Movement is not in the least arbitrary, even if the actual circumstances of the case seem almost like chance. Eurythmy developed in such a way that it was only in the course of years that its essential character was revealed. The whole process of the development of eurythmy has been such that it could only have emanated from the Anthroposophical Movement, this Movement which is suited to the needs of modern times and which is in keeping with the conditions of the present and near future.

Eurythmy must be looked upon as a quite particular art, an art which is based upon the revelation of the nature and being of man through movements of the limbs carried out by a single human being or a group of human beings, either standing still or moving in space.

I have often called this revelation of the human being ‘visible speech’. It is visible speech in so far as the content of a poem or piece of music may, by its means, be brought to expression through human gesture based on laws not less exact than those which would be present if the same poem or piece of music were to be expressed through speech or song. Everything which may truly be termed art springs from a source which must be looked for in the spiritual world. It must be recognized, for instance, that architecture originated from quite definite conceptions of a supersensible nature. One may call to mind the external fact that, the further we look back in time, the more certainly do we find that monuments were erected over burial places. And when we call to mind such thoughts as are bound up with the erection of the tombstone, these thoughts would take some such form as this.

We must say to ourselves: The human being, when regarded in his entirety, does not achieve the goal of his existence by earthly life alone. He forsakes the physical body with his true being when he passes through the gate of death. His existence is continued beyond the boundary of his life on earth.

The question arises: In what way will the human being be received by the cosmos when he forsakes his physical body ?—and anyone who is able to perceive as imagination this mystery of the human being, anyone able to solve this riddle imaginatively, will discover that the answer is contained in the forms of the memorial monument or tomb.

A monumental memorial stone erected over a grave is moulded in forms which seem to conceal in themselves those lines and directions along which the soul, when released from the body, will wing its way into the wide spaces of the cosmos. The tombstone answers for us the question: What are the directions taken by the soul when it forsakes the physical body?

This of course is a very radical conception of architecture. For the conception of architecture may quite justifiably be widened out so as to include certain buildings necessary for life on earth. We can then put the question to ourselves in another form, albeit this is more prosaic: If the human being, while on the earth, is obliged to have the protection of some quite definite shelter for that which is the vehicle of his soul during earthly life, what architectural surroundings suited to what he has to do on earth must he have for his physical body?

I can only touch on these things, but I wish to point out by their means how architecture, for instance, has emanated from a supersensible origin, from a spiritual vision.

And again, when examining plastic art, one will find that the origin of sculpture lies in the answer to the question: What was the work of the Gods on the human form, and what does the human being himself make out of this form during his life on earth? What in this human form is the gift of the Gods? How does the soul-life of the human being influence this divine gift?

That which is added to this divine gift by the soul-life of man is left out of account by the sculptor as not belonging to art. That which in the human form is the gift of the Gods was what was originally made manifest through plastic art.

It was during an age in which people pondered the question: What are the directions taken by the soul after death?—that monumental architecture came into existence. This may still be seen from those Catholic Churches where the altar is a tomb or memorial, and even from the Gothic churches, for these are erected over a tomb. Just as architectural conceptions were originally born out of a supersensible vision, so the conceptions of sculpture arose in an age in which people were considering the question: In what way is the human body a gift of the Gods?

In the case of each individual form of art it is possible to point out how in the corresponding epoch of time the origin of a particular form of art arose out of the raising of human consciousness into supersensible worlds. And all naturalistic tendencies in art, everything which is not a spiritual inheritance, must be looked upon as signs of decadence, as signals of the downfall of art.

From this one may see that the origin of any art can only be traced back to supersensible worlds. When we examine the special character of our present age, it speaks to us on all sides of the way in which the forces of the subconscious and of the unconscious are weaving and working in the psycho-spiritual life of man. Most people to-day, however, allow their unconscious life to remain unconscious. Formerly, when anyone showed a certain tendency in his soul-life, people simply expressed their trust in the goodness of God, which meant that they were not going to bother any more about it. And to-day also it must be said of most people who talk about ‘the unconscious’, that they also allow the unconscious life to remain unconscious; they are not really troubling about it. On the other hand, it is the task of anthroposophical spiritual knowledge to raise up this unconscious life and unite it with a super-consciousness, to grasp what lives directly in the human being as psychic-spiritual in its connection with the higher spirituality.

In this respect, however, we find that, as a means of human expression, speech can be said only partially to reveal the human being. Speech is above all the vehicle of thought; and the way in which thought has developed in our modern civilization has led to the loss of poetry through too much thinking about it. This shows itself most clearly in the fact, in spite of a healthy reaction in this direction,—that it is no longer possible to recite or declaim in a way which is really artistic. It is only with years of work and infinite pains that Frau Dr. Steiner has succeeded in leading declamation and recitation back to their true form.

A true art of recitation and declamation reveals the essential nature of poetry. For the nature of poetry may only be discovered by one who with full inner understanding can echo the words of the poet: ‘Spricht die Seele, so spricht, ach, schon die Seele nicht mehr’. (If the soul speaks, then alas, the soul speaks no more.) When the soul comes to the lips, finding expression in words which have long lost their connection with the realities of the universe, then we have prose; we no longer have poetry. We only rediscover poetry when we return to a manner of speech in which the words wing their way in greater or lesser curves, in undulating waves, or lines, sharp and angular, thus forming themselves into the strophe or verse. Such pictures of the imagination as are sought by the true poet must be led over into the rhythms of the Iambic or the Trochaic, into pulse or beat, into the melodic phrase which can transform speech into music. Then we reach something which lies beyond words; whereas most people to-day emphasize the prose element in recitation and declamation, even if, as I have said, a reaction has already set in.

Speaking in a wide sense, however, we must hold to the fact that a poem can only fully be understood when the following is borne in mind.

The reciter or declaimer has no means at his disposal other than the utterance of words. All the possibilities of his art lie in the way the words are spoken. Anyone who understands how to listen to recitation or declamation with the ear of an artist feels conjured up within him an impression either imaginative or musical, a picture arising out of the actual sounds of speech, or out of the musical element in speech,—both of which are on a far higher level than thought.

Thought is a reflection of sense-impressions. We ascend to the supersensible. When we express thought by means of speech, then, because thought lives in the breath, it calls upon that which unites itself with the breath. And with the breath is connected the pulsation of the blood.

The pulsation of the blood, even to its slightest variations, expresses the experiences and perceptions of the soul; it is the expression of the soul-life. Anyone able to enter into these things with true insight is aware that, if we speak, for instance, such a word as ‘Klingen’, the blood-pulsation during the first syllable ‘Kling’, where there is the i-sound, differs from that during the second syllable, where the sound is e. When, with the help of the breath, thought is allowed to stream into words, the blood-pulsation, the inner movement of the human being, is stimulated.

This process continues as long as we remain in the sphere of thought. If thought clothes itself in pictures, as it can do by means of words, then we have a task different from the mere stimulation of the activity in the blood.

At the present time, when anyone speaks the sound i, it is spoken with the greatest indifference. It is an i merely, a sound which occurs in so and so many words. But this was not the case when the i originally appeared in human life, when it was literally wrested out of the being of man.

Anyone really able to experience the i would feel the way in which this sound is permeated by the breath, and would also realize the intimate connection of the breath with the pulsation of the blood. He would know that with the utterance of the sound i the speaker places himself, his own being, as it were, in space. With the e-sound, on the other hand, he feels an inner spiritual experience. When he utters the sound o he must have the feeling: the spiritual reveals itself before him. For anyone who can feel and experience language, each individual sound transforms itself into a picture, taking on quite definite contours.

Language is rich in feeling and this manifests itself in the transition from one sound to another. In the course of civilization we have lost that inner jubilation which should be experienced in the case of certain words. Soberness and indifference have conquered and the soul-life of the human being has become soured and morose. This is why, when modern civilization speaks, one frequently feels that words are produced by tongues coated with a mixture of salt and vinegar. In this civilized manner of speaking, articulation has become such that all sounds tend towards a type of hissing dental sound; they have the effect of a mixture of salt and vinegar on the tongue. But the primal language of humanity was a liquid honey. Language is essentially sweet in its nature; and it is the means by which the being of man reveals itself in sound. Poetry to-day is fettered when it struggles to embody feeling in words, we have lost from language the feeling which it once possessed.

If this feeling is to be re-awakened, language as such must be raised to a higher level. We must realize that human speech in all its aspects is, as it were, overshadowed by a heavenly world, wherein the whole content of the soul-life of man is expressed in a mighty panorama.

When one gains the possibility of perceiving that archetype of which speech is the shadow, one becomes aware of an imaginative language in which imaginations can be expressed through the microcosm, a little world, through man, who is enabled by his form as a spatial being to bring all mysteries to expression.

When one has learned to know those imaginations which reveal themselves in their relationship to all the separate forms of speech, one may then pass over to the separate forms of song. And when these are translated into the sphere of human movement we get this art of eurythmy. There is an imaginative revelation of language. Language to-day has become intellectualistic. If we go back to the imaginative origin of language,—and we must do this, for in each and every sphere we must find our way back to what is spiritual,—then we shall feel how necessary it is to bring imagination into language once more. This may be done by making use, as the most significant means of artistic expression, of the possibilities of human movement in space, of the actual movements in space of the human being himself. When we wish to give expression to the deeper elements lying behind language we must do more than merely influence the circulation of the blood, which we do in speech owing to the connection existing between the breathing and the blood. We must enter a realm which soars, as it were, above the head, above thoughts, above abstract language; we must enter the reahn of imaginative language. For this we need, not the circulation of the blood merely, which is influenced when we speak even when standing still; but we must pass over from the circulation of the blood into the visible movements of the human being himself. Then the gestures in the air which are produced by speech, for we unconsciously impress the imagination into air-gestures,—are transformed into visible gestures. And these visible gestures are eurythmy.

Eurythmy has arisen out of the very nature of our age and out of its fundamental needs. Just as one can show how architecture had to arise out of one particular epoch, and how sculpture, painting and music arose in their corresponding epochs, so one day people will understand that eurythmy, this art of human movement, was bound to arise out of this our present age.

It has been a task of special difficulty to weld into book form these lectures which originally depended so much upon the living co-operation of lecturer and demonstrators. These lectures were not meant as an encyclopaedic recapitulation of the whole sphere of eurhythmy; they were given just at that point in the evolution of eurhythmy where it became necessary to review all that had been accomplished during the course of many years’ activity, and which had already been carried out into the world by the various teachers; The intention was to examine and correct the results of this work and ‘to gather together a number of guiding lines, developed entirely from out of the nature of eurhythmy itself.’ Rudolf Steiner says in the last lecture of this course that his intention was to give his lectures such a form that they would show ‘how eurhythmy arises out of the feeling life, out of the soul; how a eurhythmic technique must be won from out of the love of eurhythmy, just as everything must in reality arise out of love.’ And indeed his own words streamed forth from a fountain of love, bringing help and aid to the work already accomplished,—the work which from then on was to be based on an even surer foundation. Up to this time there had been no shorthand reports of the teaching by means of which Rudolf Steiner introduced this art to the world. In the year 1912 he gave ten lessons to a seventeen year old girl, who, through the death of her father, was faced with the necessity of assisting in the maintenance of her younger brothers and sisters. She greatly wished to devote herself to some art of movement which was not based upon the materialistic tendencies of the age. This concrete fact proved the impulse for that teaching which has resulted in eurhythmy. I was invited to take part in these lessons; they consisted in the rudiments of sound-formation, and a number of exercises in reality belonging to the educational aspect of eurhythmy,—that is to say the basic principles of standing, walking and running, certain postures and gestures, and a number of staff exercises and rhythmic exercises. From these basic principles several girls, pupils of the first eurhythmist, worked out the educational aspect of eurhythmy; later they passed on to the expression of poems by means of movements corresponding to the sounds. This was the first phase of eurhythmic development. Every now and again, when the work was shown to him, Rudolf Steiner explained and corrected, answering any questions put to him. A second phase of eurhythmic development began when this new art found a foothold in Dornach, at the Goetheanum. The first group of young teachers requested and received a further course, in which more especially teaching about the formation of words, word-relationships, the nature of speech, the structure of poetry was given, as also new group forms. The work was carried out into the world, but the war soon checked its activity. In order to save this art and to rescue the eurhythmists from their enforced inactivity, it became necessary for me to take the work in hand. Destiny brought this task to me quite naturally, for a new style of recitation was necessary for eurhythmy, and I had to find my way into this new method, to understand and develop it. I recognized the great significance of eurhythmy as a regenerating source for all branches of art, and deeply regretted the fact that the eager work of these young eurhythmists should be rendered fruitless by the war. There is no better remedy against the errors of taste of the present day than this new art, which leads us back to the primeval forces, to the creative forces of the universe. It is of untold benefit to mankind. Thus I worked half of the year in Germany with one group of eurhythmists, and the other half of the year at the Goetheanum in Dornach, always supported and assisted by Rudolf Steiner, to whom we could turn with all our questions. The instruction we received from him in the course of time has been gathered together in book form by Annemarie Dubach-Donath, one of our best and most experienced eurhythmists, the second in that line of young girls who devoted themselves to the study of eurhythmy. This book, entitled The Basic Principles of Eurythmy, and published by the Philosophisch-Anthroposophischer Verlag, sets forth and explains these principles, thus building a foundation which is, absolutely necessary if eurhythmy is to be understood, and without which it would always remain incomplete.

We met together to take part in this course as if uniting in a common festival. Many were the questions put to Rudolf Steiner; he recapitulated the teaching, clearing up many things about which we held differing opinions. The whole nature of this course was that of spontaneous improvisation; diagrams were rapidly sketched on the board, exercises demonstrating certain points were carried out by the eurhythmists; everything bore the character of intimate conversation and co-operative work, not of pedantic instruction. This was often the case with the teaching given by Rudolf Steiner to his pupils, but never to such a degree as in this course on eurhythmy. He himself, in all probability, wished the content of these lectures first to be assimilated and experienced, and then later on cast into another form and given to the world through the agency of some other person. Now, however, when he has gone from us, his own words are what we value most. Even here,—when the effect cannot be other than fragmentary, constantly interrupted as the lectures were by practical example and demonstration,—many subtle relationships are brought to light, and we are moved to the heights and depths of our being in a way which would be impossible through the words of another. During his lectures, as he himself delivered them, the cadences of his voice seemed to stream out from spiritual depths, revealing radiant glimpses of cosmic mysteries. And now, even after his death, he still makes for us that sacrifice which he had to make throughout his whole life,—the sacrifice, that is to say, of allowing the disjointed fragments of his spirit to be preserved and written down by another hand. Those who drew life from his spirit demanded this sacrifice. None knew what it cost him. But the sacrifice was made. It has saved for our age the wisdom which reveals the relationship of universe and man; it has preserved for present-day humanity,—no longer able to remember the word of the spirit without the aid of the written record,—that store of knowledge which can raise man ever more and more to the consciousness of the concrete reality of the spirit; it contains the kindling, life-awakening spark.

Among the many branches of the spiritual work of Rudolf Steiner eurhythmy was one of those which he held most dear. It developed quite organically from the smallest beginnings, adding shoot to shoot, and reaching goodly proportions, thanks to the health-giving nurture and tireless labours of its creator. It ennobled those who gave themselves to its study, compelling them more and more to put aside all that is personal; it left no room for caprice. Its inherent laws were rooted in a spiritual necessity; these laws were gladly acknowledged, for in them one experienced necessity, one experienced God. This is why eurhythmy was able to arouse such heartfelt enthusiasm; many eager students banded themselves together in selfless work, so that the field of activity grew ever wider and wider. Side by side with the development of recitation, eurhythmy entered into the realm of music and in this domain also it opened up fresh channels and gave fresh possibilities of expression. A new art of stage lighting came into being, following the laws of eurhythmy, and a new style of dress, simpler, more impersonal, more dignified; these were based upon the experience of the colours, upon what might be called a eurhythmy of colour. In its connection with the drama, eurhythmy led to a means of representing those beings which otherwise had to be represented in a more or less materialistic way. The portrayal of the super-sensible and sub-sensible in earthly life now became possible. Thus, as the years went by, we were able to produce on the stage of the Schreinerei at the Goetheanum all those scenes in Faust in which the supersensible plays a part and which otherwise are either omitted or mishandled. The romantic Walpurgisnacht revealed undreamed of life and intricacy of detail, and the classical Walpurgisnacht also, with its manifold ghostly happenings. Elves, angels, the hosts of heavenly beings were represented in these performances with simplicity and dignity, and in a way entirely convincing. The greater our activity and work the greater was our gain. Every effort which resulted in deeds was rewarded by fresh gifts from our generous teacher. So many possibilities of work arose that we could not keep pace with them in the time at our disposal.

After several years of tireless training and a good deal of stage experience before friendly audiences, the time came for eurhythmy to be carried out into the world. The result was striking; it was received with enthusiastic appreciation or violent opposition,—never with indifference. We were threatened with the ostracism of the cultured world; the press representatives were usually instructed to write from an antagonistic point of view, even if, as they often asserted, they themselves were enthusiastic. Representatives of other branches of art were often deeply impressed, often, also, aggressively ironical. Members of such societies as aim at reforms of all kinds felt their nebulous systems threatened by an unknown but assured and powerful force. Unprejudiced onlookers thanked God that there could be so true and pure an art. Children frequently asked if those were the angels of whom they had been told, and loud ‘ohs’ and ‘ahs’ of wonderment were often the eloquent testimony of their impressions. This art worked into the quagmire of our modern civilization as a purifying light or flame; the lovers of darkness gave vent to their opprobrium,—those who wished to rise up out of the low-lying levels of our civilization felt as if cleansed and purified. The power of the spirit manifested itself in this art and its effect was purifying and invigorating.

It so chances that I am writing these words in England. The life of London, the capital of the world, has been working upon me, the quintessence of that element in our modern civilization which has produced the predominance of all that is physical in life, of all that can serve our material well-being. The business life of this world-centre, its industrial and commercial life, rushes noisily on its way. That to-day is a matter of course. But the menace to humanity is this: everywhere one hears the shrill sound of the wireless, the rasping of the gramophone, the whirring of the film; machinery has conquered on all sides, even in the realm of art; the most vital impulses are liable to waver and become mechanized. A performance which I witnessed in the Rudolf Steiner Hall in London, with its beautiful stage, a performance consisting of the interpretation of the music of early composers played on old instruments, had the effect of pictures from a past age. The performers (who were not Anthroposophists), attired in costumes of the period, produced a reposeful music full of feeling and inwardness, a music demanding leisure, which is not to be hurried, which deepens the contemplative life. The effect of such music is somewhat antiquated; but if one can persuade one’s modern nerves to adapt themselves to an earlier attitude, curbing their restlessness, it has a beneficent influence. It has about as much resemblance to the hustle of modern music as the long, flowing dresses of earlier times, still admired by painters, have to the lanky legs of to-day, where the hem of the dress comes well above the knee. The effect of these legs on the stage, when looked at from the stalls of a theatre, is terribly obtrusive. They are shown off with determination; they are meant to be seen. The qualities formerly regarded as feminine and charming are but little in evidence in a modern drawing-room. An actress, if playing the part of a young girl, likes to loll about on some padded sofa; she thrusts out her legs, crossed over each other, and beyond that one has in perspective a little bobbed or shingled head. When one is faced with a whole row of such attitudes, the aesthetic element must really be said to be lacking!

But this is only lack of beauty. What is still worse is that the very speech and gesture has been affected by this mechanical, noisy music, which rattles from all the gramophones, from the wireless, from the pianolas, and which even in many of the best London theatres has taken the place of the orchestra. They carry on their ceaseless noise during the intervals, drumming their hard sounds into the head and deadening the consciousness of the ego. When, at the end of a performance the conventional phrase of ‘God save the King’ is played and the audience rises to its feet, without the slightest pause the music falls into some wild jazz. Where is the need of breathing space or a moment’s consideration?—the machine needs no such thing. But the lack of any transition between two contrasted moods has a stultifying effect upon the soul. Young girls enter the stage, or drawing-room, even in Paris, with that rolling movement of hips and shoulders which negro dances have made second nature. They themselves do not notice this eternal rolling movement of the limbs: the effect is almost that of a wound-up doll, or of hypnosis. In woods, on the sea-shore, everywhere one is horrified by the sound of the gramophone and the sight of partners indulging in this sliding, rolling motion. Dancing, which seemed to be dying out when the decorative elegant French dances lost their charm, when even the waltz and the polka had failed to interest, has come to life again in the crude and primitive form of imitated negro dances. ‘We like the rhythm’ several girls replied, when I inquired what was so fascinating about these dances.—But this rhythm is in reality no rhythm. It is anti-rhythmic, it is an earth force which whirls upwards, an over-emphasized or furtive and indistinct beat, an increased blood pulsation coupled with lowered consciousness. One only needs to look at the figures of the dancers, with their vacant, expressionless faces, to be convinced that this is so,—especially so with the men, who now, young and old alike, have suddenly developed a passion for dancing. These dances appeal to the lower instincts, and for this reason they have as adherents even the most blasé, and those whose souls have become lifeless and barren. But that which was merely animal nature in the case of the negro has with us become mechanical. The demons of machinery here find means of access; they gain a hold on the human being through his movement, through his vitality. They do not only influence his brain, but enter into this externalizing of that which should remain as inner mood of the soul. The mechanical musical instruments exercise their powerful, soul-deadening forces, doing away with all atmosphere and feeling. And this non-rhythmic, mechanical element is even rejected in the manner of speech of modern actors on the stage. The sentences are shot out in a way which is jerky, rough and disjointed; they seem scarcely to belong to the human being, but only to his bony structure. The human being is not himself, active, but is only an automaton functioning through intellect and senses. When, added to this, there is nervous, hysterical emotion, the producer’s requirements may be said to be fulfilled. All this works its way into the souls of our young people, making them barren and empty. What will be the result? What is the outlook for future generations if no reaction sets in? A London newspaper is lying before me; a picture attracts my attention. The picture entitled ‘Urchin Humanity’ depicts a street arab,—cheeky, impertinent, with an old face,—drawing a cart. In the centre of this cart sits Science, holding a gun: Poison Gas. On one side is the figure of Literature, eagerly perusing a book: Detective Romances; on the other side the figure of Art,—she is holding the apparatus for producing films; and below her sits Music, with a gramophone on her knee.—This is our age. Self-knowledge is shown by such a picture, and self-realization,—the only path which can lead to salvation.

One might despair; one might give way to the most drastic Spenglerism, if, in this time of need, the means of salvation had not also been given. Salvation lies in the spiritual work of Rudolf Steiner. He sounded the awakening call which can free humanity from the dangers of becoming animalized, stupefied and mechanized.

That which once, in the ancient Mysteries, was offered to men as Wegzehrung (Sustenance by the Way), as they traversed the path leading to the unfolding of the personality, is now offered to them anew. It is offered at this moment when the personality might be annulled, when that which is human threatens to sink to the level of the sub-human if this gift is not grasped and assimilated in its very essence. The intellect alone cannot aid us here; understanding, left to itself, has led us to Agnosticism, to ‘Ignoramibus’, to ‘Spenglerism’. But if man opens himself to that which is spiritual, if he allows the spiritual to reveal to him his path, the creative forces of the spirit will conquer the seeds of death and transmute those forces of destruction which are now at work in ‘urchin humanity’.

In order to see that which is of really great dimensions one must wait for the discovery of a new apparatus; otherwise it can as little be observed as that which is minute can be observed without the aid of the microscope. The distances of time alone may sometimes give the necessary perspective. The work of Rudolf Steiner towers so immeasurably over what may be grasped and understood at the present day that it is only the moving passage of time, with its widened outlook, which will first make possible a true valuation. It is our duty to apply ourselves to the many and various branches of the work, gradually bringing them into the range of vision; for here, on all sides may be found the life-belts to which we may ding in the surrounding waters of destruction and disintegration.

That which is seemingly limited often proves to be of the greatest significance. Let us begin with education by means of and in art; leg us trace the path leading back to the source from which art had its first beginning. Truly this origin was no mean one. It was the dance of the stars and its reflection in the human sphere that was known as the dance of the planets, as Temple Dancing. Here the creative forces streamed into the human body, building its form, directing it in space, and conjuring up those forces which give to man the possibility of working creatively upon himself.

And out of these forces there arose in man the faculty of leading his inner activity over into works of art, plastic and musical. Such works of art were channels which allowed the divine to radiate down into matter. They were a reflection of the cosmos.

But when the onslaught of materialism silenced the divine forces within man, rendering them powerless, when the human brain became the coffin for dead thinking and was no longer able to grasp the spiritual, then arose a deliverer. He spiritualized the intellect; he freed it from its rigidity; he restored to it its living mobility.

Indeed he brought movement into all domains of human activity. We, however, had no recollection of movement in a spiritual sense, for the movement of matter, which we had laid hold of and mastered, sufficed us, intoxicating us with its rapid motion. We did not notice that the spiritual part of our being was left passive, and that as a substitute we were intoxicating ourselves with the specific movements of sport. By this means also we alienated ourselves ever further from the spiritual impulse of movement.

We must retrace our steps with awakened consciousness; we must observe for ourselves the mighty forces of movement and whither they tend to lead us; then we shall perceive a gathering together of creative activity, the forces of which give form to the organs, and we shall gain the possibility of developing new spiritual organs in ourselves.

In this way we shall conquer the rigidity, the lifelessness, the barrenness, which to-day lead people even of the finest intelligence to the extremes of pessimism.

Once more chance has put a paper into my hand,—in Hanover, where I am writing the conclusion of this foreword. Here one may read: ‘Culture (Kultur), so long as it is strong and full of motive power, works unconsciously. We are compelled to absorb and cultivate a conscious civilization. Is not this from the very outset the signal of an incurable and sterile weakness? Is it not the destruction of that seed from which springs all creative force, so that at most one may only expect a feeble echo of that which may truly be called culture? Is the circle of real culture already completed, so that there only remains for us a civilized mechanism, with perhaps some romantic glimmer remaining from the fullness of light of better days,—which also may soon fade into nothingness?’ (from the Niedersachsenbuch, 1927).

In earlier times the inhabitants of Lower Saxony unconsciously followed a spiritual guidance, and they conquered the land of the Celtic Breton and the Gael.—As Englishmen theirs was the task of developing the consciousness soul, in so far as this is bound up with the actual personality and with physical, earthly surroundings. If the German people could raise the forces of consciousness up into the sphere of the divine ego in man, then they would have fulfilled the task of the German civilization. Then they would give to the world a new culture for which all humanity would render thanks,—whereas people turn from them when, untrue to their mission they imitate the mechanistic civilization, carrying this to its furthest extremes.

The greatest herald of the spirit of Germany proclaimed this to the German people with warning voice ever and again during the catastrophe of the world war, and he uttered these stirring words:

Der deutsche Geist hat nicht vollendet,
Was er im Weltenwerden schaffen soll
Er lebt in Zukunftssorgen hoffnungsvoll,
Er hofft auf Zukunftstaten lebensvoll.
In seines Wesenstiefen fuhlt er machtig
Verborgnes, das noch reifend wirken muss.
Wie darf in Feindesmacht verstandislos
Der Wunsch nach seinem Ende sich beleben,
So lang das Leben sich ibm offenbart
Das ihn in Wesenstiefen schaffend halt!

(The German Spirit has not completed
Its destined gift to World-Becoming.
Hope-filled, it lives in cares which fill the future,
Life-filled, it hopes for deeds on which the future must depend,
And in its deepest being feels
A hidden might which yet must work to ripeness.
Opposing powers, with lack of understanding,
Desire its end. Yet of this wish how shall there be fulfilment
So long as there is manifest that life
Which in the depths sustains creative power!)

This life must be grasped by the German. It does not, however, lie in ‘keeping the race pure’, as the slogan has it. It lies in the realization of his inherent ego forces, of his divine ego forces. But the path to this leads through the realm of consciousness. The consciousness of the personality, metamorphosed and raised up to the undying ‘I’ possesses creative forces; it conceals the spirit in itself and will produce, not the mere echo of past culture, but a virile culture of its own.

It may seem that I have strayed far from the subject of the book which I am introducing, and yet this path leads us back to the inner regions of the temple from which the ancient civilizations arose, at first in Word and in Art,—not unconsciously, but guided by the most exalted spirits. They will come to our aid also, at this epoch when it has become necessary for each individual Spirit-Consciousness to work towards the gradual transmutation of itself into a universal Human-Ego-Consciousness. If we allow ourselves to receive this aid, we shall be in a position to open ourselves to the spirit in every sphere of activity,—in that sphere also which this book illumines with spiritual revelation and human knowledge. Then we shall no longer need to stimulate our slackened nerves by means of decadent negro dances which are hammered into us by machinery, turning us into machines and gradually killing out our finest human qualities; but we shall gain an understanding for a noble art of movement, having its source in the spirit, an art of movement which is the reflection of the Dance of the Stars, and which makes the language of the stars sound visibly within us in purity and truth.

Marie Steiner.
November, 1927.

Report in the “News Sheet” (Nachrichtenblatt)

From June 24th—July 12th a course of lectures on speech eurythmy was held at the Goetheanum. It had as content a further presentation of much which had already been given in this domain and at the same time a deepening and widening of what was already known. The eurythmy artists, who both at the Goetheanum and going out from there to many places, are practicing eurythmy as an art, the eurythmy teachers, the teaching staff of the Stuttgart eurythmy school founded and directed by Marie Steiner, the eurythmy teachers of the Waldorf School and the Fortbildungsschule at the Goetheanum, the curative eurythmists, and a number of personalities who through their profession as artists or scientists in other spheres are interested in eurythmy, attended the course.

Eurythmy makes it possible to bring the artistic as such, in its essence and its sources, to visible beholding. This was specially borne in mind during the presentation of this course. He only can work as eurythmy artist who creatively unfolds a sense for art from an inner call, an inner enthusiasm.

In order to bring to manifestation the possibilities of form and movement inherent in the human organisation it is necessary that the soul be completely enfilled with art. This universal character of eurythmy underlay all that was presented.

Whoever wishes to do eurythmy must have penetrated into the being of speech-formation. He must, before all, have approached the mysteries of sound-creation. In every sound an expression for a soul experience is given; in the vowel-sounds for a thinking, feeling, willing self-revelation of the soul, in the consonant sounds for the way in which the soul represents an outer thing or a process. This expression of language remains for the most part quite subconscious in the case of ordinary speech; the eurythmist must learn to know it quite exactly, for he has to transform what becomes audible in speech into gestures which are quiescent or in movement. In this course, therefore, the inner structure of language was revealed. The sound-significance of the word, which everywhere underlies the meaning-significance, was made visible. By the eurythmy gestures themselves, some aspects of the inner laws of language—little recognised at the present time, when speaking is the expression of a strongly abstract attitude of soul—can be visibly manifested. That is what happened in this course. Thereby, it may be hoped, it will also have given to eurythmy teachers the guiding lines necessary for them.

The eurythmist must devote himself to the gesture down to its smallest detail, so that his performance really becomes the self-understood expression of the life of soul. He can only give form to the gesture in its fullness when the smallest detail comes first to consciousness, that it may later become the habitual expression of the soul-being.

A study was made of how the gesture as such reveals soul-experience and spirit-content, and also of how this revelation relates itself to the soul-expression which is manifested audibly in the language of sound. From eurythmy one can learn to value the technique of art; but from eurythmy one can indeed also become deeply imbued with the way in which the technical must put aside everything external and be completely taken hold of by the soul, if the truly artistic is to come to life. People who are active in any sphere of art often speak of how the soul must work behind the technique; the truth is that it is in the technique that the soul must work.

A special value was laid in these lectures upon showing that in the truly formed gestures the aesthetically sensitive human being perceives the soul-element directly in a quite unequivocal way. Examples were shown which demonstrated how a content in the soul-configuration can be made obvious in a certain gesture-formation.

It was also shown how the whole structure of language, which reveals itself in grammar, syntax, rhythm, in poetical figures of speech, in rhyme and verse-formation, also finds its corresponding realisation in eurythmy.

The audience attending this course was not only to be led into the knowledge of eurythmy but they should be brought to the experience of how all art must be sustained by love and enthusiasm. The eurythmist cannot separate himself from his artistic creation and objectively put it forward for aesthetic enjoyment as can the painter or sculptor, but he remains personally within his performance; one sees from him himself whether or no art lives within him as a divine world-content. In the immediate artistic present, art in its visible essence must be made manifest by the actual human being of the eurythmist. This demands a particularly inward and intimate relationship to art. To help the partakers towards this understanding was the aim of this course. It wished to show how, when beholding the gestures feeling, inner perception are enkindled in the soul, and how this inner perception then leads to the experience of the visible word. Much which can only be partially expressed in the audible word can be completely revealed through the movements of eurythmy. The audible word in recitation and declamation, in conjunction with the visible word, produces a total expression which can result in the most intensive artistic unity.

I. Eurythmy as Visible Speech

It is necessary for the eurythmist to be able to enter into eurythmy with his whole personality, with his whole being, so that this art may become an expression of life itself. When we wish to penetrate into the nature of eurythmy we have to do with a penetration into the being of man. Eurythmy must be a creation out of the spirit and must make use of human movement as its means of expression. Speech itself is not the imitation of anything, and eurythmy also must represent an original creation. ‘In the beginning was the Word.' Primeval humanity conceived ‘the Word' as comprising in itself the entire human being as etheric creation. This human etheric body is in continual movement, ever taking on new forms; these forms are only to be captured when the whole content of speech is uttered aloud and thus given shape. These sound-forms which issue from the larynx are inherent in the formation of the larynx and its neighbouring organs. When we utter a word we produce a definite form in the air. If we were able to utter the alphabet from a to z, in such a way that the whole could take shape in the air, we should have the form of the human etheric body. This etheric body contains within it the forces of growth, of nourishment and of memory; all this is imparted to the air when we speak. In this way words arise. The etheric man is the word which comprises the whole alphabet. That which comes into being through speech is the birth of the etheric man. In the sound of each individual word some part of the human being is contained. Everything in the world is a part of us. Nothing exists which may not find expression through the human being. In the creative larynx we have the etheric man as an air form in a state of becoming. Spoken words are always a partial birth of the etheric man. When we speak we have to do with an etheric creation of the human being. In speech we are faced with a creative activity welling up from the depths of universal life. Speech is bound up with the origin of the human being. Human knowledge begins with wonder, with a; in b we have the protecting sheath; every sound tells us something about man; when we arrive at the sound z we have a synthesis of human wisdom. Nearly the whole life of the soul, in its aspect of feeling, is expressed in i, o, a. These possibilities of movement when held fast give us the physical form of man. This perfected form arose out of movement, out of primeval forms which continually came into being and again dissolved. Movement does not arise out of that which is at rest; the form at rest arises out of movement. The human form is the result of a divine eurythmy. Every art may be traced back to a divine source; but because eurythmy makes use of the human being as its instrument it enables us to see most deeply into the connection between the human being and the universe.

II. The Character of the Individual Sounds

Consonants: an imitation of external happenings; vowels: an inner experience; h: midway between the consonants and the vowels in its relation to the breath; for the breath is partially an inward experience and in part streams outwards. Primeval language. The nature of the individual sounds.

III. The Gestures: How They are Formed and Experienced

The mood and feeling contained in the sounds: s, z, a, e, u, ei, b, c, d, f, 1, m, n, z. An explanation of the way in which, by means of eurythmy, the experiences underlying the gestures may be carried over into their actual form.

IV. The Individual Sounds and Their Combination into Words

The inner nature of the sounds was revealed in the ancient Mysteries. The different characteristics of language; for instance the German language is a sculptor, the Magyar language a hunter.—Eurythmy is a language which may be understood if approached without prejudice. The sounds are the essential basis of eurythmy; special attention must be paid to the transition from one sound to another. By means of eurythmy it is possible to enter into the living spirit of language and to experience the essential nature of words.—In the Russian language one is always following on the tracks of the word; in the French language the movement is always in advance of the word. One may pass over from the nature of individual words to the inner logic contained in language. In this logic the character of the different peoples is brought to expression.

V. The Mood and Feeling of a Poem

Transition from the actual sounds to the logical or emotional content of speech. Emphasis. The question mark, exclamation mark, merriment, cleverness, knowledge, self-assertion, frenzy, insatiability, inwardness, charm, the bringing of tidings, sadness, despair. By means of these gestures different moods of soul may be brought to plastic-eurythmic expression.

VI. Different Aspects of the Soul-Life. The Inner Nature of Colour.

Description of gestures which are drawn out of the whole human organization and which express some underlying mood. Devotion, solemnity. The three categories of the life of the soul: Thinking, Feeling, Willing. The more intimate nature of a poem is expressed by means of the treatment of language. The use of the e-sound by poets tending more towards thought, the epic; the use of the sounds a, e, u, when the tendency is towards feeling; the use of many consonants when will is predominant. Straight and curved lines.—Significance of sound when choosing colour of dress and veil. It is only possible to enter truly into the nature of a sound when the corresponding colours are experienced. Colour is the life of the soul transfixed in the outer world. Every human being has a fundamental colour.

VII. The Plastic Formation of Speech

The structure of language as such and the character of the separate sounds must be brought to visible form in eurythmy. The ‘air-gestures' which may be said to be present in language are imitated and made externally visible. The consonant sounds are adapted to a more plastic interpretation. The character of the breath sounds is a yielding to the outer world. In the consonants of force man confronts the outer world as master; these sounds are an assertion of the inner life. Movement as such is expressed in the vibrating and wave-like sounds. The diphthongs: it is here that one best learns to observe the transition from one sound to another; the first sound is arrested when half completed and led over into the last half of the movement for the second sound. We weld the component parts together when we do not allow either to be fully formed. The diphthong has no sharply defined outlines; a feeling of plurality is given when the diphthong is fundamental to the structure of the word. When an impression is indefinite the diphthong makes its appearance. It is possible for eurythmy to bring to express-ion the inner character of sound. I, e, u, radiate a Dionysian fire. A, o, have a quiet power of attraction, an Apollonian form-giving element.

VIII. The Word as Definition, and the Word in Its Context

In the realm of sound we may differentiate between that which descends more into the physical and that which is borne upwards by the word into the spiritual world. When a vowel sound becomes a diphthong, thus losing its sharply defined outline, we have an ascent into the spiritual. The diphthongs reveal something of a more essentially spiritual nature than do the vowel sounds of which they are composed. That element of language which radiates up towards the spiritual does not lie in the sharply emphasized sound, but in the transition from one sound to the other. The dual nature of words: on the one side external imitation; on the other side the depicting of something in its connection with the entire world order, the relationship of some thing or process to a common whole. Personal pronouns and their forms.

IX. Plastic Speech

Walking as the expression of an impulse of will. Three phases : the lifting, carrying and placing of the foot. When lifting the foot we have to do with a will impulse as such; when carrying the foot with the thought which comes to expression in this will-impulse; and when placing the foot with the deed, with the fulfilment of the will-impulse. Rhythmic walking; poetic and prose language. The true nature of speech lies midway between thought and feeling. Man at an earlier stage of evolution heard inwardly when experiencing feeling; he had an inner experience of words. His was no abstract thought but an inner resounding of words. There was no self-contained life of feeling such as we have to-day; the primitive soul life was closely bound up with the inner configuration of words and tones. At one time the development of speech, thought and feeling was deeply connected with an inner recitation. Later this differentiated itself into language retaining its artistic nature, and into a musical, wordless resounding of tones. Then thought as a third element also took on independent existence. Be-cause the prose element of abstract thought is closely bound up with materialism, there is to-day little feeling for an artistic treatment of language.

The eurythmist must be able to acquire this. In the first place there must be a feeling for the Iambic and Trochaic rhythms, for these impart a special character to walking: the Iambic measure expresses the will character, the Trochaic measure the realization of thought. In the Anapest we have a more intimate aspect of language, one more bound up with the feeling life; it is a spiritualization of language. When the Trochaic is developed further we get the Dactyl measure,—an announcement, a statement, an assertion, made visible in space and time. By means of these movements in space one can enter into the poetic element in language more easily than in the case of recitation or declamation. In the artistic formation of speech one must endeavour to cultivate imagination and fantasy, for the inner formation of language depends upon the possibility of making pictures. A sound as such is always the picture of what it describes; anyone feeling this will develop in himself a feeling for the use of the pictorial in poetic language. Metaphor. Synecdoche. Walking backwards: an ascent towards that which is more comprehensive; walking forwards: the entering into that which is less comprehensive. Walking sideways: a conversation, for conversation has a metaphor formation, inasmuch as it has to do with the relationship between two things.

X. Movements Arising Out of the Being of Man

Up to this point the character of the eurythmy gestures has arisen out of the sounds of speech; we will now take our start from the being of man and develop other possibilities of movement and gesture. Twelve gestures which in their totality represent the whole being of man. They comprise all the qualities which together make up the human being and weld them into one whole in the Zodiac. In these postures and gestures the human faculties are brought to expression. From these static postures we pass over to movements representing the possibilities of inner activity, movements which have their origin in the planets. In their sevenfold nature we have synthesized the animal element in man. The nineteen possibilities of sound: the consonants have their source in the Zodiac; the vowels in the dance of the planets. A cosmic activity may be brought to expression by means of human gesture and movement. The word of the heavens is really the being of man. By means of an imitation of the dance of the stars, discovered through spiritual knowledge, we have the possibility of renewing in eurythmy the temple dancing of the ancient Mysteries.

XI. How One May Enter into the nature of Gesture and Form

Looking at speech from a spiritual aspect we find that what is of the most importance lies between the sounds. The spirit is manifested at the point of transition from one sound to another. Hence the movements must always be carried out with a deep feeling and inwardness. The essential spirituality underlying certain postures and movements must be brought out in the way in which the sounds are formed. Exercises based on the moving circles of the Zodiac and Planets and their corresponding spiritual gestures. Such exercises bring the eurythmic movements and postures right down in to the organism.

XII. The Outpouring of the Human Soul into Form and Movement: The Curative Effect of this Upon the Moral and Psychic Nature and its Reaction upon the Whole Being of Man

In the numbers Twelve and Seven we have brought certain moral impulses before our souls and these find expression in gestures which are either static or mobile. That which streams out in this way works back on to the human being; this is the basis of the curative effect of eurythmy. The effect of such curative methods upon the moral and psychic life will be especially beneficial when certain eurythmic truths are brought to the human being in childhood. With this in view we choose exercises in which form and content have been developed out of certain conditions of soul, exercises which are then able to react curatively. ‘I and Thou' exercise: excellent for educational purposes. Peace Dance, Energy Dance. The spiral forms.

XIII. Moods of Soul Which Arise Out of Gestures of the Sounds

Special character of certain eurythmic exercises: Hallelujah, Evoe. Irony as revealed by the gesture itself. Eurythmy forms may be made the basis of poetic structure. In certain Mystery Centres poetry arose out of gesture and form. The movements and forms of eurythmy preceded the shaping of a poem. True poetry always has eurythmy within it; it is as though the poet first carried out the corresponding movements and gestures in his etheric body. Herein we find the intimate connection between eurythmy and language. The use of accelerated and retarded tempo.

XIV. The Structure of Words, The Inner Structure of Verse

In order to make the structure of language intelligible it is necessary to divide words into categories according to the train of thought. This also must be taken into account in eurythmy. We must differentiate between nouns, adjectives, verbs, prepositions, etc., with their individual characteristics. Example of a form corresponding to a four-lined verse. The eurythmist can acquire a fine and delicate understanding for the secrets of the human organization by means of the meditation given in this lecture.

XV. In Eurythmy the Entire Body Must Become Soul

An inner strengthening by means of the g-sound. In the w-sound (English v) there lies the feeling of a moving shelter; this is the sound most naturally used in alliteration.—Difference between standing and walking: one imitates something when standing still; when walking one desires actually to be something. Poetry for the most part expresses what is living, the actual being of a thing, not what it signifies.—Connection of the human body with the whole cosmos; the feet are suited to the earth; hands and arms express the soul nature. It is the soul life especially which is brought to expression in eurythmy; this is why the most significant part of eurythmy is the movement of the arms and hands; the head expresses the spirit and, according to its organization, can be made use of in many ways.—The twelve movements connected with the Zodiac and the seven movements connected with the moving circle of the Planets may be variously applied. They may be used, for instance, to show the rhyme.—Harmonizing exercises: ‘Ich denke die Rede.'—The necessity of carefully analysing what is to be expressed in eurythmy; it is of more importance to study the sound-content than the sense-content. The eurythmist must first experience the formation and structure of the sounds of a poem and only later bring it to eurythmic expression. Movement, Feeling, Character. The soul must learn, as far as eurythmy is concerned, actually to live in the body. In eurythmy the whole body must become soul.

Introduction

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In 1923 Rudolf Steiner gave a series of lectures at a Summer School in Penmaenmawr, which have since been published under the title The Evolution of Consciousness. These lectures formed the main event of the School, but there were other activities as well. Steiner had brought with him a group of Eurythmists and a performance was arranged in spite of the inadequacy of the stage and its equipment. On the day before the performance he gave the introduction to this new art of movement, which appears in the following pages.

Eurythmy differs from other arts of movement in that it is an interpretation of speech as well as of music. Steiner here deals principally with the interpretation of speech, perhaps because he considered that his audience would be most interested in this aspect of Eurythmy. But he always regarded it as essential that in a performance there should be the interpretation of speech as well as of music.

The performance at Penmaenmawr was followed by others in London, and gradually sufficient interest was aroused to promote the building of a small theatre to be dedicated to the development of Eurythmy, the Rudolf Steiner Hall, in Park Road, Baker Street, now the location of the London School of Eurythmy.

Steiner would have been profoundly happy to see the development of this new art since his death. Performances at the Goetheanum in Dornach, Switzerland, now include the interpretation of whole symphonies, in which different Eurythmists, or groups of Eurythmists, interpret the parts of the different instruments. On that great stage, with its superb lighting, Eurythmy can be seen in its highest development. But there are flourishing Schools of Eurythmy in other centres as well, and recently a Congress of Eurythmists held at the Goetheanum was attended by over six hundred Eurythmists from every part of the world. Eurythmy also plays a vital part in the Rudolf Steiner Schools and Curative Homes which have been established in nearly all European countries, as well as in the Americas and the Southern hemisphere. But Steiner always emphasised (as he does in the Introduction) that educational and curative Eurythmy cannot exist without the establishment of Eurythmy as an art in its own right, just as painting, sculpture and music exist as arts in their own right, although they may be used educationally in schools and institutions.

This Introduction anticipates some of the difficulties which the newcomer may experience with an art of movement based on new and profound considerations as to the nature of man. It gives a comprehensive picture of the whole field of Eurythmy and of the need for such an art in the modern world.

A. C. Harwood, 1967

Eurhythmy has grown up out of the soil of the Anthroposophical Movement, and the history of its origin makes it almost appear to be a gift of the forces of destiny. In the year 1912 the Anthroposophical Society lost one of its members, the father of a family, and as a result it was necessary for his daughter to choose a profession, a profession, however, which could be found within the field of Anthroposophical activity. After much thought it seemed possible to make this the opportunity for the inauguration of a new art of movement in space, different from anything which had arisen up to that time.

And thus, out of the teaching given to this young girl, there arose the very first principles and movements of Eurythmy.

Eurythmy must be accounted one of the many activities arising out of the Anthroposophical Movement, which have grown up in such a way that their first beginnings must be looked upon as the result of the workings of destiny. I spoke some days ago about the forms of the pillars of the Goetheanum, and mentioned how I had stood before these pillars, and realised that through artistic activity they had gained a life of their own, and had developed quite different qualities from those with which they had originally been endowed. The same may be said about the art of Eurythmy.

This is always the case when one draws upon the creative forces of nature, either in one's work as an artist or in any other form of human activity. Just as the creative forces of nature draw upon the inexhaustible source of the infinite, so that it is always possible to perceive in something which has come to fruition much more than was originally implanted in it, so is it also when artistic impulses unite themselves with the mighty creative forces of nature. In such a case the artist is not merely developing some more or less limited impulse, but he reaches the point when he makes of himself an instrument for the creative powers of the universe, so that very much more grows out of his activity than he could originally have intended or foreseen.

At the time of which I speak, Eurythmy was studied only by a very few people. At the beginning of the war, (the first world war) Frau Dr. Steiner undertook their further training, and from that time on Eurythmy became more and more widely known, and its artistic possibilities very much enriched. The art of Eurythmy, as we know it today, has developed out of the first principles which were given in the year 1912. The work since then has been carried on without interruption; but Eurythmy is still only in its first beginnings, and we are working unceasingly towards its further development and perfection.

I am, however, convinced that Eurythmy bears within it infinite possibilities, and that, in the future, when those who were responsible for its inauguration must long have left their work in other hands, Eurythmy will develop further until it is able to take its place as a younger art by the side of those other arts having an older tradition.

No art has ever risen out of human intention intellectually conceived, neither can the principle of imitating nature ever produce an art. On the contrary, true art has always been born out of human hearts able to open themselves to the impulses coming from the spiritual world, human hearts which felt compelled to realise these impulses and to embody them in some way in external matter.

It can be seen how, in the case of each separate art—architecture, for example, sculpture, painting or music—certain spiritual impulses were poured into humanity from higher worlds. These impulses were taken up by certain individuals specially fitted to receive them, and in this way, through human activity, pictures of the higher worlds were reflected in the physical world; and the various arts came into being.

It is true that the arts, in the course of their further development, have for the most part become naturalistic, and have lost their connection with the impulses which originally inspired them, a mere imitation of external nature taking their place. Such imitation, however, could never be the source of any true art.

To-day, when a sculptor or painter wishes to represent the human figure, he does so by studying and working from a model. It can, however, easily be shown that the art of sculpture, which reached its zenith during the civilisation of ancient Greece, did not arise through the artist working from a model, and in his way more or less imitating the external impressions of the senses, but at that time, when the plastic art of Greece was in full bloom, man was still to some extent aware of the etheric body—which contains within it the formative forces and the forces of growth. At the height of Greek civilisation man knew how to make use of the etheric body when bringing an arm or hand, for instance, into a certain attitude, and the position and arrangement of the muscles were an actual experience to him. He had an inner understanding of the possibilities of movement in the arm and hand, of the possibilities of muscular expansion and contraction. And he was able to bring this inner experience to physical expression, making use of physical materials.

Thus the Greek sculptor incorporated into matter a real, inward experience, not merely the external impression of the eye. He did not say to himself: the lines go in this or that direction, and then proceed to embody in plastic form the perceptions of his physical senses; but for him it was indeed an actual inward experience which he re-created out of the creative forces of nature, and entrusted to external physical matter.

This is true of every form of art. There have always been, and will always be, in the course of human evolution on the earth, epochs during which art is at its height, during which influences from the spiritual worlds penetrate more easily into the souls of men than at other times, urging them to turn their gaze towards the spiritual worlds and to carry down from thence living spiritual impulses. This is how every true art is brought to birth.

Such periods of civilisation are always followed by others of a more naturalistic tendency, in which certain arts often attain to a greater external perfection than they had possessed at an earlier stage; but this perfection bears within it traces of decadence, whereas in their beginnings, these arts were permeated with a more vital, a more powerful and enthusiastic spiritual impulse. At that earlier stage they had not yet lost their true reality; their technique was the outcome of man's whole being. It was not a merely external, traditional technique, but was based on the body, soul, and spirit of man.

The realisation of this fact of human evolution might well give one courage to develop ever further and further this art of Eurythmy, which has been borne on the wings of fate into the Anthroposophical Movement. For it is the task of the Anthroposophical Movement to reveal to our present age that spiritual impulse which is suited to it.

I speak in all humility when I say that within the Anthroposophical Movement there is a firm conviction that a spiritual impulse of this kind must now, at the present time, enter once more into human evolution. And this spiritual impulse must perforce, among its other means of expression, embody itself in a new form of art. It will increasingly be realised that this particular form of art has been given to the world in Eurythmy.

It is the task of Anthroposophy to bring a greater depth, a wider vision and a more living spirit into the other forms of art. But the art of Eurythmy could only grow up out of the soul of Anthroposophy; could only receive its inspiration through a purely Anthroposophical conception.

It is through speech that man is able to reveal his inner being outwardly to his fellow-men. Through speech he can most easily disclose his inmost nature.

At all periods of civilisation, in a form suited to the particular epoch, side by side with those arts which need for their expression either the external element of space or the external element of time, accompanying and completing these, we find that art which manifests itself through speech—the art of poetry.

The art of speech—I purposely use the expression ‘the art of speech,’ to describe poetry, and the justification for doing so will appear later—is more comprehensive and universal than the other arts, for it can embody other forms of art within its own form. It can be said that the art of poetry is an art of speech which in the case of one poet works more plastically, and in the case of another more musically. Indeed one can go so far as to say that painting itself can enter into the art of poetry.

Speech is a universal means of expression for the human soul. And one who is able to gaze with unprejudiced vision into the earliest times of human evolution on the earth, can see that in certain primeval languages a really fundamental artistic element entered into human evolution. Such primeval languages were, however, to a far greater degree than is the case with modern languages, drawn out of the whole human organisation.

When one investigates without prejudice the course of the evolution of man, one discovers certain ancient languages which might almost be likened to song. Such singing was, however, enhanced by accompanying movements of the legs and arms, so that a kind of dancing was added. Especially was this the case when a dignified form of expression was sought, the form of some ritual or cult.

In those primeval times of human evolution the accompanying of the word which issued forth from the larynx with gesture and movement was felt to be something absolutely natural. It is only possible to gain a true understanding of what lies behind these things, when one realises that what otherwise appears only as gesture accompanying speech can gain for itself independent life. It will then become apparent that movements which are carried out by the arms and hands, from the artistic point of view can be not merely equally expressive, but much more expressive than speech itself.

It must be admitted that such an unprejudiced attitude with regard to these things is not always to be found. One often observes a certain antipathy towards the accompanying of speech by gesture. Indeed, I myself have noticed that certain people even go so far as to consider it not in very good taste when a speaker accompanies his discourse with pronounced gesture. As a result of this the habit has grown up, and is by no means unusual at the present day, of putting one's hands in one's pockets when making a speech. I must say that I have always found this attitude most unsympathetic.

It is a fact that the inmost nature of the human being can be revealed most wonderfully through movements of the arms and hands. My fingers often itch to take up my pen and write an essay on the philosopher, Franz Brentano, a dear friend of mine who died some years ago. I have already written a good deal about him, but I should much like to write yet another essay, based on what I shall now relate.

When Franz Brentano mounted the platform and took his place at the lecturer's desk he was himself the embodiment of his entire philosophy, the spiritual content of which called forth such deep admiration when clothed in philosophical terms and concepts.

Brentano's philosophy, in itself, was far more beautiful than his own description of it. All that he could say in words was revealed through the way in which he moved his arms and hands while speaking, through the way in which he held out the piece of paper containing the notes of his lecture. It was a very remarkable type of movement, and its most striking characteristic was, that by means of this piece of paper, and, indeed, by his whole attitude, he gave the impression of imparting something of great significance, while at the same time preserving an appearance of unconcern. So that in the course of one of his lectures one could see his entire philosophy expressed in these gestures, which were of the most manifold variety.

What is especially interesting about Franz Brentano is the fact that he founded a psychology in which he departs from the theories of all other psychologists, Spencer, Stuart Mill and others, by refusing to include the will among the psychological categories. I am acquainted with all that Franz Brentano brought forward to substantiate this theory of his, but I found nothing so convincing as the way in which he held his piece of paper. The instant he began to make gestures with his hands and arms, all trace of will disappeared from his whole bearing as a philosopher, while feeling and idea revealed themselves in the most remarkable manner. This preponderance of idea and feeling, and the disappearance of will, underlay every movement which he made with his hands. So that one day I shall really find myself compelled to write an essay: The Philosophy of Franz Brentano, as revealed through his Gesture and Bearing. For it seems to me that much more was expressed in these gestures than in any philosophical discourse on the subject.

Those who enter deeply and without prejudice into this matter will gradually realise that the breath which we expel from our lungs, our organs of speech and song, when vocalised and given form by means of the lips, teeth and palate, is really nothing else than gesture in the air. Only in this case these air-gestures are projected into space in such a way that they conjure up sounds which can be heard by the ear.

If one succeeds, with true sensible-super-sensible vision, in penetrating into the nature of these air gestures, into all that the human being actually does when he utters a vowel or consonant sound, when he forms sentences, uses rhyme and rhythm, the Iambic, for instance, or the Trochee—when one penetrates into these gestures of the air, the thought arises; alas, the languages of modern civilisation have indeed made terrible concessions to convention. They have become simply a means of expression for scientific knowledge, a means of communicating the things of everyday life. They have lost their primeval spirituality.

Civilised language bears out what has been so beautifully expressed by the poet: “Spricht die Seele, so spricht ach schon die Seele nicht mehr.” (“Alas, when the soul speaks, in reality it speaks no more.”)

Now all that can be perceived by super-sensible vision, all that can thus be learned about the nature of these forms and gestures of the air, can be carried into movements of the arms and hands, into movements of the whole human being. There then arises in visible form the actual counterpart of speech. One can use the entire human body in such a way that it really carries out those movements which are otherwise carried out by the organs connected with speech and music. Thus there arises visible speech, visible music—in other words, the art of Eurythmy.

When one brings artistic feeling to the study of the nature of speech, one finds that the individual sounds form themselves, as it were, into imaginative pictures. It is necessary, however, entirely to free oneself from the abstract character which language has taken during the so-called advanced civilisation of the present day. For it is an undeniable fact that modern man, when speaking, in no way brings his whole human being into activity.

True speech, however, is born from the whole human being. Let us take any one of the vowels. A vowel sound is always the expression of some aspect of the feeling life of the soul. The human being wishes to express what lives in his soul as wonder—Ah. Or the holding himself upright against opposition—A; or the assertion of self, the consciousness of ego-existence in the world—E. Or again he wishes to express wonder, but now with a more intimate, caressing shade of feeling—I.

The character of the sounds is of course slightly different in the different languages, because each individual language proceeds from a differently constituted soul-life. But every vowel sound does in its essence express some shade of the feeling-life of the soul; and this feeling only has to unite itself with thought, with the head system, in order to pass over into speech.

What I have said about the vowel sounds of speech can be applied equally to the tones of music. The various sounds of speech, the use of idiom, the construction of phrases and sentences—all these things are the expression of the feeling-life of the soul.

In singing also the soul life expresses itself through tone.

Let us now consider the consonants. The consonants are the imitation of what we find around us in external nature. The vowel is born out of man's inmost being; it is the channel through which this inner content of the soul streams outwards. The consonant is born out of the comprehension of external nature; the way in which we seize upon external things, even the way in which we perceive them with the eyes, all this is built into the form of the consonants. The consonant represents, paints, as it were, the things of the external world. In earlier times the consonants did actually contain within themselves a kind of imaginative, painting of what exists in external nature.

Such things are, certainly, dealt with by many students of the science of language, but always in a one-sided manner. For instance, there exist two well-known theories with regard to the origin of language—the Ding-Dong theory and the Bow-Wow theory—which have been set forth by investigators who are, as a matter of fact, absolutely lacking in any real understanding of their subject, but belong to that type of person who is constantly originating all sorts of scientific theories. The Ding-Dong theory is based upon the assumption that, as in the case of the bell—to take an extreme example—so within every external object there lies some sort of a sound, which is then imitated by the human being. Everything is included in this theory of imitation; and it has been named the Ding-Dong theory after the sound made by the bell, which is perhaps its most striking example. The idea is, that when one says the word “wave,” one is imitating the actual movement of the waves—which is, indeed, perfectly true in this instance.

The other theory, the Bow-Wow theory, which could equally well be called the Moo-Moo theory, is one which assumes that speech in the first place arose from the transformation and development of the sounds of animals. And because one of the most striking of these sounds is “Bow-Wow,” this theory has been called the Bow-Wow theory.

Now all these theories do actually contain a certain element of truth. Scientific theories are never without some foundation. What is remarkable about them is that they do always contain say, a quarter, or an eighth, or a sixteenth, or a hundredth part of the truth; and it is this fraction of the truth, put forward as it is in a very clever and suggestive manner which deceives people. The real truth is that the vowel arises from the soul-life, and the consonant out of the perception and imitation of the external object. The human being imitates the external object through the way in which he holds back the stream of the breath with his lips, or gives it shape and form by means of the teeth, tongue and palate. While the consonants are formed in this way, by the fashioning of gestures in the air, the vowel sounds are the channel through which the inner soul-life of the human being streams outwards.

The consonants give plastic form to what is to be expressed.

And in the same way as the single sounds are formed, the single letters, so are sentences also formed, and poetic language becomes actual gesture in the air. Modern poetry, however, shows very clearly how the poet has to struggle against the abstract element in language.

As I have already said, our soul-life does not in any way flow into the words which we speak; we do not enter into the sounds of speech with our inner being. How few of us really experience wonder, amazement, perplexity, or the feeling of self-defence simply in the vowel sounds themselves. How few of us experience the soft, rounded surface of certain objects, the thrusting hammering nature of others, their angular or undulating, their velvety or prickly qualities, as these are expressed by the different consonants. And yet all these things are contained in speech.

If we follow the successive sounds as they occur in a single word, entering into the real nature of this word as it originally arose out of the whole being of man, then we can experience all possible shades of feeling, the ecstasy of joy, the depths of despair; we can experience the ascending and descending of the whole scale of the human emotions, the whole scale of the perception of external things.

All that I have been describing can be conjured up in imaginations, in the same way as speech itself once came forth from the world of imagination. One who has this imaginative vision perceives how the E sound (as in me). always calls up in the soul a certain picture, a picture which expresses the assertion of self and shows how this self-assertion must be expressed through the stretching of the muscles, in the arm for example. Should anyone be able to use his nose in a skilful manner, he could also make an E with his nose! An E can also be shown by the direction of the glance of the eye; but because the arms and hands are the most expressive part of the human body, it is more natural to make an E with the arms and it has a more beautiful effect. But the essential thing is that the stretched, penetrating feeling should really come to expression in E.

If we utter the sound A, (as in mate) and take this out-going stream of the breath as the prototype for the Eurythmic movement, we find that this breath stream reveals itself to our imagination as flowing in two crossed currents. This is how the Eurythmic movement for A is derived. All these movements are just as little arbitrary in their nature as are the sounds of speech, or the tones of music.

There are many people who are inclined to say that they have no wish for anything so hard and fast, that there should be more ways than one of expressing any particular sound in movement. They feel that the movements should arise quite spontaneously out of the human being. If, however, one desires such absolute spontaneity, one should carry this desire into the realm of speech itself, and declare that there should be no German, French, or English language to interfere with the freedom of the human being, but that each individual should feel himself at liberty to express himself by means of other sounds if he should so choose. It would be just as rational to say that the freedom of the human being is hindered through the fact that he must perforce speak English, or some other language.

But the existence of the different languages in no way interferes with human freedom. On the contrary, man could not express beauty in language, if language were not already there to be used by him as an instrument, and in the same way beauty can only be expressed in the movements of Eurythmy through the fact that Eurythmy actually exists. Eurythmy in no way infringes upon human freedom. Such objections really arise from lack of insight.

Thus Eurythmy has come into being as a visible language, using as its instrument the arms and hands, which are undeniably the most expressive part of the whole human organism.

To-day it would really be possible to come to an understanding of these things by purely scientific means. Science, however, although on the right path with regard to much of the knowledge it has acquired, knows about as much of this matter as someone with a veal cutlet on his plate knows about a calf—namely, the most insignificant fraction! Scientists know that the centre of speech lies in the left region of the brain, and that this is connected with what the child acquires for himself by means of movement of the right arm. In the case of left-handed people the centre of speech is situated in the right side of the brain.

One might almost say that the scientist has no knowledge of the calf in its entirety, but is only acquainted with the veal cutlet! Thus he is aware only of the merest fraction of the whole connection between the life-processes in one or other arm and the origin of speech.

The truth is that speech itself arises out of those movements of the human limb system which are held back, and do not come to full expression. There could be no such thing as speech were it not for the fact that, during the natural course of his early development, the child has inherent within him the instinct to move his arms and hands. These movements are held back and become concentrated in the organs of speech; and these organs of speech are in themselves an image of that which seeks outlet in movements of the arms and hands, and in the accompanying movements of the other limbs.

The etheric body—I can, after what you have heard in the morning lectures, (published as The Evolution of Consciousness.) speak to you quite freely about the etheric body—the etheric body never uses the mouth as the vehicle of speech, but invariably makes use of the limb-system. And it is those movements made by the etheric body during speech which are transferred into the physical body. Of course you can, if you choose, speak quite without gesture, even going so far as to stand rigidly still with your hands in your pockets; but in that case your etheric body will gesticulate all the more vigorously, sheerly out of protest!

Thus you can see how, in very truth, Eurythmy is drawn out of the human organisation in just as natural a way as speech itself.

The poet has to fight against the conventionality of speech in order to be able to draw from speech that element which could make of it a way leading to the super-sensible worlds. Thus the poet—if he is a true artist, which cannot be said of most of those people whose business it is to manufacture poems—does not over-emphasise the importance of the prose content of the words he uses. This prose content only provides him with the opportunity for expressing in words his true artistic impulse. Just as his material—the clay or the marble—is not the chief concern of the sculptor, but rather the inspiration which he is striving to embody in form, so, the chief concern of the poet is the embodiment of his poetic inspiration in sounds which are imaginative, plastic and musical.

And it is this artistic element which must be brought out in recitation and declamation.

In our somewhat inartistic age, it is customary in recitation and declamation to lay the chief stress on the prose content of a poem. Indeed, in these days, the mere fact of being able to speak at all is looked upon as sufficient ground for becoming a reciter. But the art of recitation and declamation should rank as highly as the other arts; for in recitation and declamation there is the possibility of treating speech in such a way that the hidden Eurythmy lying within it, the imaginative, plastic, coloured use of words, their music, rhythm and melody, are all brought to expression. When Goethe was rehearsing his rhythmic dramas, he made use of a baton just as if he were the conductor of an orchestra; for he was not so much concerned with the merely prosaic content of the words, but with the bringing out of all that lay, like a hidden Eurythmy, in their construction and use.

Schiller, when writing his most famous poems, paid little heed to the actual sense of the words. For instance he wrote, “Das Lied von der Glocke” (The Song of the Bell), but, as far as the prose content of the words is concerned, he might just as well have written a completely different poem. Schiller first experienced in his soul something which might be described as a vague musical motif, a sort of melody, and into this melody he wove his words, like threaded pearls.

Language is truly poetic only in so far as it is used musically, plastically, or only in so far as it is filled with colour.

Frau Dr. Steiner has given many years to the development of this special side of the art of recitation and declamation. It is her work which has made it possible to bind together into one artistic whole, much in the same way as the various instruments of an orchestra, the picture presented on the stage by the “visible speech” of Eurythmy and with what is expressed through a truly Eurythmic treatment of speech, a truly Eurythmic recitation and declamation. So that, on the one hand, we have the visible speech of Eurythmy, and, on the other hand, that hidden Eurythmy which lies, not in tone-production alone, but in the whole way in which speech and language are treated. As far as the artistic element of poetry is concerned, the point is not that we say: “The bird sings,” but that, paying due regard to what has gone before and to what is to come, we say with enthusiasm, for instance: “The bird sings,” or, again, in a more subdued tone of voice, at a quite different tempo: “The bird sings.” [The reader must imagine the difference of tone which Rudolf Steiner gave to these repetitions of Der Vogel singt.] Everything depends on giving due form and shape to the words and sentences. And it is just this which can be carried over into Eurythmy, into our whole conception and treatment of Eurythmy.

For this reason we must put before ourselves as an ideal this orchestral ensemble, this interplay between the visible art of Eurythmy and the art of recitation and declamation.

Eurythmy cannot be accompanied by the ordinary conventional recitation, which is so well liked to-day. It would be impossible to do Eurythmy to such an accompaniment, because it is the soul-qualities of the human being which must be given expression here, both audibly through speech, and visibly through Eurythmy.

Eurythmy can be accompanied, not only by recitation and declamation, but also by instrumental music. But here it must always be borne in mind that Eurythmy is music translated into movement, and is not dancing in any sense of the word. There is a fundamental difference between Eurythmy and dancing. People, however, often fail to make this distinction when seeing Eurythmy on the stage, owing to the fact that Eurythmy uses as its instrument the human body in motion. I myself know of a journalist—I am not personally acquainted with him, but his articles have been brought to my notice—who, writing on Eurythmy, says: “It cannot be denied that, when one witnesses a demonstration of Eurythmy, the performers on the stage are continually in motion. Eurythmy must, therefore, be looked upon as dancing, and must be judged accordingly.” Now I think it will be admitted that what we have seen here of Tone-Eurythmy, of this visible singing, accompanied as it is by instrumental music, is clearly to be distinguished from ordinary dancing. Tone-Eurythmy is essentially not dancing, but is a singing in movement, movement which can be carried out either by a single performer, or by many together.

Although the movements of the arms and hands may be accompanied and amplified by movements of the other parts of the organism—the legs, for instance, or the head, the nose, ears, what you will—nevertheless these movements should only be used to strengthen the movement of the hands and arms in much the same way that we find means of emphasising and strengthening the spoken word. If we wish to admonish a child we naturally put our reproof into words, but at the same time we assume an expression suitable to the occasion! To do this electively, however, a certain amount of discretion is required, or we run the risk of appearing ridiculous. It is the same with regard to Eurythmy. Movements of a type approaching dancing or mime, when they are added to the essentially Eurythmic movements, are in danger of appearing grotesque; and, if made use of in an exaggerated manner, given an appearance of crudity, even of vulgarity. On the other hand purely Eurythmic movements are the truest means of giving outward and visible expression to all that is contained in the human soul.

That is the essential point—that Eurythmy is visible speech, visible music. One can go even further and maintain that the movements of Eurythmy do actually proceed out of the inner organisation of man. Anyone who says: “As far as I am concerned, speech and music are all-sufficient; there can surely be no need to extend the sphere of art; I, for my part, have not the slightest wish for Eurythmy”;—such a man is, of course, perfectly right from his particular point of view. There is always a certain justification for any opinion, however conventional or pedantic. Why should one not hold such opinions? There is certainly no reason why one should not—none at all; but it cannot be said that such a standpoint shows any really deep artistic feeling and understanding. A truly artistic nature welcomes everything that could possibly serve to widen and enrich the whole field of art.

The materials used in sculpture—the bronze, clay and marble—already exist in nature, and yield themselves up to the sculptor as the medium of his artistic expression; this is also true of colour in the case of the painter. When, however, in addition to all this, the movements of Eurythmy, drawn forth as they have been from the very fount of nature and developed according to her laws—when such movements arise as a means of artistic expression, then enthusiasm burns in the soul of the true artist at the prospect of the whole sphere of art being thus widened and enriched.

From a study of the Eurythmy models or wooden figures, very much can be learned about the individual movements. [Rudolf Steiner here refers to a series of coloured wooden figures illustrating the fundamental Eurythmy gestures.] Here it is only possible to give some indication of what underlies these wooden figures, and of all that can be revealed by them with regard to the nature and character of the various movements. These models are intended to represent the fundamental laws of Eurythmy which are carried over into the actual movements themselves. Every Eurythmic movement may be looked upon as being of a threefold nature; and it is this threefold aspect which is embodied in the models. In the first place there is the movement as such; then there is the feeling which lies within the movement; and lastly there is the character which flows out of the soul-life, and streams into the movement.

It must, however, be understood that these wooden models have been designed in a quite unusual manner. They are in no way intended to be plastic representations of the human form. This comes more within the sphere of the sculptor and the painter. The models are intended to portray the laws of Eurythmy, as these are expressed through the human body. In designing them the point was not in any way to reproduce the human figure in beautiful, plastic form. And, in witnessing a Eurythmy demonstration, anyone who would regard beauty of face as an essential attribute of an Eurythmist, is labouring under a delusion as to the nature of Eurythmy. Whether the Eurythmist is beautiful or not beautiful, young or old, is a matter of no consequence. The whole point is whether the inmost nature of the Eurythmist is carried over into, and expressed through, the plastic form of the movements.

Now if we look at the Eurythmy model for H, for instance, the question might naturally arise: “In what direction is the face turned? Do the eyes look upwards or straight ahead?” But that is not the first thing to be considered. In the first place we have, embodied in the model as a whole, the movement as such, that is to say, the arm movements or the movements of the legs. Secondly, in the draping of the veil, in the way the veil is held, drawn close to the body, or thrown into the air, or allowed to fall again or to fly out in waves—all this gives the opportunity for adding to the more intellectual expression of the soul-life, as this is shown through the movement, another quality of the soul-life, that of feeling.

At the back of the models there is always an indication of what the different colours are intended to represent. In the case of all the models certain places are marked with a third colour, and this is intended to show where the Eurythmist, in carrying out the particular movement, should feel a definite tension of the muscles. This tension can be shown in any part of the body. It may have to be felt in the forehead, for instance, or in the nape of the neck, while in other places the muscles should be left in a state of complete relaxation. The Eurythmist experiences the movements quite differently according to whether they are carried out with relaxed muscles or with the muscles in a state of tension; whether the arm is stretched out more or less passively, or whether there is a conscious tension in the muscles of the arm and hand; whether, when bending, the muscles which are brought into play are stretched and tense, or whether the bending movement leaves the muscles comparatively inactive. Through this consciously experienced tension of the muscles, character is brought into the movement.

In other words: there lies in the whole way in which the movement, as such, is formed, something which might be described as being the expression of the human soul, as manifested through visible speech. The actual spoken words, however, also have nuances of their own, their own special shades of feeling; for instance, fear may be expressed in a sentence, or joy, or delight; all these things can be shown by the Eurythmist in the way in which he or she carries out the movements. The manipulation of the veil—the way in which it floats, the way in which it is allowed to fall—all this provides a means whereby these feelings can be brought to expression in Eurythmy. So we see how the movement, when accompanied by the use of the veil, becomes permeated with feeling, and how, when there is added a conscious tension of the muscles, the movement acquires character as well as feeling. If the Eurythmist is able to experience this tension or relaxation of the muscles in the right way, a corresponding experience will be transmitted to the onlooker, who will himself feel all that lies in the visible speech of Eurythmy as character, feeling and movement.

The whole artistic conception of these models, both as regards their carving and their colouring, is based on the idea of separating the purely Eurythmic element in the human being from those elements which are not so definitely connected with Eurythmy. The moment a Eurythmist becomes conscious of possessing a charming face, in that moment something is introduced into Eurythmy which is completely foreign to its nature; on the other hand, the knowledge of how to make conscious use of the muscles of the face does form an essential part of Eurythmy. For this reason, the fact that many people prefer to see a beautiful Eurythmist on the stage, rather than one who is less beautiful, shows a lack of true artistic judgment. The outward appearance of a human being when not engaged in Eurythmy should not in any way be taken into consideration.

These models, then, have been designed in such a way that they portray the human being only in so far as he reveals himself through the movements of Eurythmy.

It would indeed be well if, in the whole development of art, this principle were to be more generally adopted—I mean the principle of putting on one side everything which does not definitely belong to the sphere of the art in question, everything which cannot be expressed through the medium of this art and which does not strictly come within the range of its possibilities. A distinction should always be made, particularly when dealing with an art such as Eurythmy, which reveals so directly, so truly and so sincerely, the life of the human being in its threefold aspect of body, soul and spirit—a distinction should always be made between what can legitimately be revealed through the medium of any particular art and what does not lie within its true scope.

Whenever I have been asked: “Up to what age can one do Eurythmy?”—my answer has always been: There is no age limit. Eurythmy can be started at the age of three and can be continued up to the age of ninety. The personality can find expression through Eurythmy at each and every period of life, and through Eurythmy the beauty of both youth and age can be revealed.

All that I have said up to this point has reference to Eurythmy purely as an art, and, indeed, it was along purely artistic lines that Eurythmy was developed in the first instance. When Eurythmy was inaugurated in 1912 there was no thought of its developing along any but artistic lines, no thought of bringing it before the world in any other form.

But some little time after the founding of the Waldorf School, it was discovered that Eurythmy can serve as a very important means of education; and we are now in a position to recognise the full significance of Eurythmy from the educational point of view. In the Waldorf School, (The original Waldorf School in Stuttgart of which Steiner was educational director.) Eurythmy has been made a compulsory subject both for boys and girls, right through the school, from the lowest to the highest class; and it has become apparent that what is thus brought to the children as visible speech and music is accepted and absorbed by them in just as natural a way as they absorb spoken language or song in their very early years. The child feels his way quite naturally into the movements of Eurythmy. And, indeed, in comparison with Eurythmy, the other forms of gymnastics have shown themselves to be of a somewhat one-sided nature. For these other kinds of gymnastics bear within them to some extent the materialistic attitude of mind so prevalent in our day. And for this reason they take as their starting point the physical body. Eurythmy takes the physical body into consideration also; but, in the case of Eurythmy, body, soul and spirit work harmoniously together, so that here one has to do with an ensouled and spiritualised form of gymnastics. The child feels this. He feels that each movement that he makes does not arise merely in response to a physical necessity, but that every one of his movements is permeated with a soul and spiritual element, which streams through the arms, and, indeed, through the whole body. The child absorbs Eurythmy into the very depths of his being. The Waldorf School has already been in existence for some years, and the experience lying behind us justified us in saying that in this school unusual attention is paid to the cultivation of initiative, of will—qualities sorely needed by humanity in the present day. This initiative of the will is developed quite remarkably through Eurythmy, when, as in the Waldorf School, it is used as a means of education. One thing, however, must be made perfectly clear, and that is, that the greatest possible misunderstanding would arise, if for one moment it were to be imagined that Eurythmy could be taught in the schools and looked upon as a valuable asset in education, if, at the same time, as an art it were to be neglected and underestimated. Eurythmy must in the first place be looked upon as an art, and in this it differs in no respect from the other arts. And in the same way that the other arts are taught in the schools, but have an independent artistic existence of their own in the world, so Eurythmy also can only be taught in the schools when it is fully recognised as an art and given its proper place within our modern civilisation.

Shortly after the founding of the Waldorf School, a number of doctors having found their way into the Anthroposophical Movement, there arose the practice of medicine from the Anthroposophical point of view. These doctors expressed the urgent wish that the movements of Eurythmy, drawn as they are out of the healthy nature of the human being, and offering to the human being a means of expression suited to his whole organisation—that these movements should be adapted where necessary, and placed at the service of the art of healing. Eurythmy, from its very nature, is ever seeking for outlet through the human being. Anyone who understands the hand, for example, must be aware that it was not formed merely to lie still and be looked upon. The fingers are quite meaningless when they are inactive. They only acquire significance when they seize at things, grasp them, when their passivity is transformed into movement. Their very form reveals the movement inherent within them. The same may be said of the human being as a whole. What we know under the name of Eurythmy is nothing else than the means whereby the human organism can find healthy outlet through movement. So that certain of the movements of Eurythmy, though naturally differing somewhat from the movements which we use in Eurythmy as an art, and having undergone a certain metamorphosis, can be made use of and developed into a Curative Eurythmy. This Curative Eurythmy can be of extreme value in the treatment of illness, and can be applied in those cases where one knows the way in which a certain movement will react upon a certain organ with beneficial results.

In this domain also we have had good results among the children of the Waldorf School. But it is of course necessary that one should possess a true insight into the nature of the child. For instance, a child may have certain weaknesses and be generally in a delicate state of health. Such a child is then given those particular movements likely to assist in the re-establishment of his health. And along these lines we have indeed had the most brilliant results. But this, as also the educational side of Eurythmy, is entirely dependent on the successful development of Eurythmy as an art.

It must frankly be admitted that Eurythmy is still at a very early stage of its development; a beginning, however, has certainly been made, and we are striving to make it ever more and more perfect. There was a time, for instance, when we had not as yet introduced the silent, unaccompanied movement of the Eurythmist at the beginning and end of a poem. Such movement is intended to convey in the first instance an introductory impression, and, in the second, an impression reminiscent of the content of the poem. At that time also there were no effects of light. The lighting in varied tones and colours has not been introduced with a view to illustrating or intensifying any particular situation, but is in itself actually of a Eurythmic nature. The point is not that certain effects of light should correspond with what is taking place on the stage at a given moment, but the whole system of lighting, as this has been developed in Eurythmy, consists of the interplay between one lighting effect and another. Thus there arises a complete system of Eurythmic lighting which bears within it the same character and the same shades of feeling as are being simultaneously expressed on the stage in another way through the movements of the Eurythmists, or the Eurythmist, as the case may be.

And so, as Eurythmy develops and attains to ever greater perfection, very much more will have to be added to the whole picture of Eurythmy as this is presented on the stage, very much will have to be added to all that we can now see when witnessing a Eurythmy demonstration.

I could indeed speak about Eurythmy the whole night through, carrying on this lecture without a break into the lecture of tomorrow morning. I am afraid, however, that my audience would hardly benefit by such a proceeding, and the same certainly applies to any Eurythmists who may be present! The great thing is that all I have said to-day in this introductory lecture will be practically realised for you tomorrow, when you witness the performance; for a practical demonstration is, after all, where art is concerned, of more value than any lecture.