Speech and Drama
GA 282
20 September 1924, Dornach
XVI. The Work of the Stage from Its More Inward Aspect. Destiny, Character and Plot
My dear Friends,
We shall find that a study of the history of dramatic art can throw considerable light for us on the problems that face us in that field today. For only gradually has dramatic art made its way into the evolution of mankind. What for us comprises the essentially dramatic has really only found its way, bit by bit, into the evolution of mankind; and, as we know too well, inartistic features that are hostile to the development of the art have also been continually intruding themselves. And now a time has come when to all that the centuries have so far produced, many quite new things have to be added; for mankind has advanced in evolution. Anyone who has to take part in the staging of plays will moreover receive encouragement and stimulus for his work by making a deep, esoteric study of plays that have at different epochs provided a standard or basis for the development of acting and of stage work altogether.
There are three important factors to be borne in mind when we are considering the production of a play. I do not mean that we must adhere to them pedantically, but rather that we should have an artistic perception of where and to what extent each enters into the play we have in hand. They are important for us because they have been so first for the author; they have influenced him in his composition of the play—of that written text which, as we saw, is for the actor neither more nor less than what the score is for the musician.
Taking these three in order, we find that the first hovered like an overpowering presence above the drama of ancient times, the drama that originated in the Mysteries. I mean destiny.
Look at the plays of ancient Greece. Everywhere we are shown how powerfully destiny works into human life. Man himself is of very little account; it is destiny, heaven-sent destiny, that works into his life all the time. Realising this, we can appreciate the genuine artistic impulse that lay behind the tendency to obliterate more or less whatever was individual in the human being—giving him a mask, and even going so far as to make use of instruments in order to conceal the individual quality of his voice. We can well understand how this conception of God-given destiny led to an effacement of the human individuality. Looking back then to the drama of ancient times, we find that it displayed on the stage the grand and all-powerful working of destiny; therein lay its achievement. We need only call to mind the tragedies concerned with the myth of Oedipus to see at once how true this is.
There are, however, two things that occupy a prominent place in modern drama, of which you will find little or no sign in these early dramas where the attention is centred upon the working of destiny. As a matter of fact, they could only find their way into drama as the Age of Consciousness drew near for man, the Age of the Spiritual Soul.1The Age of the Spiritual (or Consciousness) Soul is the epoch of man's development in which we are now living and which began in the fifteenth century.
The interchange of love between human beings could not be dramatised on the stage in the way it is today until the souls of men had begun to receive each its more individual form. In the drama of ancient times you will, it is true, find love, but a love that bears the stamp of destiny and is dependent also on social relationships. An outstanding example is the figure of Antigone in the well-known play of Sophocles. But that love between the sexes which enters later with such compelling power into drama, even itself forms and shapes the drama—becomes possible only with the dawn of the Age of Consciousness.
The other thing that you will miss in the early days of dramatic art is humour. Look, for example, at the plays of Aristophanes, who has been dubbed the scoffer, and compare them with the plays of the time when the impulse of the Age of Consciousness was beginning to make itself felt. You may take any number of plays of the Aristophanes type, and you will constantly find satyrs taking part in them; but you will look in vain for the humour that sets something free in man, that gives wings to human life. That does not show itself in drama until man is entering upon the Age of Consciousness.
Note too, that this is also the time when men's gaze, as they look upon the stage, begins to be turned aside from destiny, begins rather to take a kind of delight in the way that man makes himself master and shaper of destiny. Attention and interest are now, in fact, being increasingly directed, instead of to destiny, to character. So here we have come to the second factor that we have to consider in staging a play—character. The dramatist puts on the stage men and women as we meet with them in life; and as his presentation of them develops, they become more and more interesting.
We shall not yet find a power of vision that can command the whole compass of man's individuality. People are still portrayed rather more as types; and we have, instead of the old masks, the character masks. Among the Latin peoples, who took such delight in drama and were so gifted in its performance, we find these character masks—striking evidence of a dawning interest in man as an individual with a character of his own. The feeling for character still labours under the limitations of this connection with type. It is nevertheless the human being, the individual human being, who is so to speak given the mask of the character-type to which he is adjudged to belong.
There was also a very good understanding in those days of the close relation of human beings to their environment. The character mask, it was felt, can be truly appreciated only when it is seen on the background of the part of the world to which it belongs. Hence the folk masks of those times. We find them particularly in Italy; but other countries soon began to follow suit. These folk masks bear witness to an interest, not merely in men and women, nor even merely in character-types ; they mark the beginning of an interest in what character owes to milieu. And this interest spread far and wide, reaching even to Shakespeare, in whom we can still clearly recognise an appreciation of the bearing of milieu upon character.
The Italian would observe, for example, that persons of social distinction, who have a certain standing in life, and who have also money in their purses and are accordingly able to maintain a good position in society—such persons, he would observe, are to be met with especially in Venice. And so in the folk-plays of those times the Pantalone—for that was the name given to this character—would always appear on the stage in Venetian dress. He would tend also to speak with something of a Venetian accent. There, then, we have one of these character masks. We are, you see, coming away from the working of destiny, for here it is man who stands before us and claims our attention.
Let us now look at another character mask that meets us in these plays. (There were, you must know, hundreds of such plays, literally hundreds, genuine products all of the Italian genius, and you will find the wealthy ‘Merchant of Venice’ in every one of them.) The second character mask is the man of learning; and he appears in the form of a shrewd and clever lawyer. This clever lawyer always hails from Bologna, and wears the traditional robes of a lawyer who has graduated in the University of Bologna. That then is the second. The third is the scoundrel, the dodger, known as Brighella. He comes from the common people, and is always in company with the Harlequin, the simpleton, who also hails from the common people. These two fellows, the scoundrel and the simpleton, are from Bergamo and will always be dressed in Bergamese style.
And then there were the serving-women, ladies of some experience in life, who—incidentally—were capable for the most part of getting the control of the household into their own hands. It appears that in those days such ladies generally came from Rome; their costumes were accordingly in Roman style. The writers and producers of these plays were, you see, observant; no detail escaped them.
There, then, we have the transition from destiny to character. You can see what a thorough-going change it wrought in drama. And I think even the brief sketch I have given you of its history will help you to understand how important it is for the student of dramatic art to study this development of character in drama—learning to observe how characters group themselves in types, and how character grows out of milieu. When he has worked through such a study, the student will be more fitted to undertake the ‘individual’ parts of the modern stage, he will be able to tackle them with elemental force and energy.
As he studies these plays, the student will also realise what a liberating and lively humour the people of those days possessed. For it was not merely the authors who were responsible for the plays. As a matter of fact authors did not play a role of any particular importance in those days. The text of a play, as it came from their hands, could not even truthfully be called a ‘score' for the actor; before it could go down with the audience, he would have to add to it considerably from his own resources. It was quite taken for granted that the actor would supply witty sallies here and there on his own account.
Dramas of this kind show unmistakably that destiny is disappearing from the stage, and the spectators are being presented with plays where it is the characters that determine the action. This is also the moment when the stage begins to realise that it has to reckon with the audience, that it cannot ignore them.
And now, from destiny and character, from out of these two, emerges our third factor in drama: action, or plot.
At the opening of a play, before the plot began to unfold and reveal how character and destiny are at work there, an ‘Exclamator’, as he was called (for they used the Latin word), would come forward—rather in the way the Prologue does in our Christmas Plays—and give a kind of summary of the moral of the play. For the stage did a great deal in those days to influence social life and behaviour.
You are not to conclude from this that the manners and morals of those times were anything to boast of; on the contrary, it implies that they were rather loose and that there was ample reason for the stage to do something for their improvement. It is always important, you know, to look at facts from the right angle!
I would like now to describe to you one such drama. Do not take it as an exact description of a particular one (as I said before, there are hundreds of them); it will, however, be characteristic, and will provide you with a good illustration of what I want to say later.
Let us suppose then that at the beginning of one of these dramas we are faced with a situation that is created entirely by the typical characters that are there in the play. In a spot that may perhaps be not very far away from where we are now meeting, some gipsies have made their encampment. The gipsies are referred to as the ‘heathen’.
The play proceeds somewhat as follows. (The story corresponds quite well with one or another of these plays, but my intention is to make my description general and typical.) We have then, to begin with, the man Ruedi and his wife Greta, and they are talking together. Ruedi tells Greta she must take care to lock up all their valuables, because the heathen are in the neighbourhood; things are sure to be stolen, for the heathen live by stealing. Greta replies that she has of course already done this; she does not need any reminder from him. ‘But I tell you what, you drunken lout,' she goes on to say, ‘you put far more money than the heathen steal into the pockets of the alehouse keeper. And there's got to be an end of that; it can't go on any longer.’
Ruedi is rather taken aback, for Greta is a woman of force and energy. After standing silent for a minute or two, he heaves a deep sigh and stammers out: ‘Well, well, I suppose I'd better go to the gipsies and get them to tell me what a bad lot I am; after all, they're fortune-tellers as well as thieves.’
‘You great fool,' says Greta, ‘to believe the gipsies. It's all nonsense what they say. You'd much better save your money instead of running after them.’
But Ruedi is not going to be put off. Before he sets out, however, he goes to the stables and warns the stableman too about the heathen, ordering him to lock up the stables and carry the manure out to the fields. And now the stableman gets talking, and discloses to Ruedi that Greta has hidden away in the stable eight good Rhenish gulden, in those times quite a small fortune. He, the stableman, knows the spot where they are buried. Then the ‘stupid’ Ruedi begins to be sly. But first of all he goes off to the gipsies to have his fortune told.
So here destiny enters the story; but note how! People no longer believe in it, it is all left to the gipsies.
The gipsy woman says to Ruedi: ‘Well, my man, you are a thoroughly good sort; but you have a bad-tempered wife, and she makes life miserable for you. And you yourself, you know, you drink too much!’
Heavens alive, thinks Ruedi, she knows a lot! There's something in fortune-telling after all.
‘But now, look here!’ continues the gipsy,’ you go and get yourself some better clothes and walk about the village with an air, and you'll be made headman of the village—only, you'll have to drink less! ’
Ruedi is delighted with the idea. And now what the stableman told him will come in very useful. First, however, the gipsy wants her fee. Why, of course!—but Ruedi hasn't any money. Greta never gives him any. Then he has a bright idea. ‘You told me just now that if I put on fine clothes I shall be made headman of the village. When I am, I'll help you gipsies in your thieving. That shall be your payment.’ This suits the gipsy-woman splendidly; a headman's connivance will be of more worth to the gipsies than any fee.
And now Ruedi goes back home, his head full of the idea that he must get some fine new clothes and be made headman of the village. So he goes to the stable, digs up the eight gulden and hands them to the stableman to take to the neighbouring town.
Arrived there, the stableman goes to the wool merchant and says to him: ‘My master who lives outside the town wants to see some materials of different colours, I am to take them to him to choose from; he is having some new clothes made, for he is going to be headman of the village.’
‘But I don't know your master,' replies the merchant, ‘and how am I to know what might happen to my cloth?’
‘Oh, don't you worry,' says the stableman, ‘he's a perfectly honourable man. You let me take the cloth; it'll be quite all right.’ The eight gulden the stableman pockets, and the rolls of stuff he turns into money in some way of his own. And so he comes back empty-handed, having cheated his master of the eight gulden and the merchant of the rolls of cloth.
His master inquires what has happened. ‘I've left the eight gulden with the merchant,' replies the stableman, ‘and he says you must go yourself and choose the material in his shop; meantime he has the money safe.’ The money is, of course, not with the merchant at all; the stableman has taken it for himself.
At this point a scene is inserted where we are shown Greta pouring out her woes to a friend of hers. She has discovered that the gulden she buried in the stable have disappeared. What if the cow has eaten them and dies in consequence!
And now Ruedi makes his way to the wool merchant's—and behold, the merchant has not the cloth. Ruedi hasn't it either. The merchant has also not the money; nor has Ruedi. The stableman is standing by, and the merchant declares he will sue him. He will, he says, put the matter in the hands of a lawyer; and he'll find a first-rate one, he will! (Here they come, you see, the character types.)
Well, Ruedi and his stableman go home again. But a little while later a messenger comes running in great haste, beginning—in the good stage instinct of those times—to call out to them while he is still a long way off, summoning them both to come at once to the wool merchant's.
As soon as they arrive there the merchant starts inveighing loudly against the stableman—and one can well understand it. He becomes quite abusive, and rails against him, calling him all sorts of hard names The man feels terribly insulted and declares that he will on his part bring an action against the merchant, and they will soon see what comes of that!
The merchant raises no objection; he knows he has right on his side and feels confident of the issue. The stableman, however, is a kind of Brighella, and it is he who procures the cleverer lawyer.
And now the trial begins, the stableman's lawyer having in the meantime instructed him how to behave in court. The judge puts his learned questions, all in best Bologna manner The peasant grows more and more bewildered, confuses the cloth with the money, and the money with the cloth. When he should be answering about the eight gulden, he keeps talking of the cloth, and vice versa, and all because the lawyer puts him out by talking incessantly.
And now it is the stableman's turn to be questioned. But all he says in reply is: veiw!1Pronounced very like our word’ five’. The sounds do not make a word at all in German. A fresh question is put to him. Once more he answers: veiw! Still another question. Again the same reply: veiw! The lawyer has advised him, you see, to be completely stupid and say nothing but veiw! Eventually the judge finds this too silly. ‘He's just crazy; one can do nothing at all with a fellow like that!’—and he sends the parties home. And so the whole affair comes to a humorous end.
And now it turns out that in the course of the conversation between them, the stableman had promised his lawyer the eight gulden. These the lawyer now receives, in payment for his advice to say nothing but veiw! The stableman has the cloth. As for the peasant and the merchant, they have had all their trouble for nothing The spectator, however, goes home well pleased; he has enjoyed watching the characters unfold as the play proceeds. Pieces of this kind were played by the hundred—full of true humour, a natural, elemental humour of the common folk. And they were well played, for the players put their whole heart into their acting.
Thus, at the dawn of the Age of Consciousness, does the drama of character push its way into the drama of destiny, and take root there and grow. That is how the drama of character first began. And you will not easily find for your students a better subject for study than these very plays; for they are built up with quite remarkable skill. They can well form a basis for the study of delineation of character.
A school of dramatic art should arrange for courses of instruction in the history of the whole treatment of drama, and especially of character, beginning with the end of the fifteenth century. This kind of character drama was popular throughout the Latin countries at the end of the fifteenth century, and also in Switzerland. Afterwards, it spread to Germany and by the sixteenth century was everywhere in vogue. That is to say, at secular times of the year. For the Christmas Plays are survivals of the drama of destiny; in them we see destiny working in from the worlds beyond. So that we have in those times, on the one hand, within the rather austere forms of Christian tradition, a continued adherence to destiny, and then also this original and elemental up-springing of character in drama. Both are there, side by side; and that is what makes this second stage in the evolution of drama an extraordinarily fruitful field for study.
The mask of ancient times, that actually hid the human being, has now given place to the character mask, and we shall soon be approaching the time when we have before us on the stage human individualities. But please remember that there are good and well-founded reasons for making a special study in our day of this first beginning of character in drama. A student can learn a great deal from such a study.
Let me remind you at this point of the development we traced in Schiller's dramas a few days ago. We were studying this development from a rather different point of view; we can, however, clearly see that Schiller was all the time experimenting between the two kinds of play, inclining now more to the drama of destiny, now again more to the drama of character. Highly gifted dramatist as he was, Schiller did not know how to bring together the elements of character and destiny.
Take Wallenstein. We cannot truthfully say that destiny is here an organic part of the drama. Destiny and character are joined up externally rather in the way one cements bricks! Then again later on, in Die Braut von Messina, we find Schiller once more trying, as it were, to drag in destiny. Only in Demetrius does he at length, after many attempts, succeed in weaving together destiny and character, weaving them together to form genuine dramatic action.
Character drama is important also for opening the way to comedy. True, preparatory steps in that direction had been taken in Roman times; for there was, you know, in Rome a kind of anticipation of the Age of Consciousness. But it is tragedy that stands in the foreground throughout the centuries of classical antiquity. Satire will not infrequently come to expression in some comic afterpiece, but we do not find what can properly be called comedy until, with the coming of the Age of Consciousness, love and humour make their appearance on the stage.
If you can succeed in carrying in your mind's eye a clear picture of how drama has evolved, that will help you in your work as producer. You will then be able to approach with the right mood and feeling, on the one hand, plays where the more tragic and solemn elements prevail and, on the other hand, plays that are in a lighter vein and belong more in the realm of comedy. Your study will have given you fresh guidance for the staging of the two kinds of play.
Consider first how it is with tragedy. Simply from the insight that you have acquired in this kind of study, you will go to work in the following way. Please do not imagine it is a matter of theories and definitions. What you have to do is to prove by experience how you yourself develop an insight that can give birth to artistic creation. That is the only right way; and it is what I have been trying to show you in today's lecture.
The first part of a tragedy (sometimes called the ‘exposition’), where the spectators are to be made acquainted with the situation, where their interest has to be aroused, will have to be played slowly; and the slowness should be achieved, not so much by slow speaking or acting as by pauses, pauses between the speeches, pauses even between the scenes. This will ensure that you make contact with your audience; they will then the more easily unite themselves, inwardly and sympathetically, with the situation.
But now, as the play proceeds, new persons or events intervene, and it becomes uncertain how things will turn out. This is the middle of the play, where the plot reaches its climax. Here you will again need a rather slow tempo, but the slowness has this time to be in the speaking and in the gesturing; the play will thus still move slowly, but without pauses. Not of course entirely so; the speaker must have time to take breath, and the spectator too! But you should definitely shorten the pauses, and to that degree slightly quicken the tempo.
Then comes the third part, which has to bring the solution. If this last part were played in the same tempo, it would leave the audience a little sour and dissatisfied. It is important to increase the pace here and let the play end in a quicker tempo.
Here then, in this third part of the play, there has to be an inner quickening of tempo, showing itself both in speech and in gesture.
Tragedy
(I) in slow tempo: pauses
(II) in slow tempo: without pauses
(III) in quickened tempo.
If these stages are observed, your acting will not fail of those imponderable qualities that make for contact with the audience. And you will find that the right tempo for speech and gesture comes of itself out of the feeling that your study and training beget in you. Thus, the main point for the production of tragedy is that everything be in right measure and proportion.
Something quite else comes into consideration for comedy. (Our modern plays stand rather between the two; so that for their production one can learn from both.) When we come to comedy, it is character that begins to take the prominent place. Such a piece as I described just now can be very helpful to you, if you want to learn how to set about producing a comedy; for plays of this kind, abounding in the simple, primitive humour of the people, can always be begun in the way I will now describe.
The first thing is to see that your actor, who will reveal his character in his speaking, expresses himself with an instinctive enjoyment of his part, so that the audience feel at once: Yes, there he is—the Pantalone. today, of course, we put individual men and women on the stage, not types; nevertheless, we can set to work on the artistic shaping of our comedy on the same lines—that is, begin by letting the characters display themselves in their speech and gesture, and in no uncertain terms. We need not go so far as some miserable producers who, for example, if they put a barber on the stage, think it necessary he should be ostentatiously scraping the lather off a customer's chin. No occasion for grotesque demonstrations of that sort. But we should take pains in this first part of the play to let the several characters stand out in strong relief. As you see, we are here not concerned, as in tragedy, with the measure or tempo of the acting, but rather with its content.
As we go on towards the middle of the play, the interest will centre on the various conflicting factors that emerge and that leave us in some doubt as to how it is all going to end. And here it would actually be a little risky to continue entering with intensity into the individual characters; rather must the emphasis be laid on the plot. The whole character of the speaking must centre the hearer's attention on the plot. At this point the earlier comedies favoured the inventive actor. For the book of words left him extraordinarily free; he could extemporise here and there, expressing his astonishment, for instance, when something happens that gives the whole plot an unexpected turn—and so forth. Actors were in this way able on their own initiative to emphasise certain incidents or features in the plot.
And then, at the end of a comedy, particular emphasis should be laid on destiny. This is important. The acting must show how destiny breaks in upon the course of events and brings it all to a happy conclusion.
Comedy
(I) The emphasis is on the Characters.
(II) The emphasis is on the Plot.
(III) The emphasis is on Destiny.
If one is to produce a comedy successfully, with emphasis first on the characters, then on the plot, and finally on the working of destiny, one must of course do one's best to acquire a lively and sympathetic understanding of what destiny and character and plot are in their essential nature.
There is something more that the actor can do. Latent within him are deep feelings and perceptions, and these he should now evoke. What I am going to recommend may seem to you, my dear friends, to be rather external, but you should not on that account belittle it. If you will receive it and follow it out earnestly and with understanding, it will have a wonderful effect. It will awaken in your heart and soul a fine perception for how you are to set about acting—first tragedy, and then comedy. And as you continue to live with it, to live with it in meditation, you will also be helped to carry into real meditative experience the exercises of a more general nature in connection with your calling, that I have already given for your meditation and concentration. Take, for example, what I showed you the other day when we drew the circle of the vowels and found, on one side of the circle the development of tragedy, and on the other side the development of comedy Imitate in your soul the path followed by a drama of tragedy, and your soul will be so attuned that it will develop the skill required for the speaking and producing of your tragedy.
Where a meditation is intended to prepare us for a right treatment of tragedy, very much will depend on how far we are able, during the meditation, to attain inwardly what I described yesterday as liberation from our spoken part. This, my dear friends, must first be attained. We have to carry our preparation of the part up to the point where we have such command of it that we could go through it in our sleep. And then we must be able also to look at it, as it were, from without, taking an active and sympathetic interest in it and in the whole speaking of it (that speaking which we ourselves have created and formed), entering into it with heart and feeling, and also with will and with thought.
The actors of an older time were given meditations to prepare them for their task; and I would like now to give you a brief formula on the same lines. Approaching the words in the mood that belongs to tragedy, try to concentrate your soul with all inner warmth into just that mood that you need for the understanding of tragedy—for that kind of understanding which has actual formative power. And you will see, as you meditate the words you will attain this understanding. But you will need to repeat the meditative preparation over and over again. Go through it now and
then, when you have a few moments' leisure—you might be taking a walk one day, and come upon a secluded spot where you can sit and think quietly for a little. Here then are the words: Ach ( this is merely a preparatory interjection)—
Ach, Fatum,
Du hast
stark mich<
umfasst,
nimm weg
den Fall
in den Abgrund.2fate,
Thou hast laid
firm hand
upon me;
suffer me not
to fall
into the abyss!
I use the Latin word Fatum because, to begin with, the soul must be held steadily in the a and u that evoke the tragic mood: u giving the suggestion of fear, and a bespeaking awed amazement. Then, when we come to stark mich, note that i enters in, to take its part in the tragedy. Note too that farther on the vowels follow one another exactly as they do on the circle:
nimm weg
den Fall
in den Abgrund.
If you will meditate these words, letting speak in them, above all, the feeling that is called up within you by that inner perception of sound which you have acquired in your training, then the words can become for you a kind of foundation upon which you can build the production of your drama of tragedy.
Ach, Fatum,
Du hast
stark mich
umfasst,
nimm weg
den Fall
in den Abgrund.
These words give the mood for tragedy. If for a long time you have repeatedly held before you such a meditation, then you will assuredly find the right inner mood for tragedy when you need it.
For comedy, on the other hand, we have to go back to exercises of a more whimsical and subtle kind, that were not practised with the deep fervour that belongs to exercises for tragedy. (Tragedy, you must remember, is a child of the Mysteries.) None the less, even these exercises for humorous plays had a powerful esoteric influence. They were able actually to beget humour in the actor, and then they did not as it were take it back again but let it pour full stream into the speaking
For if you are going to produce comedy (and please when I use the word ‘produce’, do not take it in a merely external sense), you must be able to laugh in the words. I do not mean you should be perpetually tittering. There are persons who like to draw attention to their remarks by constantly tittering and laughing a little as they speak, a habit that is apt to leave one with the impression that there is not much point or meaning in what is being said. For the actor to bring laughter into his feeling for sound is quite a different matter. It works as true art—in spite of its popularity! There were always in an older time comedians who did this, just as surely as in the early Middle Ages you find priests taking part in the solemn and sublime dramas that were directly connected with the Church. And these early comedians, from among whom in course of time the first professional actors were recruited, laboured always to attain to a deep inner understanding of their work on the stage.
Here then I will again put before you a brief formula from olden times. It was not given merely to make tongue and palate elastic and plastic,—a result that we saw could be attained by cultivating sound-perception; these words, as one meditates them, turn into laughter. They must of course be meditated aloud. And then you will find you have to laugh.
Try practising aloud, as often as you can, this little string of words that I will now write on the blackboard. And, as you say them, enter into the speaking of them with your whole heart and feeling.
Izt'—this is really the word jetzt (now), but it has to be spoken here as izt—
Izt' fühl ich
wie in mir
linklock-hü
und lockläck-hi
völlig mir
witzig
bläst3Inside me I feel
how linklock-hä
and lockläck-hi
go wittily
whispering
on!
your soul; you will laugh inwardly, in your soul. Naturally, you cannot expect to attain that by deepening your feelings as for tragedy! And this has now to be your ideal—to carry into your speaking a laughing soul. Then will your work as producer be full of humour, the humour that has power of itself to produce and form a comedy.
And try to practise it, making with linklock-hü this movement (see first Drawing) and with lockläck-hi this movement (see second Drawing), so that you repeat the whole formula thus:
Izt' fiihl ich
wie in mir
linklock-hü
und lockläck-hi
völlig mir
witzig
bläst.
Try to live your way into this little formula, giving it its full development and speaking it always three times in succession—with the linklock-hü, pulling the upper lip upwards and the lower downwards, so that the lips are puckered; and with lockläck-hi flattening the creases out again.
As you continue repeating it, it will make you laugh in your soul; you will laugh inwardly, in your soul. Naturally, you cannot expect to attain that by deepening your feelings as for tragedy! And this has now to be your ideal—to carry into your speaking a laughing soul. Then will your work As producer be full of humour, the humour that has power of itself to produce and form a comedy.
16. Innerliche Handhabung des Dramatischen und Bühnenmäßigen Schicksal, Charakter und Handlung
Die Entwickelung der dramatischen Kunst ist doch geeignet, manches Licht auch darauf zu werfen, wie dramatische Kunst in der Gegenwart behandelt werden soll. Denn eigentlich ist Stück für Stück auch das wirkliche Dramatische nach und nach in die Entwickelung der Menschheit eingezogen. Dahinein drängte sich natürlich fortwährend widerstrebendes Unkünstlerisches. Und zu alledem, was die geschichtliche Entwickelung heraufgebracht hat, muß heute manches wirkliche Neue kommen, weil die Entwickelung der Menschheit fortgeschritten ist.
Aber gerade derjenige, der im bühnenmäßigen Ausgestalten des Dramas tätig sein muß, wird für seinen innerlichen Impuls sehr viel gewinnen können, wenn er die verschiedenen berechtigten Stücke, aus denen sich die Handhabung des Dramatischen und des Bühnenmäßigen gestaltet hat, auch innerlich, ich möchte sagen, esoterisch kennenlernt.
Nun gibt es drei Dinge, auf die geachtet werden muß, nicht in pedantisch-philiströser Weise, sondern auch in künstlerischer Weise, wenn man ein Drama bühnenmäßig gestalten muß, weil ja diese drei Dinge auch wirken, wenn der Dichter zunächst selbst sein Drama, das für den Schauspieler, wie ich ausgeführt habe, nur eine Art Partitur ist, gestaltet.
Nun, diese drei Dinge sind dasjenige, was wie allbeherrschend über jenem alten Drama geschwebt hat, das aus dem Mysterium heraus gekommen ist: das ist das Schicksal. Wir brauchen uns nur an das alte griechische Drama zu erinnern, wie das Schicksal waltend hereinwirkt, an den Menschen herantritt, wie der Mensch kaum in Betracht kommt, sondern von Götter-Seite her das Schicksal waltend wirkt, dann wird man auch begreifen, wie aus dem rein Künstlerischen heraus in diesem Schicksalsdrama die Tendenz hat entstehen können, das Individuelle am Menschen mehr oder weniger auszulöschen, ihm die Maske aufzusetzen, das Individuelle der Stimme sogar bis zu dem Gebrauch von Instrumenten hin zu typisieren. Kurz, man wird begreifen all dasjenige, was aus dem schicksalsmäßig von den Göttern Kommenden heraus die Individualität, die menschliche Individualität auslöschte. Und wir brauchen uns nur an das alte Drama zu erinnern. Was brachte es zustande? Es brachte eine großartige, überwältigende Wirkung des Schicksals auf der Bühne zustande.
Wir brauchen uns nur an das Ödipus-Drama zu erinnern und sehen das. Aber wenn wir das alte Drama durchgehen, welches immer auf das Schicksal hin tendierte, so werden wir finden, daß zwei Dinge diesem alten Drama nicht in derselben prädominierenden Weise eigen sind wie dem neueren Drama. Diese zwei Dinge konnten in die dramatische Kunst erst einziehen, als sich näher und dann weiter ausgestaltete das Bewußtseinszeitalter. Denn erst mit derjenigen individuellen Gestaltung der Menschenseelen, die im Bewußtseinszeitalter heraufkam, konnte sich dasjenige, was Liebe ist, dramatisch gestalten. Sie werden dasjenige, was Liebe ist, so wie es im Drama als Liebe von Mensch zu Mensch wirklich sich abspielt, im alten Drama nicht in derselben Art finden. Sie finden ganz gewiß Liebe, aber sie hat dort einen schicksalsmäßigen Zug, einen Zug, der auch abhängt von sozialen Verhältnissen. Das werden Sie insbesondere am Antigone-Drama finden. Aber daß die Liebe so gestaltend eingreift, die Liebe namentlich zwischen den Geschlechtern, das ist erst möglich, als das Bewußtseinszeitalter heraufzieht.
Und ein anderes können Sie daraus ersehen, wenn Sie, sagen wir, Aristophanes, den Spötter, vergleichen mit demjenigen, was dann im Heraufdringen des Bewußtseinszeitalters für die Bühne sich ausgestaltet. Sie mögen noch so viel Aristophanes Ähnliches im Altertum nehmen, Sie finden überall Satire, aber Sie finden nicht den lebenbefreienden Humor. Der kommt wiederum, geradeso wie die Liebe dramatisch, eigentlich auf mit dem Bewußtseinszeitalter. Und das eigentümliche ist, daß der Humor mit seiner lebenbefreienden Stimmung gerade in jenem Zeitalter heraufkommt - im Bewußtseinszeitalter -, in welchem nun der menschliche künstlerische Blick für das Drama mehr hinweggeht von dem Schicksalsmäßigen, mehr dazu übergeht, Gefallen daran zu haben, wie der Mensch sich selbst im Verlauf des Dramas zum Gestalter des Schicksals macht.
Dagegen wird man immer mehr und mehr aufmerksam auf den menschlichen Charakter. Und es tritt zum Schicksal das zweite Element hinzu, der Charakter. Die Menschen werden interessant und interessant verarbeitet, Menschen, wie man sie findet im Leben. Nur hat man noch nicht den völligen Überblick für das ganze Individuelle. Die Leute werden noch etwas typisch gestaltet. Und es entstehen an der Stelle der alten Masken die Charaktermasken. Und da, wo man am Drama-freundlichsten, begabtesten war, in den romanischen Ländern, entstehen die Charaktermasken, die Charaktermasken, welche so wunderbar ankündigen, daß man Interesse hat für das IndividuellCharaktertragende im Menschen.
Man kann nur noch nicht ganz heraus aus dem gewissen T'ypisieren des Charakters. Aber man setzt den Menschen herein in dasjenige, was ihn zu einer bestimmten Charaktermaske macht. Und man hat viel Sinn dafür, den Menschen in die Welt so hereinzustellen, daß aus der Welt heraus seine Charaktermaske begreiflich wird.
Sehen Sie sich einmal daraufhin diejenigen Volksdramen an, die mit dem Zeitalter der Bewußtseinsentwickelung heraufkommen, in Italien namentlich; die anderen Länder machen das aber nach. Da beginnt das Interesse am Menschen, das Interesse am Charakter, aber auch das Interesse am Hervorgehen des Charakters aus seinem Milieu. Und das ist etwas, was dann bis zu Shakespeare herüberwirkt und in Shakespeare noch deutlich wahrzunehmen ist. Da beobachtet der Italiener, daß diejenigen Leute, die einen so etwas vornehmen Charakter haben, sozial gesetzte Leute sind, auch etwas im Portemonnaie haben und deshalb sozial gesetzte Leute sein können, in der damaligen Zeit vorzugsweise in Venedig wachsen. Daher treffen wir in den Volksdramen der damaligen Zeit überall venezianische Tracht bei denjenigen, die als sogenannte Pantalone — das ist die Charaktermaske - auftreten. Sie sind immer venezianisch gekleidet, sprechen auch etwas nach dem Venezianischen hin gefärbt. Das ist die eine Charaktermaske. Sie tritt aus dem Schicksalsmäßigen heraus, und der Mensch stellt sich hin.
Als zweite Charaktermaske wird uns in diesen Dramen entgegentreten — und zwar haben diese Dramen zu Hunderten existiert, zu Hunderten, sie sind sogar mit einer großen volkstümlichen Genialität dann ausgestattet worden, es ist immer etwas vom venezianischen Kaufmann darinnen - derjenige, der gelehrt ist. Der Gelehrte kommt hinein, aber in der Form des Advokaten, der verschmitzt ist, verschmitzt in seinem Charakter. Der Verschmitzte ist immer aus Bologna, trägt auch die Bologneser Advokatentracht, welche man an der Universität in Bologna getragen hat. Das wird also als zweite Charaktermaske hineingestellt.
Der dritte ist der Schlaue, der Abgefeimte, der aus dem Volke herauswächst, der Brighella. Er ist mit dem Harlekin zusammen, welcher immer der Dumme ist, der auch aus dem Volke herauswächst. Diese zwei Menschen, das Schlaucherl aus dem Volke und das Dummerl aus dem Volke, die sind immer aus Bergamo, tragen auch Bergameser Tracht.
Die Zofen, so etwas abgefingerte Damen, welche Anlage dazu haben, das Heft im Hause in die Hand zu bekommen, sind immer mehr oder weniger aus Rom, nach der Sitte der damaligen Zeit offenbar, tragen sich auch römisch in der Regel in diesen Volksstücken. Man wußte genau zu beobachten.
So sehen wir den Übergang zum Charakter sich außerordentlich stark herausbilden. Und aus alledem können wir, ich möchte sagen, schon historisch entnehmen, wie notwendig es ist für die Schauspielerbildung, kennenzulernen, wie der Charakter sich typisiert, aus dem Milieu herauswächst, damit man ihn dann um so mehr mit elementatischer Kraft individualisieren kann.
Und zu diesem Ende ist es sogar ganz gut, einmal nachzugehen, mit welch lebendigem, befreiendem Humor die Leute der damaligen Zeit ausgestattet waren, welche solche Dramen nicht nur als Dichter gemacht haben. Denn die Dichter spielten nämlich damals keine so besonders große Rolle. So ein Drama, wie es vom Dichter kam, das war dazumal nicht einmal eine Partitur für den Schauspieler; der mußte die Schlager eigentlich erst ergänzen. Man rechnete ungeheuer viel auf den Schauspieler.
Nun, dadrinnen sehen wir es förmlich, in diesen Dramen, wie das Schicksalsmäßige verschwindet und das Handeln aus dem Charakter heraus von der Bühne vor den Zuschauer hingestellt wird. Und man war sich damals gerade erst recht bewußt, man hat es mit dem Publikum zu tun und man muß mit dem Publikum leben.
Schicksal und Charakter zusammen ergaben dann das dritte, die Handlung.
1. Schicksal
2. Charakter
3. Handlung
Daher trat, bevor im Drama die Handlung begann in ihrem Verlauf, welche man konfiguriert nach Charakter und Schicksal, eigentlich damals immer ein Exklamator auf — man nannte das auch lateinisch -, der in so ähnlicher Weise, wie Sie das bei den Weihnachtsspielen schon gesehen haben, eine Art moralischen Überschlag macht, denn es wurde viel dazumal an moralischen Impulsen auf der Bühne gegeben. Daraus soll man nicht schließen, daß die Moral dazumal ganz besonders gang und gäbe war, sondern viel lieber, daß sie etwas locker war, und man von der Bühne herunter das Bedürfnis hatte, sie etwas zu bessern. Man muß überall den richtigen Gesichtspunkt bei einer solchen Sache ins Auge fassen.
Nun - sehen Sie, vielleicht nicht ganz genau, aber wie gesagt, es existieren Hunderte solcher Dramen — möchte ich ein solches Drama Ihnen charakterisieren, weil man gerade daran dasjenige sehen kann, was ich nachher besprechen will.
Da treffen wir im Beginne eines dieser Hunderte von Dramen allerdings eine Situation zunächst, aber die Situation kommt nur durch die Charaktere zum Vorschein. Die Situation ist diese, daß in einem Orte, der vielleicht gar nicht einmal sehr weit weg von hier gedacht wird, die Zigeuner gekommen sind. Die Zigeuner waren dazumal die Heiden. Die Leute selber in den Dörfern sahen sich als Christen an.
Nun, wir können sagen, ein Stück hätte etwa folgenden Verlauf. Es stimmt auch durchaus mit dem einen und dem anderen Stück, aber ich will so im allgemeinen typisch das Ganze darstellen. Da sehen wir Ruedi, den Mann, Greta, die Frau, die zunächst im Gespräche auftreten. Ruedi sagt ihr, sie soll nur ja jetzt recht alle Schränke und Truhen verschließen, denn die Heiden sind in der Nähe; da wird gestohlen, deren Geschäft sei das Dieben. Da sagt die Greta: Das wär i scho mache, das hätt i allein auch schon gemacht, das brauchst du mir gar nicht zu sagen. Aber weißt du auch, du bist ein versoffner Kerl! Viel mehr als uns die Heiden stehlen, trägst du dem Wirt in die Taschen. Das muß aufhören, das geht nicht so weiter fort.
Nun, der Ruedi ist etwas betroffen, denn die Greta ist energisch. Und nachdem er ein bißchen still geworden ist, seufzt er dann heraus: Nu ja, i, i wär halt zu den Zigeunern gehen und wär mir sagen lassen, was i für en Kerl bin; die können ja wahrsagen, außer dem, daß sie stehlen.
Nun, du bist ein rechter Dummkopf, wenn du das glaubst, was die Zigeuner sagen. Das ist doch alles ein Unsinn. Du sollst sparen, statt noch hinzugehen zu den Zigeunern - sagt die Greta.
Aber er läßt sich nicht abhalten.
Zunächst aber will er nicht nur seine Greta mahnen an das, was zu tun ist, da die Heiden gekommen sind, sondern auch den Stallknecht. Dem Stallknecht befiehlt er, alle Ställe ordentlich zuzuschließen und Mist hinauszuführen auf den Acker. Nun, da wird auch der Stallknecht etwas gesprächig. Es kommt das Gespräch dahin, daß der Stallknecht ihm verrät, daß acht echte rheinische Gulden — das war dazumal ein Vermögen - die Greta im Stall vergraben, versteckt hat. Er weiß das, der Stallknecht, wo das ist. Da wird der Ruedi dummschlau; aber er geht doch zunächst zu den Zigeunern, frägt die Zigeuner um sein Schicksal.
Da sehen wir förmlich hereinspielen das Schicksal, an das man nicht mehr glaubt, das zu den Zigeunern gegangen ist.
Die Zigeunerin, die sagt ihm nun: Ja, du bist schon ein guter Mann, recht guter Mann, aber du hast ’ne zornige Frau, die — die macht dir das Leben sauer. Und du bist auch ein Kerl, der zuviel trinkt.
Donnerwetter, die weiß aber viel - denkt er -, hinter der Wahrsagerei ist doch etwas dahinter.
Ja, siehst du - sagt die Zigeunerin -, aber wenn du ein besseres Gewand anziehst, bessere Kleider anziehst und stattlich dahergehst, dann wirst du noch der Amtmann im Dorf, wenn du weniger trinkst.
Donnerwetter! Das geht ihm ein.
Und jetzt wird das fruchtbar, was der Stallknecht gesagt hat. Nur will die Zigeunerin zunächst ihren Lohn haben für diese Wahrsagerei. Ja, aber er hat nichts, weil ihm die Greta nie was gibt. Da sagt er: Du hast mir ja gesagt, wenn ich bessere Kleider anziehe, dann werde ich Amtmann. Dann will ich euch helfen bei euren Diebereien. Das soll euer Lohn sein. — Schön, auf das geht es hinaus, nicht wahr.
Und nun kommt er wieder zurück. Aber das sitzt ihm doch imKopf: er will bessere Kleider haben, damit er Amtmann werden kann. So geht er denn und gräbt die acht rheinischen Gulden aus, welche der Knecht weiß, und schickt den Knecht mit den acht rheinischen Gulden in die Stadt, in die benachbarte Stadt.
Ja, der Knecht nimmt die acht rheinischen Gulden, geht in die Stadt, geht zum Tuchhändler, sagt dem Tuchhändler: Mein Herr, der da draußen ist, möchte gern verschiedene Tuche haben, verschiedene Farben, die soll ich ihm bringen, denn er will sich schon ein Kleid machen lassen, weil er Amtmann werden soll, und da will er sich verschiedene Tuche anschauen.
Der Tuchhändler sagt: Ich kenn’ deinen Herrn nicht, ich weiß nicht, was mit dem Tuch wird.
Ja - sagt der Knecht -, das ist ein ganz echter Mensch. Nicht wahr, ich nehme das Tuch mit. Es wird schon ordentlich werden.
Die acht rheinischen Gulden, die steckt er sich ein. Und das Tuch, das versilbert er auf andere Art und kommt ohne alles zurück zu seinem Herrn.
Seinen Herrn hat er betrogen um die acht rheinischen Gulden, den Tuchhändler um das Tuch. Nun kommt er zurück, der Stallknecht. Der Herr frägt, was da ist. Ja - sagt er zum Herrn -, ich habe die acht Gulden dem Tuchhändler gelassen, und der hat gesagt, du sollst selber hingehen und sollst dir das Tuch aussuchen; die acht rheinischen Gulden sind dort.
Natürlich sind sie nicht dort, sondern der Stallknecht hat sie für sich behalten.
Mittlerweile wird eine Szene eingeschaltet, wo die Greta einer Gevatterin furchtbar klagt. Sie hat nachgeschaut, die acht rheinischen Gulden sind weg, die sie im Stall eingegraben hatte. Na, wenn nur die Kuh, die sie gefressen hat, nicht zugrunde geht daran -, sagt sie.
Nachher kommt der Mann, der Ruedi, zum Tuchhändler. Da stellt sich heraus, daß der Tuchhändler das Tuch nicht hat, der Ruedi auch nicht; daß der Tuchhändler aber auch kein Geld hat, der Ruedi aber auch nicht. Der Knecht ist da. Der Tuchhändler sagt, er wird ihn verklagen und sich einen Advokaten nehmen. Er wird schon einen finden, einen richtigen Advokaten. - Da kommen sie herein, die Charaktere! - Er wird schon einen finden.
Nun, zunächst gehen sie beide nach Hause. Dann aber kommt in aller Hast ein Bote, ein Läufer, der nach dem damaligen Instinkte wirklich schon von weitem her schreit — mit gutem Bühneninstinkt — und der beide auffordert, den Bauern und den Stallknecht, in die Stadt zu kommen, zum Tuchhändler zunächst.
Da sie zum Tuchhändler kommen, wird der Tuchhändler außerordentlich ausfällig gegen den Knecht - man kann es ja begreifen -, der Tuchhändler wird ausfällig und schimpft fürchterlich. Da fühlt sich der Knecht aber furchtbar beleidigt und sagt: Jetzt wird er verklagen. Der Tuchhändler wird schon sehen, was herauskommt.
Der Tuchhändler ist damit zufrieden, denn er fühlt sich als der Ehrliche, und denkt, daß dabei was Gutes herauskomme. Aber der Knecht, der ist eine Art Brighella und geht zum gescheiteren Advokaten und bringt den mit zu der Verhandlung. Und nun beginnt die Verhandlung.
Der Advokat hat mittlerweile seine Ratschläge dem Stallknecht gegeben. Der Richter stellt seine gelehrten Fragen, alles auf bolognesisch, und der Bauer wird immer verwirrter und verwirrter, verwechselt das Tuch mit dem Geld und das Geld mit dem Tuch. Wenn er von den acht Gulden reden soll, redet er vom 'Tuch, wenn er vom Tuch reden soll, redet er von den acht Gulden, weil der Advokat so furchtbar viel redet.
Nun soll aber auch der Stallknecht reden. Er sagt: veiw! — Neue Frage. Er sagt: veiw! — Neue Frage. Er sagt: veiw! - Der Advokat hat ihm nämlich den Rat gegeben, sich ganz blöde zu stellen, nichts weiter zu antworten, als veiw. Das wird dem Richter endlich zu dumm. Er sagt: Das ist ja ein Verrückter, mit dem kann man nichts anfangen. - Er schickt die Prozeßparteien einfach nach Hause. Die Sache geht ganz gut und humorvoll aus.
Nun ja, sehen Sie, zuletzt merkt man, bei der Besprechung, die zwischen dem Advokaten und dem Stallknecht stattgefunden hat, hat der Stallknecht dem Advokaten die acht rheinischen Gulden versprochen. Die kriegt er jetzt auch auf den Rat des «veiw». Der Stallknecht hat das Tuch, der Bauer und der Tuchhändler haben das Nachsehen. Und der Zuschauer hat seine Befriedigung. Er hat eine Anzahl von Charakteren sich vor sich entwickeln gesehen. Diese Dinge, die zu Hunderten damals gespielt wurden, enthielten wirklich einen urelementarischen, volkstümlichen Humor und wurden gut gespielt, weil sie mit innerem Anteil gespielt wurden.
Und wir sehen gerade im Beginne des Bewußtseinszeitalters, wie hineinwächst in das Schicksalsdrama das Charakterdrama. Auf diese Weise ist das Charakterdrama gekommen. Und es gäbe eigentlich als Schauspielschule nichts Besseres, als diese Dramen wieder aufzunehmen, denn sie sind mit großer Geschicklichkeit aufgebaut, im edelsten, idealsten Sinne des Wortes, um die Charakteristik herauszuholen gerade aus diesen Dramen.
Man sollte also in Schauspielschulen eine Art historischer Unterweisung in der Handhabung und Charakterisierung einführen und sollte zurückgehen zu diesen Zeiten. Solche Dramen sind am Einde des 15. Jahrhunderts überall gespielt worden in romanischen Ländern, auch in der Schweiz hier übrigens, haben dann nach Deutschland hinübergegriffen. Im 16. Jahrhundert waren sie gang und gäbe. Da spielte man von der einen Seite in den weltlichen Zeiten des Jahres dieses Charakterdrama, und dasjenige, was vom Schicksalsdrama übriggeblieben war, haben Sie andererseits in den Weihnachtsspielen. Da spielte das Schicksal darinnen, wie es aus jenseitigen Welten kommt. Und deshalb, weil man da auf der einen Seite steht vor einem Festhalten des Schicksalsmäßigen in den strengen Formen des Christentums, auf der anderen Seite im ursprünglichen Heraufkommen des Charakteristischen im Drama, kann man gerade, wenn man diese Zeiten der dramatischen Entwickelung aufnimmt, so außerordentlich viel aus den Sachen lernen.
Sehen Sie, wir treten also da ein in die Zeit, wo die alte Maske, die eine Leibesmaske war, durch die Charaktermaske allmählich zum Individuellen übergeht. Aber Sie müssen nicht vergessen, daß wirklich gute, objektive Gründe vorliegen, an diesen Quellen heute für das Schauspielerische wiederum viel zu lernen. Denn sehen Sie hin, als Schiller aufgetreten ist mit einem eminenten Talente für das Dramatische, experimentierte er, wie ich schon von einem anderen Gesichtspunkte aus dargestellt habe, zwischen dem Charakterdrama und dem Schicksalsdrama. Er wußte nicht, wie er diese Hauptelemente in das Drama hineinbringen soll.
Denken Sie nur einmal, wie im Grunde genommen doch nicht ganz organisch das Schicksal in das Wallenstein-Drama hineinspielt, und man sieht, Schiller kittet da das Schicksal mit dem Charaktermäßigen äußerlich zusammen. Dann will er das Schicksal wieder heranzerren später in der «Braut von Messina». Man kann eigentlich erst am «Demetrius» sehen, daß er nach sehr viel Üben, wenn ich das philiströse Wort gebrauchen darf, es dahin gebracht hat, Schicksal und Charakter zur Handlung miteinander zu verweben.
Das eigentliche Lustspiel kann aber erst entstehen aus diesem Charakterologischen. Im Römertum bereitet sich natürlich das Lustspiel schon vot, denn da ist eine Vorwegnahme des Bewußtseinszeitalters, aber wir schen in älteren Zeiten überall das tragische Drama im Vordergrunde, höchstens das Satyrdrama im komischen Nachspiel, im Anknüpfen an das Drama zum Ausdruck kommen. Aber das eigentliche Lustspiel kommt erst herauf, als Liebe und Humor im Bewußtseinszeitalter in die Dramatik einziehen können.
Wenn man das nun wirklich so, wie es sich hier abgespielt hat, innerlich in sich aufnimmt, dann bekommt man eine innerliche Stimmung und Empfindung, wie man regiemäßig vorgehen muß für das Tragische, Getragene auf der einen Seite, und für das mehr Komödienhafte, für das Lustspielartige auf der anderen Seite. Und man wird ein weiteres Moment für die Konfiguration der dramatischen Handlung haben.
Nehmen wir zuerst das Tragische. Man wird einfach aus den Empfindungen, die man sich aufgebaut hat durch eine solche Schulung, wie ich sie angedeutet habe, in der folgenden Weise beim Tragischen regissieren.
Sehen Sie, da lassen sich nicht Theorien und Definitionen geben, sondern man muß erleben, wie man zu den Empfindungen kommt, welche das Künstlerische dann bewirken können. Das ist der richtige Weg, und das versuchte ich heute zu zeigen. Man wird sich sagen: Dasjenige, was zuerst im Drama da ist, wo der Zuschauer bekanntgemacht wird mit dem, wofür er Interesse haben soll, was man gelehrt in der Ästhetik heute die Exposition nennt, muß in einer entsprechenden Weise zunächst langsam gespielt werden, langsam, und die Langsamkeit muß insbesondere erreicht werden durch entsprechende Pausen.
Man muß also das Tragische zunächst in langsamem Tempo beginnen, aber diese Langsamkeit muß hauptsächlich durch Pausen erreicht werden, durch Pausen in der Rede und auch durch Pausen zwischen den Szenen, nicht so sehr durch die innere Langsamkeit, als durch die Langsamkeit, welche durch Pausen hervorgerufen wird. Dadurch kommt man dem Zuhörer entgegen. Der hat die Möglichkeit, sich innerlich zu verbinden mit dem, was da ist.
Nun kommt dasjenige heran, was man als Verwicklung bezeichnen kann, wo es unsicher wird, wie die Dinge ausgehen. Es ist die Mitte des Dramas, die Kulmination der Handlung. Da wird man sogar verlangsamen müssen das Tempo im Sprechen und in den Gebärden. Also man kann sagen: Langsameres Tempo, aber ohne Pausen. — Das heißt natürlich nicht ganz ohne Pausen. Es muß der Sprechende Atem schöpfen, es muß der Zuschauer Atem schöpfen. Aber es muß eben eine gewisse Beschleunigung durch das Verkürzen der Pausen erreicht werden.
Dann kommt der dritte Teil, welcher die Lösung bringen soll, der eine gewisse sauere Unbefriedigtheit zurückläßt, wenn er in demselben Tempo abläuft. Da handelt es sich darum, daß das Tempo beschleunigt wird, und daß der Schluß eben in beschleunigtem Tempo auslaufe.
Tragisches:
I. Langsames Tempo: Pausen
II. Langsameres Tempo: ohne Pausen
III. Tempo beschleunigt
Da handelt es sich darum, daß nun auch innerlich im Sprechen und in den Gebärden das Tempo beschleunigt wird. Wenn man das tut, wird man ganz gewiß die Imponderabilien, die hergestellt werden müssen zwischen der Bühne und dem Zuschauerraum, herstellen. Und dies ergibt sich einfach aus dem Gefühle heraus, wenn man das Gefühl in der angedeuteten Weise schult. Es handelt sich also beim Regissieren des Tragischen überall um das Maß in der Konfiguration.
Etwas anderes tritt beim Lustspielmäßigen auf. Und das Schauspiel steht ja in der Mitte zwischen beiden. Man kann daher die Sache lernen an dem einen und an dem anderen. Etwas ganz anderes tritt beim Lustspielmäßigen auf. Da wandert der Charakter herein. Und da kann man insbesondere an solch einem Lustspiele, wie ich es charakterisiert habe, lernen, wie man beginnen muß.
Man wird so beginnen - und gerade kann man es an solchen, mit urvolksmäßigem Humor begabten Stücken tun -, daß man den Schauspieler, der sich in seiner Rede selber charakterisiert, eine innerliche instinktive Freude ausdrücken läßt, so daß man gleich darauf kommt: der Charakter, der sitzt da. Das ist der Pantalone.
Natürlich werden wir heute individualisieren, nicht typisieren, aber wir können dennoch nach dem künstlerisch Gestaltenden so vorgehen. Wir beginnen damit, daß wir die Charaktere im Sprechen und in den Gesten stark betonen lassen. Wir brauchen es nicht immer so stark zu machen, wie es gewöhnlich schlechte Darsteller bei der Barbierdarstellung machen, wo sie besonders betonen das Wegschleudern des Seifenschaumes beim Rasieren; es braucht ja nicht so stark und grotesk zutage zu treten. Aber es handelt sich darum, daß im ersten Teile die Charaktere betont werden. Sie sehen, da handelt es sich um das Inhaltliche, nicht mehr wie beim Tragischen um das Wie, sondern um das Inhaltliche. |
Kommt man mehr gegen die Mitte, da interessieren die verschiedenen sich entgegenstellenden Dinge, die einen unsicher machen, wie die Sache ausgeht. Da wird es um die Charaktere etwas gefahrvoll, durchzudringen, da muß man die Handlung besonders betonen. Da muß besonders das eintreten, was in der Charakteristik der Worte die Handlung betont.
Nun waren ja die Zeiten dem Schauspieler besonders günstig. Denn er konnte, da es sich eigentlich immer um Textbücher handelte, wo ihm viel Freiheit gelassen wurde, wirklich extemporieren das Verschiedenste, was gerade in der Mitte eines Lustspieles steht: seine Überraschung, daß das geschieht, was unerwartet war, was einen abbringt von dem Wege, den die Charaktere gehen wollten und so weiter. Er konnte das alles betonen.
Und am Schlusse des Lustspiels, da ist es von besonderer Bedeutung, stark zu betonen das Hereinbrechen des Schicksals, das Befriedigung gibt im Abschluß.
Lustspielmäßiges:
I. Die Charaktere betont
II. Die Handlung betont
III. Das Schicksal betont
Sie sehen, hier — siehe Schema - kommt überall das Inhaltliche in Betracht, dort das Maß. Es wurden also hier zunächst die Charaktere betont, dann die Handlung, dann das Schicksal. Natürlich muß man sich eine Art innerliche Anteilnahme für das erwerben, was Schicksal, was Charakter, was Handlung ist.
Nun kann aber allerdings der Schauspieler auch demjenigen entgegenkommen, was in ihm lebt an gefühlsmäßiger Vertiefung. Sie müssen nicht verachten, meine lieben Freunde, dieses zunächst auf das äußere Anschauen Gehende, das ich in der heutigen Stunde werde nun darzustellen haben. Wird es mit Ernst und innerer Anteilnahme getrieben, so wird man sehen, welche wunderbaren Erfolge in der Entwickelung des Gemütes für die Empfindung dessen, was man dem Tragischen, was man dem Lustspielmäßigen gegenüber machen soll, sich da ergeben. Aber man kann dem auch entgegenkommen, meditativ entgegenkommen, so entgegenkommen, daß man das, was ich schon angedeutet habe an mehr empfundenen Berufskonzentrationen und -meditationen, wirklich ins Meditative hineintreibt. Und so wird der Schauspieler seine Seele dafür stimmen können, daß sie geschickt werde im Sprechen des Tragischen, im regiemäßigen Gestalten des Tragischen, wenn er in seiner Seele dasjenige nachahmt, was ich an jenem Kreise dargestellt habe, wo das Tragische auf der einen Seite, das Lustspielmäßige auf der anderen Seite gesucht worden ist.
Nur wird beim Tragischen, bei einer solchen Meditation das Eigentümliche vorliegen, daß man im hohen Grade während der Meditation dieses innerlich vornimmt, was ich gestern charakterisiert habe als das Wiederloslösen von dem Sprachlich-Gestalteten.
Man braucht das ja, meine lieben Freunde. Erst muß man wirklich so präparieren, daß man, wie ich sagte, sprachgestaltend das Ganze hat, daß man es aus dem Schlafe heraus machen könnte. Dann aber wiederum muß man den von der Sprache losgelösten, rein menschlichen Gefühls- und Gemütsanteil, Willensanteil, Gedankenanteil nehmen können an demjenigen, was man selber gestaltet hat.
Da wurden gerade die alten Schauspieler gut meditativ vorbereitet. Und ich möchte nachgestaltend Ihnen eine kleine Formel geben, eine kleine Formel, an der Sie das sehen können, wenn Sie sie immer wieder und wiederum, wenn Sie Muße haben, versuchen, zum Beispiel wenn Sie im Spaziergang sind und sinnen können, indem Sie sich irgendwo in den Schatten setzen oder sonst bei einer ähnlichen Muße. Versuchen Sie, Ihre Seele mit innerlicher Wärme zu konzentrieren gerade nach der Stimmung hin, die sie haben muß, um das Tragische so zu begreifen, daß das Begreifen gestaltend wirken kann. Sie werden das erreichen, wenn Sie folgendes meditieren:
Ach - das ist zunächst nur die Vorbereitung —
Ach, Fatum - das deutsche Wort kann ich hier nicht gebrauchen, weil in dem a und u zunächst die Seele sich halten muß
Während sonst die tragische Stimmung in # und a hervorgerufen wird: # leise Furcht, z Bewunderung, tritt das 7 auf, um sich selber hineinzustellen. Nimm weg - es geht weiter im Umkreis -:Ach, Fatum
Du hast
stark mich — das i tritt hier herein — umfaßt
nimm weg den Fall in den Abgrund
Wenn Sie das so meditieren, daß vor allen Dingen darin Gefühl spricht, und wie selbstverständlich das Gefühl ruht auf dem durch die Schulung präparierten Lautempfinden, dann ist das wirklich eine Art Regiegrundlage für die Gestaltung des tragischen Dramas.
Ach, Fatum
Du hast
stark mich
umfaßt
nimm weg
den Fall
in den Abgrund.
Es gibt das so die tragische Stimmung, daß man sie finden wird, wo man sie braucht, wenn man genügend lange und genügend oft solch eine Meditation vor sich hinstellt.
Für das Lustspiel dagegen handelt es sich darum, daß man zurückgeht auf die schlauen Übungen, die ja nicht mit derselben inneren Pathetik wie das in der Tragik, welche aus dem Mysterium herausgeboren war, getrieben wurden, die aber dennoch bei allem Humor außerordentlich stark esoterisch wirkten, die nun eben den Humor bringen können und diesen Humor nun nicht zurücknehmen, sondern in die Sprache hineingießen.
Man muß eigentlich - also nicht im äußerlichen Sinne bitte ich das aufzufassen —, wenn man Lustspiele regissieren will, man muß in den Worten lachen können. Ich meine nicht, daß man immer kichern kann. Das können besonders diejenigen Leute, die immer ihre Rede dadurch geltend zu machen wünschen, daß sie dabei kichern, wobei man immer den Eindruck hat, daß da nichts besonders Gescheites liegt, was erkichernd gesprochen wird. Aber dieses Hineinlachen in die Lautempfindung, das ist etwas, was wirkt trotz aller Volksmäßigkeit. Es waren doch immer Komödianten, welche diese Dinge aufführten, geradeso wie in den ersten Zeiten des Mittelalters Geistliche die erhabenen Dramen aufführten, welche die Anschlüsse an das Kirchliche sich erhalten wollten, es waren Leute, aus denen sich schon allmählich das Berufsschauspielertum heraus rekrutierte, und die auch auf ein innerliches Erfassen des Spieles hinausgingen.
Da möchte ich wiederum etwas anführen, was dazumal sozusagen Zunge und Gaumen nun nicht bloß so, wie man es in der Lautempfindung hat, elastisch machte, plastisch machte, sondern was hinauswirkte ins Lachen hinein, indem man meditierte. Man muß ja allerdings dann laut meditieren — aber bitte, das nicht da oben auf dem Schloß zu machen -, dann bekommt man das, wenn man möglichst versucht, diesen Zusammenhang, den ich nun aufschreiben werde, laut oftmals zu üben, mit innerem sprachempfindenden Anteil:
Izt’ - jetzt, aber in der Form izt gesprochen —
Izt’ fühl ich
wie in mir
Linklock-hü
und lockläck-hi
völlig mir
witzig
bläst.
Versuchen Sie das einmal so zu üben, daß Sie bei dem Linklock-hü diese Bewegung machen — siehe Schema -, bei dem lockläck-hi diese Bewegung - siehe Schema -, so daß das Ganze geübt wird:
Izt’ fühl ich
wie in mir
Linklock-hü
und lockläck-hi
völlig mir
witzig
bläst.
Dreimal mit aller Ausgestaltung. Versuchen Sie, in das hineinzukommen, und sehen Sie, daß bei dem Linklock-hü so die Lippen verzogen werden, die Oberlippe hinauf, die Unterlippe so herunter:
und bei dem lockläck-hi so die Falten gelegt werden:
Und empfinden Sie das! Sie werden schon sehen, wie nach und nach dies ein seelisches Lachen gibt. Es gibt ein innerliches seelisches Lachen. Denn das seelische Lachen kann natürlich nicht tragisch vertieft werden. Da besteht der Idealismus darinnen, daß man nun wirklich in die Sprache hinein die lachende Seele bringe. Dann werden Sie sehen, wie Sie auf diese Weise in humorvolle Regie, in dieses Regissieren hineinkommen. Davon dann morgen weiter.
Ich gedenke dann, etwa am Dienstag diese Vorträge abzuschließen.
16. Inner handling of the dramatic and theatrical Fate, character, and action
The development of dramatic art is indeed capable of shedding some light on how dramatic art should be treated in the present day. For in fact, piece by piece, the real dramatic has gradually entered into the development of humanity. Of course, there has always been a tendency for the inartistic to intrude. And in addition to everything that historical development has brought about, many truly new things must come today, because the development of humanity has progressed.
But precisely those who are involved in staging drama will gain a great deal for their inner impulse if they also get to know the various legitimate plays from which the handling of the dramatic and the theatrical has developed, inwardly, I would say, esoterically.
Now there are three things that must be taken into account, not in a pedantic, philistine way, but also in an artistic way, when staging a drama, because these three things also have an effect when the poet himself first creates his drama, which, as I have explained, is only a kind of score for the actor.
Now, these three things are what hovered over that ancient drama, which emerged from mystery: that is fate. We need only remember ancient Greek drama, how fate intervenes, approaches human beings, how human beings are hardly taken into consideration, but rather fate intervenes on the part of the gods, and then one will also understand how, out of the purely artistic, the tendency arose in this drama of fate to to more or less extinguish the individuality of human beings, to put a mask on them, to typify the individuality of the voice, even to the point of using instruments. In short, we will understand all that which, coming from the gods as fate, extinguished individuality, human individuality. And we need only remember the ancient drama. What did it accomplish? It brought about a magnificent, overwhelming effect of fate on the stage.
We need only remember the Oedipus drama to see this. But if we go through the ancient drama, which always tended toward fate, we will find that two things are not as predominant in this ancient drama as they are in the newer drama. These two things could only enter into the dramatic art as the age of consciousness developed and then expanded. For it was only with the individual formation of human souls that arose in the age of consciousness that what love is could be dramatically formed. You will not find what love is, as it really happens in drama as love between human beings, in the same way in ancient drama. You will certainly find love, but there it has a fateful aspect, an aspect that also depends on social circumstances. You will find this particularly in the drama of Antigone. But for love to intervene in such a formative way, especially love between the sexes, is only possible when the age of consciousness dawns.
And you can see something else from this if you compare, say, Aristophanes, the satirist, with what then develops for the stage with the advent of the age of consciousness. No matter how much you look for Aristophanes's counterparts in antiquity, you will find satire everywhere, but you will not find life-liberating humor. That, like dramatic love, actually emerges with the age of consciousness. And the peculiar thing is that humor, with its life-liberating mood, arises precisely in that age — the age of consciousness — in which the human artistic view of drama now moves away from the fateful and more toward taking pleasure in how man makes himself the creator of fate in the course of the drama.
On the other hand, people are becoming more and more attentive to human character. And a second element is added to fate: character. People become interesting and are portrayed in an interesting way, people as they are found in life. Only, one does not yet have a complete overview of the whole individual. People are still portrayed in a somewhat typical way. And character masks are emerging in place of the old masks. And where people were most drama-friendly and talented, in the Romance countries, character masks are emerging, character masks that so wonderfully announce that one is interested in the individual character traits in people.
It is not yet possible to completely escape the certain typification of character. But people are placed in that which makes them a certain character mask. And there is a great sense of placing people in the world in such a way that their character mask becomes understandable from the world.
Take a look at the folk dramas that emerged with the age of consciousness development, particularly in Italy; other countries followed suit. This is where interest in people, interest in character, but also interest in the emergence of character from its milieu begins. And this is something that then carries over to Shakespeare and is still clearly perceptible in Shakespeare. The Italian observes that those people who have such a distinguished character, who are socially established, who also have something in their wallets and can therefore be socially established, grow up in Venice in particular at that time. That is why, in the folk dramas of that time, we encounter Venetian costumes everywhere among those who appear as so-called Pantalone—that is, the character mask. They are always dressed in Venetian clothing and also speak with a Venetian accent. That is one character mask. It emerges from fate, and the person stands there.
The second character mask we encounter in these dramas — and there were hundreds of these dramas, hundreds of them, they were even endowed with great popular genius — always has something of the Venetian merchant in it — the one who is learned. The scholar enters, but in the form of a lawyer who is mischievous, mischievous in character. The mischievous one is always from Bologna and also wears the Bolognese lawyer's costume, which was worn at the University of Bologna. So that is introduced as the second character mask.
The third is the cunning one, the sly one, who rises from the people, Brighella. He is together with Harlequin, who is always the fool, who also rises from the people. These two people, the cunning one from the people and the fool from the people, are always from Bergamo and also wear Bergamo costumes.
The maids, somewhat worn-out ladies who have a knack for taking charge of the household, are always more or less from Rome, according to the customs of the time, and usually dress in Roman style in these folk plays. People knew exactly how to observe.
Thus we see the transition to character developing extremely strongly. And from all this, I would say, we can already deduce historically how necessary it is for actor training to learn how character is typified, how it grows out of its milieu, so that it can then be individualized all the more with elemental force.
And to this end, it is even quite good to examine the lively, liberating humor with which the people of that time were endowed, who did not only create such dramas as poets. For poets did not play a particularly important role at that time. A drama such as that which came from the poet was not even a score for the actor at that time; he actually had to supplement the hits. A tremendous amount was expected of the actors.
Now, in these dramas, we can literally see how fate disappears and the characters' actions are presented to the audience on stage. And at that time, people were very aware that they were dealing with an audience and had to live with the audience.
Fate and character together then resulted in the third element, the action.
1. Fate
2. Character
3. Action
Therefore, before the plot began in the drama, which was configured according to character and fate, there was always an exclamation mark—also called a Latin exclamation mark—which, in a similar way to what you have already seen in the Christmas plays, made a kind of moral leap, because at that time there were many moral impulses on stage. This should not lead one to conclude that morality was particularly common at that time, but rather that it was somewhat lax, and that there was a need to improve it from the stage. One must consider the correct point of view in such matters everywhere.
Now—you see, perhaps not entirely accurately, but as I said, there are hundreds of such dramas—I would like to characterize one such drama for you, because it illustrates precisely what I want to discuss later.
At the beginning of one of these hundreds of dramas, we encounter a situation, but the situation only comes to light through the characters. The situation is that in a place, perhaps not very far from here, the gypsies have arrived. At that time, the gypsies were pagans. The people in the villages considered themselves Christians.
Well, we can say that a play would have the following plot, for example. It is also quite consistent with one play or another, but I want to present the whole thing in a typical way. We see Ruedi, the man, and Greta, the woman, who first appear in conversation. Ruedi tells her to lock all the cupboards and chests, because the heathens are nearby; they steal, that's their business. Greta says: I'd already done that, I'd already done that myself, you don't need to tell me that. But you know, you're a drunkard! You put much more into the landlord's pockets than the heathens steal from us. That has to stop, it can't go on like this.
Well, Ruedi is a little taken aback, because Greta is forceful. And after he has become a little quiet, he sighs and says: “Well, I would go to the gypsies and let them tell me what kind of guy I am; they can tell the future, except that they steal.”
Well, you're a real fool if you believe what the gypsies say. It's all nonsense. You should save your money instead of going to the gypsies, says Greta.
But he won't be dissuaded.
First, however, he wants to remind not only his Greta of what needs to be done now that the heathens have arrived, but also the stable boy. He orders the stable boy to lock all the stables properly and take the manure out to the field. Now the stable boy also becomes somewhat talkative. The conversation leads to the stable boy revealing that Greta has buried eight genuine Rhenish guilders—which was a fortune at the time—in the stable. The stable boy knows where they are. Ruedi becomes sly, but first he goes to the gypsies and asks them about his fate.
Here we see fate, which no one believes in anymore, coming into play, having gone to the gypsies.
The gypsy woman now tells him: Yes, you are a good man, a very good man, but you have an angry wife who makes your life miserable. And you are also a man who drinks too much.
Gosh, she knows a lot, he thinks, there is something behind fortune telling after all.
Yes, you see, says the gypsy woman, but if you put on better clothes, dress better and carry yourself with dignity, then you will become the village official if you drink less.
Good heavens! That hits home.
And now what the stable boy said is coming to fruition. But first, the gypsy woman wants her reward for this fortune telling. Yes, but he has nothing because Greta never gives him anything. So he says: You told me that if I wear better clothes, I will become the bailiff. Then I will help you with your thievery. That will be your reward. — Fine, that's what it comes down to, isn't it?
And now he comes back. But it's stuck in his head: he wants better clothes so he can become a bailiff. So he goes and digs up the eight Rhenish guilders that the servant knows about and sends the servant with the eight Rhenish guilders to the neighboring town.
Yes, the servant takes the eight Rhenish guilders, goes to town, goes to the cloth merchant, and says to the cloth merchant: My master, who is outside, would like to have different cloths, different colors, which I am to bring him, because he wants to have a suit made, as he is to become a bailiff, and he wants to look at different cloths.
The cloth merchant says: I don't know your master, I don't know what will become of the cloth.
Yes,“ says the servant, ”he is a very real person. Isn't that right? I'll take the cloth. It will be fine."
He pockets the eight Rhenish guilders. And he sells the cloth in another way and returns to his master without anything.
He has cheated his master out of the eight Rhine guilders and the cloth merchant out of the cloth. Now the stable boy returns. The master asks what is going on. Yes, he says to the master, I left the eight guilders with the cloth merchant, and he said you should go yourself and choose the cloth; the eight Rhine guilders are there."
Of course they are not there, but the stable boy has kept them for himself.
Meanwhile, a scene is inserted in which Greta complains terribly to a godmother. She has checked, and the eight Rhine guilders she had buried in the stable are gone. Well, if only the cow that ate them doesn't die from it, she says.
Afterwards, the man, Ruedi, comes to the cloth merchant. It turns out that the cloth merchant doesn't have the cloth, nor does Ruedi; but the cloth merchant also has no money, and neither does Ruedi. The stable boy is there. The cloth merchant says he will sue him and hire a lawyer. He will find one, a real lawyer. Then they come in, the characters! He will find one.
Well, first they both go home. But then a messenger arrives in a hurry, a runner who, in keeping with the instincts of the time, really does shout from afar — with good stage instinct — and asks both of them, the farmer and the stable hand, to come to the city, to the cloth merchant first.
When they arrive at the cloth merchant's, the cloth merchant becomes extremely abusive towards the servant—which is understandable—the cloth merchant becomes abusive and swears terribly. But the servant feels terribly offended and says: Now he will sue. The cloth merchant will see what comes of it.
The cloth merchant is satisfied with this, because he feels that he is the honest one and thinks that something good will come of it. But the farmhand is a kind of Brighella and goes to the failed lawyer and brings him to the trial. And now the trial begins.
In the meantime, the lawyer has given his advice to the stable boy. The judge asks his learned questions, all in Bolognese, and the farmer becomes more and more confused, confusing the cloth with the money and the money with the cloth. When he is supposed to talk about the eight guilders, he talks about the ‘cloth’, when he is supposed to talk about the cloth, he talks about the eight guilders, because the lawyer talks so much.
Now it is the stable boy's turn to speak. He says: veiw! — New question. He says: veiw! — New question. He says: veiw! — The lawyer has advised him to play dumb and say nothing more than veiw. The judge finally gets fed up. He says: This guy is crazy, there's no point in dealing with him. He simply sends the parties home. The matter ends quite well and humorously.
Well, you see, in the end, during the discussion between the lawyer and the stable boy, the stable boy promised the lawyer the eight Rhenish guilders. He now gets them on the advice of the “veiw.” The stable boy has the cloth, the farmer and the cloth merchant are left empty-handed. And the audience is satisfied. They have seen a number of characters develop before their eyes. These plays, which were performed hundreds of times back then, really contained a primal, folksy humor and were well performed because they were played with inner involvement.
And we see, especially at the beginning of the age of consciousness, how character drama grows into the drama of fate. This is how character drama came about. And there would actually be nothing better for a drama school than to revive these plays, because they are constructed with great skill, in the noblest, most ideal sense of the word, in order to bring out the characteristics of these very plays.
Acting schools should therefore introduce a kind of historical instruction in handling and characterization and should go back to these times. Such dramas were performed everywhere in Romanic countries at the end of the 15th century, including here in Switzerland, and then spread to Germany. In the 16th century, they were commonplace. On the one hand, this character drama was performed during the secular times of the year, and on the other hand, what remained of the drama of fate was performed in the Christmas plays. Fate played a role in these, as it comes from other worlds. And because, on the one hand, we are faced with a adherence to fate in the strict forms of Christianity, and on the other hand, with the original emergence of character in drama, we can learn so much from these times of dramatic development.
You see, we are entering a time when the old mask, which was a physical mask, is gradually giving way to the character mask and becoming individual. But you must not forget that there are really good, objective reasons for learning a great deal from these sources for acting today. For when Schiller appeared on the scene with his eminent talent for drama, he experimented, as I have already described from another point of view, between character drama and fate drama. He did not know how to incorporate these main elements into his drama.
Just think how, when you come right down to it, fate does not play an entirely organic role in the Wallenstein drama, and you can see that Schiller is externally cementing fate together with character. Then he wants to drag fate back in later in “The Bride of Messina.” It is only in “Demetrius” that we can actually see that, after a great deal of practice, if I may use the philistine term, he has managed to weave fate and character together into the plot.
However, the actual comedy can only arise from this characterological element. In Roman culture, comedy is already in the making, of course, because there is an anticipation of the age of consciousness, but in earlier times we see tragic drama in the foreground everywhere, at most satyr drama in the comic epilogue, expressing itself in connection with the drama. But the actual comedy only emerges when love and humor can enter the drama in the age of consciousness.
If you really take this in internally, as it has been presented here, then you will develop an inner mood and feeling for how to proceed in terms of direction for the tragic, the solemn on the one hand, and for the more comedic, the farcical on the other. And you will have another moment for the configuration of the dramatic action.
Let's take the tragic first. Based on the feelings you have built up through the kind of training I have outlined, you will simply direct the tragic in the following way.
You see, there are no theories or definitions to be given here, but one must experience how to arrive at the feelings that can then bring about the artistic effect. That is the right way, and that is what I tried to show today. One will say to oneself: that which is present at the beginning of the drama, where the audience is introduced to what they are supposed to be interested in, what is now called exposition in aesthetics, must first be played slowly in an appropriate manner, slowly, and the slowness must be achieved in particular through appropriate pauses.
So the tragedy must begin at a slow pace, but this slowness must be achieved mainly through pauses, through pauses in speech and also through pauses between scenes, not so much through inner slowness as through the slowness caused by pauses. This accommodates the listener. They have the opportunity to connect inwardly with what is there.
Now comes what can be described as the complication, where it becomes uncertain how things will turn out. It is the middle of the drama, the culmination of the action. Here, one will even have to slow down the tempo of speech and gestures. So one can say: a slower tempo, but without pauses. — Of course, that doesn't mean completely without pauses. The speaker has to catch their breath, and the audience has to catch their breath. But a certain acceleration must be achieved by shortening the pauses.
Then comes the third part, which is supposed to bring the solution, but which leaves a certain sour dissatisfaction if it proceeds at the same pace. The point here is that the pace is accelerated and that the conclusion ends at an accelerated pace.
Tragedy:
I. Slow tempo: pauses
II. Slower tempo: without pauses
III. Accelerated tempo
The point is that the tempo is now also accelerated internally in speech and gestures. If you do that, you will certainly create the imponderables that need to be created between the stage and the auditorium. And this simply results from the feeling when you train the feeling in the manner indicated. So when directing tragedy, it is all about the measure in the configuration.
Something else occurs in comedy. And drama stands in the middle between the two. One can therefore learn from both. Something completely different occurs in comedy. There, the character wanders in. And there, one can learn how to begin, especially from a comedy such as I have characterized.
One begins – and one can do this particularly in plays endowed with primitive humor – by letting the actor, who characterizes himself in his speech, express an inner, instinctive joy, so that one immediately realizes: the character is sitting there. That is Pantalone.
Of course, today we will individualize, not typify, but we can still proceed in this way in terms of artistic design. We begin by having the characters strongly emphasize their speech and gestures. We don't always need to make it as strong as bad actors usually do in their portrayal of barbers, where they particularly emphasize the flinging away of soap suds while shaving; it does not need to be so strong and grotesque. But the point is that in the first part, the characters are emphasized. You see, it is about the content, no longer about the how, as in tragedy, but about the content.
As we move towards the middle, we become interested in the various conflicting elements that make us uncertain about how things will turn out. It becomes somewhat dangerous to penetrate the characters, so the action must be emphasized. What emphasizes the action in the characteristics of the words must come to the fore.
Now, the times were particularly favorable for the actor. Because it was always a matter of scripts, where he was given a lot of freedom, he could really improvise the most diverse things that happen in the middle of a comedy: his surprise that something unexpected is happening, something that leads the characters astray from the path they wanted to take, and so on. He could emphasize all of that.
And at the end of the comedy, it is particularly important to strongly emphasize the onset of fate, which provides satisfaction in the conclusion.
Comedy:
I. Emphasis on the characters
II. Emphasis on the plot
III. Emphasize fate
You see, here—see diagram—the content is taken into account everywhere, there the measure. So here, first the characters were emphasized, then the plot, then fate. Of course, one must acquire a kind of inner sympathy for what fate, what character, what plot is.
Now, however, the actor can also respond to what lives within him in terms of emotional depth. You must not despise, my dear friends, this initial focus on outward appearance, which I will now have to demonstrate in today's lesson. If it is done with seriousness and inner sympathy, one will see what wonderful successes arise in the development of the mind for the perception of what one should do in the face of the tragic and the comical. But one can also respond to this, respond meditatively, in such a way that what I have already indicated in terms of more deeply felt professional concentration and meditation is truly driven into the meditative. And so the actor will be able to attune his soul to become skilled in speaking the tragic, in shaping the tragic in accordance with the direction, if he imitates in his soul what I have described in that circle where the tragic was sought on the one hand and the comedic on the other.
Only in the case of the tragic, in such meditation, will there be the peculiarity that during meditation one undertakes to a high degree what I characterized yesterday as the re-detachment from the linguistically shaped.
This is necessary, my dear friends. First, one must really prepare oneself so that, as I said, one has the whole thing in linguistic form, so that one could do it out of sleep. But then, again, one must be able to take the purely human emotional and mental part, the volitional part, the thought part, detached from language, in what one has created oneself.
The old actors were well prepared for this through meditation. And I would like to give you a little formula, a little formula that you can use to see this, if you try it again and again when you have time, for example when you are out walking and can reflect, sitting somewhere in the shade or at other similar leisure times. Try to concentrate your soul with inner warmth, precisely on the mood it needs to have in order to understand the tragic in such a way that understanding can have a formative effect. You will achieve this if you meditate on the following:
Ah—that is only the preparation at first—
Ah, Fatum—I cannot use the German word here, because in the a and u the soul must first hold itself
Ah, Fatum
You have
strongly embraced me — the i enters here —
While the tragic mood is otherwise evoked in # and a: # quiet fear, z admiration, the 7 appears to insert itself. Take away — it continues in the circle —:
take away the fall into the abyss
If you meditate on this in such a way that, above all, feeling speaks in it, and how naturally the feeling rests on the sound perception prepared by training, then this is really a kind of basis for directing the creation of tragic drama.
Oh, fate
You have
strongly
embraced me
take away
the fall
into the abyss.
There is such a tragic mood that you will find it where you need it if you meditate long enough and often enough.
In comedy, on the other hand, it is a matter of going back to the clever exercises, which were not driven by the same inner pathos as in tragedy, which was born out of mystery, but which nevertheless had an extraordinarily strong esoteric effect despite all the humor, which can now bring humor and do not take this humor away, but pour it into the language.
If you want to direct comedies, you actually have to be able to laugh in words—please don't take this in an external sense. I don't mean that you can always giggle. That's something that people who always want to make their speech count by giggling can do, but it always gives the impression that there is nothing particularly clever in what is being said. But this laughing into the sound sensation is something that works despite all its popular appeal. It was always comedians who performed these things, just as in the early Middle Ages clergymen performed the sublime dramas that sought to maintain connections with the church. These were people from whom professional actors gradually emerged, and who also sought to grasp the inner meaning of the play.
Here I would like to mention something that at that time made the tongue and palate, so to speak, not only elastic and plastic in the sense of sound perception, but also had an effect on laughter through meditation. Of course, you have to meditate aloud—but please don't do it up there in the castle—then you will achieve this if you try as much as possible to practice this connection, which I will now write down, aloud and often, with an inner sense of language:
Izt'—now, but spoken in the form izt—
Izt' I feel
as if inside me
Linklock-hü
and lockläck-hi
completely me
witty
blows.
Try practicing this so that you make this movement with Linklock-hü — see diagram — and this movement with lockläck-hi — see diagram — so that the whole thing is practiced:
Izt' I feel
like inside me
Linklock-hü
and lockläck-hi
completely me
witty
blows.
Three times with all the embellishments. Try to get into it and see that with the Linklock-hü the lips are pursed like this, the upper lip up, the lower lip down like this:
and with the lockläck-hi, the wrinkles are laid like this:
And feel that! You will see how, little by little, this gives rise to a spiritual laugh. There is an inner spiritual laugh. For spiritual laughter cannot, of course, be tragically deepened. There is an idealism in this, in that one now really brings the laughing soul into language. Then you will see how, in this way, you enter into humorous direction, into this directing. More on that tomorrow.
I intend to conclude these lectures on Tuesday, for example.
