# Speech and Drama

## GA 282 — 11 September 1924, Dornach

### VII. Some Practical Illustrations of the Forming of Speech

I would like today to centre our study around a scene from a play of Hamerling's that can serve to illustrate many things that I have been explaining. A course of lectures on a subject of this kind is necessarily all too short, and I can in any case do no more than make a few suggestions in the hope that these may stimulate you in your work. None the less, although our time is short, I propose to use the present hour to throw light by practical example upon the importance of what I have said about developing, in preparation for speaking on the stage, a feeling for word and a feeling for sound, in contradistinction to the feeling for sense and idea. today, therefore, we will take this practical demonstration as a basis for our study; and it is my intention to speak the parts in such a way as will enable you to glean at least an elementary understanding of how a reading rehearsal should go, if it is to prepare the ground for the actual performance of the play on the stage. Thus, having in the first part of our course given our attention to the forming of the speech, we shall now be considering all that has to do with production as such, with the right forming of the stage-picture.

It goes without saying that before any such rehearsal, the explanations I have been giving of what is required for an artistic way of speaking must have already taken root in the unconscious, and be present there as artistic instinct. Where mention is made of these matters at all in rehearsal, it will be presumed that in those who are to take part, the feeling for sound and the feeling for word have, by long practice, become a complete matter of habit. It will, in fact, be of quite other matters that one will have to speak there, alluding only as need arises to the fundamental principles of speech formation; for of these the actor should bring with him an intimate knowledge, no less surely than a pianist who is preparing himself—or, maybe, a pupil—for a concert brings with him the faculty he has acquired for piano-playing.

The scene I propose to take is the opening scene of a drama of Robert Hamerling, entitled *Danton and Robespierre*, a play that is concerned, as the title tells us, with the French Revolution. I have chosen it because I think the moods that come into consideration for this scene—and I need not remind you how important it is for the moods to find clear expression in the performance—are such as can easily be conveyed to the minds and hearts of people in general. For they are unmistakable and sharply distinguishable in their colouring. The scene is moreover also valuable for us, in that the moods give opportunity for transforming, by stage technique, even the most prosaic content into an artistic formation of sound and word.

We are here transported into an important moment in the history of the French Revolution, when the mood of the public was undergoing a change. That stage in the revolution is just being reached when the popularity of Danton is beginning gradually to give way before the popularity of Robespierre. A great number of people are on the point of transferring their loyalty and devotion from the one to the other.

Let us first of all see that we understand the true nature of the people's loyalty to Danton. Some were loyal to him out of a sincere and faithful devotion, in others their loyalty was prompted rather by their own political aspirations; but all might be said to regard him with what I may almost call a savage admiration. Consequently, we find permeating the scene something of the sound- and word-feeling—I am speaking here from the point of view of stage technique—that results from the working together of a (wonder and admiration for Danton) and o (a certain rude affection for the man). The scene is pervaded by an a-o (ah-oh) mood, in the sense in which I have explained this to you in the earlier lectures. Tune your feeling to the sounds a-o, and you will have the mood that prevails at the beginning of the scene.

Loyalty to Robespierre was of quite another kind. At first it only reached men's hearts in a fitful, spasmodic way. The lean and lanky man, looking so like a schoolmaster, whose words cut like knives, did not easily inspire admiration in his fellowmen; he had to seize on every opportunity to win it. In fact, the first stage of Robespierre's popularity was marked by a kind of wariness and caution. In the case of individuals as well as of the masses, it was out of a certain defensive attitude that admiration for Robespierre was born. Translated into feeling for sound, it is a sounding together of *e* (ay in ‘say’) and *a*. So that in the people's feeling for Robespierre we have the mood that you can hear in *e-a*.

In this scene, therefore, which evinces throughout a delicate instinctive feeling on Hamerling's part for sound and word, we have to find the transition in the whole speaking of the parts from *a-o* to *e-a*. And we shall be able to do so if we look into the scene carefully. That is indeed the reason I have chosen it, because of all we can learn from it.

Hamerling built up the scene with an instinctive discernment for what is required in dramatic art. I shall draw attention, as we go along, to features that would require to be noted in the reading rehearsals. My remarks will naturally be rather sketchy; in actual rehearsals, the various points would need to be further elucidated. For we have here a scene that can provide us with an excellent lesson in the very things we are concerned with in these lectures.

Note how we are introduced, first of all, to a countryman who had been in Paris fifteen years before and never once since. The man has been deaf during the last six years, and on this account it has easily come about that he has as good as slept through whatever echoes of the big events penetrated into the provinces; he has heard nothing of all that went on. He was treated for his deafness by the village barber who was also something of a surgeon, as was still usual in those days, but with no particular success; and he was advised to go to Paris. One can certainly have one's doubts as to whether even in Paris the cure would be such an easy matter! However, here he is again in Paris, cured of his deafness and bearing his part in the change-over of moods that I have described—but all the time as one who has only just become able after six years to hear what is being said around him. You will find at once the basic tone for this man's speaking if you give yourself up to an a feeling that is tinged with *o*. Let us see what this will mean. For throughout the first part of the scene, the countryman will be the chief figure. The whole attention of the audience will be centred upon him. It might even be said that the other characters are present only in order to give colour and variation to the main interest that attaches throughout to this man. Actually, the success of the play as a whole will depend to a great extent upon how the part of the countryman is played in this first scene.

We know of course that *a* signifies wonder and admiration. The mood is a little modified in this character of the countryman, but the actor will do the part well if he takes pains to speak, as much as he can, with his mouth open. (I shall be dealing with gesture and mime in the later lectures; today I will confine my remarks to the speaking.) This will allow the a mood, which is the prevailing mood of the scene, to pass almost imperceptibly into o, which is what the part requires.

From the very outset, we sense also that a change of mood is imminent; we are moving towards the transition from the *a-o* to the *e-a* mood. This is portrayed for us with wonderful artistic skill. You can feel here with what a delicate touch Hamerling works; and that is what I want you to notice before all else—the artistic achievement, quite apart from the prose content of the scene. The countryman is put there on purpose that we may be still hearing the echo of the mood connected with Danton, while at the same time having our expectation aroused for the gradual transition to the mood that is connected with Robespierre, the mood that we can clearly detect in the second part of the scene where the conversation of the various characters goes clanging back and forth like sounding brass.

So much for a rough sketch of the mood in which you will have to experience this scene if you want to take part in it and form your speaking in the right way.

The scene is laid in an open space in front of Notre-Dame.

> COUNTRYMAN. If only I could find out why the statues everywhere have red caps on their heads.... I no longer know my way about in this accursed Paris although I was once here fifteen years ago.
> ( *Enter two citizens*.)
> FIRST CITIZEN. The Town Hall's already swarming like an ant-heap?
> SECOND CITIZEN. My neighbour, the barber Rabaud, has just been dressing the hair of the Goddess of Reason.

These citizens are fellows of quite another stamp than our countryman. They are Parisians, who exhibit to the full the mood that was then uppermost in Paris; and they give a new colouring to the countryman's words that have set the motif at the beginning of the scene. We are to think of the first citizen as having a kind of *i* (ee) mood, and the second a rather quieter and more serious ii (French *ü* in ‘du’) mood. You will remember how I explained these in the earlier lectures. “Zweiter Bürger: Mein Nachbar, der Barbier Rabaud, hat soeben die Göttin der Vernunft frisiert.’

Yes, you are right! The audience will laugh at these words; but they must be spoken with all the seriousness of one who is taking a responsible part in a revolution. And that is a seriousness of an altogether different stamp from the seriousness with which we are accustomed to approach everyday affairs.

You have to picture the countryman saying those first words of his alone, to himself. Then the citizens come an the scene. They stand at a little distance from him, and now he goes up to them.

> COUNTRYMAN. ( *approaching*) A word, gentlemen—
> FIRST CITIZEN. ‘Gentlemen?’ Hark to his innocence! There aren't any gentlemen nowadays, you country bumpkin!
> COUNTRYMAN. Beg pardon, how do I get to King Street?
> FIRST CITIZEN. There aren't any more kings. The street's called Sansculotte Street now.
> COUNTRYMAN. Oh, I'm properly astray in your Paris although I was here fifteen years ago. All the squares, all the streets, different.—This morning I came to a church and thought to myself: let's go in and hear Mass. Inside I find a crowd of folk and a man in the pulpit preaching. Just in time to hear God's word, think I, and listen all devout. But then I notice that the man in the pulpit is using terrible language, though I didn't understand him well. He was such a sharp-spoken, yellow, lean little bit of a man; it seemed every moment as if he was going to foam at the mouth. As soon as he stopped talking the people began to cry out wildly, behaved as if possessed, and clapped their hands enough to break my ear-drums.—I crossed myself and came out.
> SECOND CITIZEN. ( *laughing*) Poor simpleton, you landed up among the pious worshippers at the Jacobins' Church.—
> COUNTRYMAN. Thereupon came I to another Church  
> And there I saw a Saviour on the Cross:  
> A great moustache was daubed upon His face,  
> A red cap had been set upon His head,  
> While underneath was written ‘Jesus Christ  
> Of Nazareth, the first of sansculottes’.  
> Do those who rule know nothing of such shame?
> SECOND CITIZEN. Listen, you man. How comes it that you know so little of what's going on now in the world? Do you peasants stop up your ears?
> COUNTRYMAN. I've been deaf over six years. Last week—
> SECOND CITIZEN. We say decade now—decade
> COUNTRYMAN. Eh? Decade have I got to say? Well, last decade–but no, it was still April—the end of April—
> SECOND CITIZEN. Floreal, confound you, Floreal
> COUNTRYMAN. Floreal? Zounds! You have an odd way of talking in Paris !—So in Floreal I said to our village barber, Sir,' say I,’ you don't understand a damned thing about it. I'm going to Paris to be cured.' No sooner said than done. Directly I'd got together the journey money, I started; and last Sunday—
> FIRST CITIZEN. There's no Sunday any more.
> COUNTRYMAN. What? No Sunday?

The name of the month is not after all a matter that touches him very nearly; that he can accept. Now he is called upon to grasp the further fact that there are no longer any Sundays!

> FIRST CITIZEN Quintidi, friend, if you value your life—
> COUNTRYMAN. Oh, well, it's all the same to me! So in the fear of God I came here to Pans, and today, thank God—
> SECOND CITIZEN ‘Thank God?’ Why, man, that firm's gone bankrupt! The house of God and Son, with its junior partner the Holy Ghost, has failed—
> COUNTRYMAN. What? No God either? But then—
> SECOND CITIZEN. No arguing, man. Shut up, and let your feet carry you back to your village as quick as they can. You might come to harm in the streets of Paris. You might lose your head unexpectedly like a button off your breeches. Make off, man, you're a suspicious character—
> COUNTRYMAN. What d'you mean, suspicious? What d'you call suspicious?
> SECOND CITIZEN.  
> Suspicious? Hark, *this* man, for instance, is:  
> The one who lilies in his garden plants—  
> And also one whose brother or whose cousin Follows some emigrant as serving-man  
> To foreign parts—or then again a man  
> Who whispers in his dreams the small word ‘King', Or turns a chalky white to see them hang  
> One of his fellows to the lamp-post?
> Make haste and be off, otherwise you will come to a sorry end on the Place de Grève?
> COUNTRYMAN. I don't understand you.
> SECOND CITIZEN. I'm wanting to tell you that they'll make you look through the’ red window'—
> COUNTRYMAN. I still don't understand.
> SECOND CITIZEN. Blockhead! They'll do this (makes a descriptive gesture), they'll shave you with the great national razor! Don't you understand yet ?—You'll win the big prize in the lottery of Saint Guillotine. Now do you understand?
> COUNTRYMAN. The devil take me if I've ever seen that saint in the Calendar.
> FIRST CITIZEN.  
> This is a very funny kind of saint,  
> This maiden made of iron and well provided  
> With finely sharpened teeth that bite. Just think,  
> Two gallows posts and then a shining axe  
> In cross-beam fashion from above—you lay  
> Your head upon a block, the axe comes down  
> A little from one side, like this, and mows  
> Your head inside your hat so smoothly down,  
> So neatly off—a pleasure 'tis to see!  
> Your head marks not that it has lost its trunk  
> And therefore sometimes sneezes, quite unmoved,  
> Just as if nought was wrong, e'en in the sack  
> As if it had, p'raps, taken a good pinch  
> Of snuff—it's guillotining that the people call it.  
> It is a fine and easy way o' dying.
> COUNTRYMAN. Do they do much guillotining?
> FIRST CITIZEN. Quite a lot, every day, and more when the weather's fine.

And now a sansculotte makes his appearance. When you come to look carefully at this sansculotte, you will find you can best enter into his part by combining the a mood with the i mood. For he has undoubtedly wonder and astonishment, and these have fired him with enthusiasm; but he has at the same time, as it were in the background, the pleasure and enjoyment that his own self-consciousness affords him.

> (A swarm of ragged men and women come straggling along, led by a sansculotte holding aloft a pair of breeches on his pike.)
> Wild shouting of the song ‘Ça ira, Ça ira!’
> SANSCULOTTE. ( *to the* COUNTRYMAN *and the two* CITIZENS)  
> All united and all of one mind, patriots! All united and all of one mind! Ça ira! Do honour to the breeches here that we've taken off an aristocrat, because he wouldn't be a sansculotte anyhow else! Ça ira!
> WOMEN. ( *surrounding the* COUNTRYMAN) Come and dance, peasant! Come along with you, we're dancing the carmagnole!

The sansculotte has noticed that the countryman does not hear very well.

> SANSCULOTTE. ( *to the* COUNTRYMAN, *shouting in his ear*)  
> Ça ira's being sung, you knave. Ça ira!
> COUNTRYMAN. ( *anxiously*) Excuse me, I'm not a bit musical!
> SANSCULOTTE. Listen, fellow! If you're not more stupid than your own oxen you must be able to roar out Ça ira as well as a—
> COUNTRYMAN. Excuse me, gentlemen?
> SANSCULOTTE. ‘Gentlemen!’ Did you hear that? To the lamp-post with the blackguard!

In those days anyone who dared in Paris address a man as ‘gentleman’ was hung up on the nearest lamp-post.

> FIRST CITIZEN. Let him be; he's been deaf for six years and only just cured today.
> SANSCULOTTE. Then the first thing he ought to have heard is that there are no more gentlemen. Not even the night watch at Mainz calls out any more ‘Praise God, gentlemen!’ but ‘Praise God, citizens!’—You clown, no Frenchman calls another ‘gentleman’ any longer, but—
> COUNTRYMAN. I know. Now you say fellow, booby, clown, scoundrel, and things like that—
> SANSCULOTTE. What?
> COUNTRYMAN. That's what you call me—
> SANSCULOTTE. Blockhead! That's a different matter. All we French now are just citizens, d'you hear that? Neither more nor less!
> COUNTRYMAN. And are we in our province just as good as you, and can we put in our say?
> SANSCULOTTE. ‘Put in our say?’ D'you hear that, folk? The fellow is a federalist, a runaway Girondist! He's drivelling about the autonomy of the provinces!

The day of the Girondists is past and over. The sansculotte imagines that the countryman is thinking of the autonomy that was enjoyed by the provinces when they were in power.

> WOMEN. Hang 'im, hang 'im! He's a federalist! ( *They make as if to setze him*.)
> COUNTRYMAN. ( *shouting in alarm*) Watchman! Police! Help! Murder! Robbers! Thieves! Help! ( *Some laughter*.)
> WOMEN. He's calling sansculottes robbers and murderers! To the lamp-post!
> GENERAL CRY. To the lamp-post! ( *He is seized*.)
> SANSCULOTTE. ( *stepping between them*) One minute, citizens! No blind rage!—When one's been a September man, like me, one knows the right way to act in these matters.—Listen, Clown!
> COUNTRYMAN. What have I done wrong?
> SANSCULOTTE. ( *with dignity*) No citizen and patriot of France stands up for his rights by asking that question. Whether you're federalist or not, prove to you that you deserve ten times over to be hanged, even if you've done nothing to hurt republican freedom. I simply ask what you've done for freedom? Have you euer compromised yourself for freedom? What have you done to risk hanging if reaction sets in and the moderates come to power?
> COUNTRYMAN. I? Oh—Wait a bit, I'm calling to mind—yes, it's just coming back to me. Once in a wood I found a half-starved man under a heap of dry straw—he made such pitiful, beseeching signs to me, for I couldn't hear much on account of my deafness, that I took him home and gave him something to eat and kept him in hiding. When he went off he forgot some scraps of paper in the attic; from these I saw that he must have been a very important man, one of those who rule now here in Paris, one of those belonging to your—what d'you call it, I've heard the name today—to your National Convention—even saw from the papers what he called himself. His name was Bri—yes, it comes back to me, Brissot—
> ( *Great Sensation among the people, then a wild shout*: Traitor, traitor, villain!)
> SANSCULOTTE. Silence!—( *To the* COUNTRYMAN) Wretched man! You sheltered the chief of the Girondists and federalists who have fallen to the hangman, chief of the moderates, of the secret betrayers of the people!—Man, it's all up with you. Nothing can help you now! Take him and hang him!
> PEOPLE. To the lamp-post!
> FIRST CITIZEN. Oh, leave him alone. See what a blockhead he is, and he's been deaf for six years—
> VOICES IN THE CROWD. What? The grocer sticks up for him? He's a traitor too!
> FIRST CITIZEN. I'm not a good patriot, then? Didn't I, a short time ago, during the great famine, divide up all my sugar and give it to the people by the pound, and that gratis ?
> FISHWIFE. You didn't give us fair weight! When I got home it was live grammes short!
> WOMEN. Hang both of them!
> A VOICE FROM THE CROWD. Here, in front of the bookshop of the honest patriot Momoro!
> ( *The peasant is dragged towards the lamp-post in front of Momoro's shop*.)
> MOMORO. ( *comes out of the door, raising the Linie cap that covers his bald head*) Good morrow, Sansculottes! What does it please our free men and noble citizens to do here in front of my door?

Momoro is a citizen too, and moreover, as we shall see, a man of some importance who stands with the whole force of his personality right in the immediate moment of the revolution. He is, however, at the same time, beginning to feel that the ground under his feet is getting a bit shaky.

Fresh people now come forward and prepare the way for a new mood, the mood that I characterised as reminiscent of sounding brass. We are, in fact, at the moment when loyalty to Danton is passing away, in favour of loyalty to Robespierre. We must accordingly watch for die transition from the *a—o* mood to the *e—a* mood. Loyalty to Robespierre is quietly stealing in, and that fact must find expression in the whole mood of the scene from now on.

> ONE OF THE PEOPLE. Good morrow, Citizen Momoro. We're hanging a federalist, a Girondist?
> MOMORO. What? Just here at the door of a patriot? Wait a bit, honourable citizens of the Republic. What is the Revolutionary Tribunal for, which on the whole leaves us very little to wish for and very few people to hang? At least do me the favour not to hang anyone till he has read the latest pamphlet that has just appeared in my shop. When you kill a man of this sort the fellow rots uselessly in the ground and at best feeds the worms. But when you give him time to read the latest pamphlet, you may change the most cross-grained aristocrat into a fire-spitting patriot who goes off ready to die at any moment for the Republic. I ask you, which is the better? Just look (he points to a pile of broadsheets and pamphlets): ‘Latest Funeral Oration on the Death of the Godlike Marat’—‘Lamp-post and Guillotine'; leaflets on liberty, equality and universal human love.’ New and infallible Plan to blow up Royalist Towns with Oil of Cloves’?

Momoro talks the most naturally of them all, and helps to lead over to the new phase of the revolution. He is, at the moment, in high esteem, and this must be apparent to the audience.

> PEOPLE. Cheers for Momoro the patriot!
> MOMORO. Long live the Republic! Any one of these for a few sous! ( *Many of the crowd press round him to buy the leaflets.*)
> SANSCULOTTE. You sell your trash too dear, Citizen Momoro!
> MOMORO. Why, I don't make a sou on them. You know me!
> NEWSPAPER-VENDOR. ‘Father Duchêsne’! ‘Father Duchêsne’ ! today's ‘Father Duchêsne’! He's desperately savage today is Father Duchêsne! Buy the paper of the good old patriot Hebert! 30,000 copies given out! He's desperately savage today is Father Duchêsne!—

The newspaper vendor fully captures the mood of the crowd. — But forget about the newspapers; you should read his pamphlets.

> MOMORO. ( *ridiculing him*) ‘He's desperately savage today is Father Duchêsne.’ That's what he calls out all day. 30,000 copies? With all due respect to Citizen Hebert I venture to say that whole stacks of his paper find their way into the inns gratis—‘For the requirements of travellers’ ! Ha! Ha! Ha! ‘For the requirements of travellers’!—What is of value from the pens of the patriots is still always to be found at Momoro's. In my room behind the shop, even under the King, all the most radical men used to meet, still meet today?
> NEWSPAPER-VENDOR. ( *mockingly*) Yes, old fellow, the club meets where your young wife is.
> MOMORO. Booby! They explain to her the recent Republican Calendar which takes so long to get into the head of a woman! What's more, what's more—Oh, the patriots know how to appreciate old Momoro, and how to do him honour; you must know they have chosen no one else but his little wife to be the Goddess of Reason. today, quite early, she was taken to the Town Hall to be all properly decked out for the festival. You'll see. She'll be on show in this very square.
> NEWSPAPER-VENDOR. And will your horns be gilded for the occasion?
> PEOPLE. Long live Momoro and his little wife!
> MOMORO. ( *to a man sticking a placard on the wall*) Hi, you, you're sticking that on top of another—
> THE MAN. Oh, that old thing is one of those moderates, but this, here, comes from the Commune—
> PEOPLE. ( *gathering round in their numbers*) From the Commune, let's see!
> ONE OF THE PEOPLE. ( *reading aloud*) ‘Hebert and Chaumette invite the sovereign people today to the Festival of Reason which will remain in memory for all time!’
> PEOPLE. Cheers for Hebert! Cheers for Chaumette! Cheers for the Republic! Ça ira! ( *The women dance*.)
> MAN WITH WOODEN LEG. ( *among the crowd*) Hurray! Jump and shout as much as you like but don't stamp off the wooden leg of a deserving soldier of the Republic!

For at this point, in order to show how the mood is changing, moving all the time in the direction of the note that has been sounded by Robespierre, a new speaker steps forward from among the crowd, who is under a certain disability—a man with a wooden leg. The crowd, we shall find, is gradually working its way free of the completely different mood that has hitherto prevailed and beginning to enter into the mood that is connected with Robespierre. The *i* (ee) mood that belongs to him, begins to be heard.

> SANSCULOTTE. ( *going up to him*) What? You, Battiste, back in Paris? Damn it all—your leg—
> WOODEN LEG. The prime cut of a hornbeams
> SANSCULOTTE. Well fought for the Republic? No fear of death or the devil and never taken prisoner?
> WOODEN LEG. Only once, fallen upon by enemy cavalry and then they were four to?
> SANSCULOTTE. Stood up to plenty of hardship?
> WOODEN LEG. By Jupiter! You've an easy time here in warm Paris, running around as sansculottes; but to camp out in the fields and to be on outpost duty without shoes in a cold that's enough to freeze a baby in its mother's womb, so that we had to put gunpowder in our brandy to warm up our stomachs? Then the whole day long to fight in the blaze of the sun?
> SANSCULOTTE. Oh! What does that matter to anyone in the heat of the battle?
> WOODEN LEG. Naturally if a cannonball takes off your head you can't be said to die of sunstroke—
> ONE OF THE PEOPLE. Are you the one they used to call the little barber when you were a bit of a thing—used to help Barber Hatte in Pompadour Street?
> WOODEN LEG. That's me, and I've never forgotten my trade—  
> Once when a bomb came down at Lille and burst  
> In front of me I seized a fragment up  
> From off the ground and used it as a dish,  
> And then with soap and water, on the spot,  
> Gave a good shave to twenty of our lads.  
> Ha, this pleased you all right well in Paris here  
> When our brave army with its colours flying  
> Swept from our France the dirty foreign flies  
> Which in a countless swarm did buzz around.  
> When you did hear of all the victories  
> That we were gaining, from beside your stoves  
> Had you a thought how often with bare feet  
> We went about and nothing had to eat  
> But cartridges—not even those at times?
> SANSCULOTTE. What? Don't the wives of Paris let their men go in rags while they stitch at tent-cloths and uniforms for you? Don't we have to put up with dirty, worthless paper in place of ringing coins? What? We don't think about you? And are we idle when you're fighting? You should have been here in the September days—
> WOODEN LEG. I can imagine—I remember quite well how three years ago on a people's holiday, without the General noticing it, you bound the tail of Lafayette's mare to the lamp-post because it cavorted about in your very faces?
> SANSCULOTTE. Buffoonery! But in those September days...
> WOODEN LEG. Is it true then that in those September days you put to death the whole collection of rare animals in the menagerie at Versailles?
> SANSCULOTTE. What? The whole menagerie? No, only the lions and eagles because they are the kings among the animals; besides they're what are in the so-called coats-of-arms that aristocrats used to bear.
> WOODEN LEG. You devils! How did that suddenly come into your heads?
> SANSCULOTTE. I don't know. Suddenly, did you say? It wasn't a bit sudden. It came gradually—like appetite comes with eating—
> WOODEN LEG. What said the moderates?
> SANSCULOTTE. Not a word. The Commune is behind the sansculottes, and that's protected by Danton's broad back, and just at that time he was beginning to roar like a lion. Compared with him the others were only a pack of biting dogs. He's become lazy nowadays and like all the great beasts not always so full of vigour and lust for using his teeth as the small curs are—
> ONE OF THE PEOPLE. Ah! This Samson too has been bewitched by the women!
> SANSCULOTTE. Yes, yes, but I would have you know  
> When upright he does stand he is so tall  
> He'd push the ceiling through, break down the pillars,  
> Just as did once your Samson in the temple—
> ANOTHER. Oh well! He no longer stands at his full height. He's under the other now, and this other is crafty—
> WOODEN LEG. Who?
> SANSCULOTTE. Who Haven't you heard of Robespierre in your camp ?
> WOODEN LEG. Robespierre? Robespierre? Is that the stiff little man they call in fun the ‘tallow candle of Arras' because he came from Arras and wanted to shine but gave no more light than a flickering tallow candle? They laughed him out of court when he wanted to speak in the National Assembly.
> SANSCULOTTE. That was in those days. He leads now in the debates in the National Convention or in the Committee of Public Safety—in the Jacobin Club too.
> WOODEN LEG. I saw him once—only from a distance. Doesn't he wear spectacles?
> SANSCULOTTE. No.
> WOODEN LEG. It looked as if he did.
> SANSCULOTTE. He has a yellow face and a blue-grey rim round his eyes, which you in your ignorance may at a distance have taken for spectacles—
> WOODEN LEG. Pasty-faced?
> SANSCULOTTE. Yellow—grey—no indeed, what shall I say?  
> Grey-green, to be exact, with deep-set eyes  
> And stubborn brow—a simple, little  
> man, Nothing compared with Danton! But if here  
> That great Colossus Danton were to stand  
> And there the little sharp-edged Robespierre,  
> With Danton one could speak out at one's ease  
> As with the friendliest among one's mates,  
> But with the other all your talk would be  
> Stuck in your throat; not that he's arrogant,  
> Quite on the contrary for he seems shy  
> And at a loss before a lot of folk—  
> But hear him at the National Convention!  
> You will not know him; when with a firm step  
> He goes up to the rostrum, all's so still  
> That you can hear the piping of the mice  
> Inside their holes. He to begin with stands  
> Upright and cool above us like a pillar  
> And speaks so calm, you think: well, now he talks  
> Just like a schoolmaster, or like a priest  
> Talks in a pulpit—then, quite suddenly  
> He hurls out a few words, but with a voice  
> As cold and sharp as steel, and in a tone  
> That sends a shudder running down your back;  
> And then the corner of his mouth begins  
> To twitch and he cries' out, so bittersweet,  
> In that sharp way so full of energy,  
> ‘O you poor folk’ and ‘O you virtuous folk!’  
> And something seizes on your heart like cramp,  
> And if you have a knife concealed about you  
> You grasp it firmly, with the strong desire  
> To throw yourself before him and to ask  
> Which, to begin with, of the cursed foes  
> Of the Republic you should plunge it in.  
> But sometimes he is silent weeks on end  
> Letting the others speak. Many things occur  
> Of which one does not know whether they please  
> Or do not please him. Then too there are times  
> When he just tacks and waits upon the wind.  
> He's been quite silent recently again—

Note the skilful way in which the personality of Robespierre is introduced. The sansculotte abandons his role as sansculotte, and suddenly shows himself as a marvellous portrayer of character. If this moment in the scene is rendered with the colouring that it has been my intention to give to it in my reading, then in this speech that the sansculotte addresses to the people around him, the audience will eel the swing-over of loyalty of which we have spoken. The critical moment of transition has come; and as we go on, I shall indicate here and there some of the points that it would be important for a producer to have in mind The second mood is now upon us, it overwhelms the scene as though with a confused and deafening noise; I compared it, you will remember, to the clash of sounding brass.

> CLERK TO THE COMMUNE. ( *appears with workmen carrying planks and tools*) Make way there; make way, sansculottes. The stand is to be put up for the Goddess of Reason and the orators. The procession will shortly be here.

Here we have the *ö* (French eu in ‘feu’) mood. It has to be spoken forward; we must let the speaking strike on to the front part of the palate.

> PEOPLE. Ça ira. Long live the Goddess of Reason!
> CLERK. ( *to his men*) Here, you people! In the middle of the square! Over there by Notre Dame! ( *The men set to work*.)

From now on, the women speak more in the *ei* (as in ‘height’) mood. With the entry of Robespierre into the conversation, the revolutionary impulses begin to be imbued with a sort of coy and affectionate enthusiasm— *e a*.

> A WOMAN. Look to it that what happened last year at the great fête doesn't happen again, when a few fellows hid underneath the platform—as it was thought, to blow up the men and women on it—till they were discovered and pulled out and killed—
> CLERK. ( *waggishly*) Aha! They were simply one or two worshippers of your fair sex squinting through the crevices. ... What of it if today, too, someone has a peep at the Goddess of Reason's legs? To make Reason in all her details his aim, is henceforth one of the obligations of a citizen!
> WOMEN. ( *pressing round him*) You rogue! Will they soon be here?
> CLERK. They're just coming.
> WOMEN. Hurray! They're just coming! Long live Hebert and Chaumette! Long live the Commune! Long live the Convention! Long live Danton! Long live Robespierre!
> ( *Translated by V. E. W.*)

I wanted to show you by practical example how a scene like this should be treated. I have laid on the colouring a little more strongly than would be necessary in a performance, because I wanted you to have a particularly clear picture of how the different moods come severally to expression in the treatment of sound. We saw, for example, that the countryman has to be spoken throughout with the mouth open, for he is to reveal the a mood; a slight intoning of a should even be audible in every sound he utters. Similarly, you will find the clerk has to speak so that something of an i enters into each one of his sounds. His voice is always in front of that i-boundary in the mouth, of which I was speaking the other day, and is continually striking the front part of the palate. It is by paying careful attention to details like this, that we can gradually learn to give form and style to our speaking on the stage.