PRELUDE
IN THE THEATRE
Goethe
modelled his Prelude in the Theatre from Faust on a rather similar
prelude that he read (in German translation) from
the great Indian play Shakuntala.
It is not directly
about the play Faust but more about theatre in general. The three
characters have different concerns on this subject. As
such it could easily be applied to contemporary film-makers, for
instance. The Director is concerned largely about success and
pleasing the audience. The comic actor is concerned with being
provided with a role he can shine in, whereas the poet (or poetic
dramatist) is concerned with "art for art's sake" and
suspects popular taste of veering towards vulgarity.
PRELUDE
IN THE THEATRE
Director. Theatre Poet. Comic Actor.
DIRECTOR
You both who have so often stood by me
In trials of need and trouble’s sting,
What hopes for this, our venturing
Have you this time in Germany?
Great is my wish to please the multitude,
Especially since they live and let us live.
The posts are in, the seats are set up true,
And all look to a feast from what we give.
They sit already with their eyebrows raised;
Relaxed there now, they'd like to be amazed.
I know what reconciles the people, yet
I've never felt in such a tricky spot.
I know they're not accustomed to the best;
Although it's true they've read a frightful lot.
How shall we act so all is fresh and new,
With meaning's depth and yet so pleasing too?
For frankly I like seeing crowds stream in,
Surge towards our booth, and press into the place,
With powerful, repeating labouring,
On past the narrow portal way of grace.
In bright day, even earlier than four,
Up to the ticket box they fight and kick,
And as for bread, in famine, at the baker's door,
To get a ticket almost break a neck.
Only the poet works this wonder way
On many different folk; friend, do it today!
POET
Don't speak of that most motley mass to me,
For at the very sight our spirits fly.
Keep surging crowds concealed, that contrary
Of our will leads us to the whirlpool's eye.
No, bring me to a corner of calm heaven,
The only place a poet's joy will blossom,
Where love and friendship nurture and create,
With godlike hand, the blessings on the heart.
What's issued from our heart's own deeper powers,
And shyly stammered on our lips in quiet,
A failure or perhaps success of ours,
Is swallowed up by one wild moment's might.
It often goes for years before it flowers,
Appearing in its finished form. The light
Of glitter's born but for the moment's stages;
What's genuine's preserved for coming ages.
COMIC ACTOR
Don't give that coming ages stuff to me.
If all I talked of was posterity
Who'd give the present world its fun?
It wants it and it will have it too.
The presence of a good, stout lad, look you,
Is something too, when all is done.
He who's at home, imparting all with ease,
Won't be a victim of the people's whim.
He wants a great, big circle please,
So he's more certain of impressing them.
Let it be good, your best in perfect fashion.
Let's have imagination, with all its chorus,
The understanding, reason, feeling, passion-
But mind! Don't leave out folly for us!
DIRECTOR
Have plenty happening especially.
You come to look and you love most to see.
Spin out so many things before their eyes
That all the audience can gape amazed.
You'll win a wide appeal, that treasured prize,
And you'll be loved and highly praised.
You only master mass by mass, my friend.
Each seeks what suits them in the end.
He who brings much, brings many some good touch;
And home they go, quite pleased by such.
You give a piece, so let it be in pieces!
With such a stew fair fortune never ceases.
It's easy to think up and easy to present.
What use would be the whole that you'd invent?
The public picks it all to pieces finally.
POET
You do not feel how awful such a trade can be!
How little pure artists are pleased by such!
Fine Mister Blotch-it-up, I see
Already that's your standard touch.
DIRECTOR
Well, such reproaches do not injure me.
Men thinking to work effectively
Must hold the best tools for the task.
Recall you're splitting softwood. Look, I ask-
For whom is it you really write?
Sheer boredom drives one out tonight,
One's full from overflowing food that day,
And what's the worst yet, many might
Have come from reading what the papers say.
Preoccupied, as to a masquerade, they press,
Each winged by merest curiosity.
The ladies show their jewelled beauty to the best,
Performing for us here for free.
What do you dream on your poetic height?
Why do full houses gladden you?
Peer closely at your patrons here tonight-
Half cold, half crude. When our play's through,
One hopes for card play and yet another chooses
A wild night on a wench's breast. So please explain,
Why do you plague the gracious muses,
You poor mad fools, for such an aim?
I tell you give us more and always, always more,
And you will never miss the bull's eye then.
Just try to mystify all men,
To satisfy them's hard, that's sure-
What's got you now? Creative ecstasy or pain?
POET
Push off and find yourself another slave!
For should a poet see what nature gave,
His highest right, the human right, be bent
To sinful waste to suit your role?
How does he sway each single soul?
How does he conquer every element?
Does not his inward harmony sound out
A unison that wraps the world into his heart?
And if the thread of Nature, ever-long,
Is forced on the impassive-turning spindle,
If crowds, discordant, of all beings ring
Through one another, a tiresome jangle,
Who parts the stream of uniform creation,
So livingly, in rhythm's flow? Who's he
Who calls each thing to universal consecration
And makes it pulse in splendid harmony?
Who lets the storm rage in a passion's power?
Who fills the evening glow with earnest thoughts?
And who will strew each beautiful spring flower
Upon the path his loved one walks?
Who plaits the plain, green leaves into a wreath,
A crown, for merit of all sorts to show it?
Who binds and guards Olympus from beneath?
The human power revealed within the poet.
COMIC ACTOR
Then use these fine, fair powers to aid
And carry on your poet's trade
Just like a love affair is carried out.
By chance you 're near. You're moved. You hang about.
And time by time you're drawn in by degrees.
Your bliss first grows, then you compete to please.
At first you're charmed and then love's pains advance-
And, before you know it, it's a real romance.
Let's have this in the piece we're giving.
Just catch hold of full human living.
Though lived by all, it's only known by few.
Wherever you grab hold it interests you.
Kaleidoscopic scenes with little clarity,
Much error, a spark of full reality;
Yes, that's the way the best drink's brewed,
That makes the whole world feel refreshed, renewed.
For then the fairest flower of the youth
Come see the play and hear its revelation.
Then every tender soul imbibes, in truth,
Melancholy nourishment from your creation.
For as now this, now that emotion's stirred,
All see their inner feelings in your words.
The young are still prepared to laugh and weep all night;
They still crave verve, enjoy illusion on the stage.
For those who've finished growing, nothing's right.
The grateful ones are still of growing age.
POET
So give to me those times once more
When I was growing still; when from within
Full-crowding songs, new-born, would pour
As from an ever-flowing spring.
It seemed a mist still veiled the world.
A bud still promised miracle.
I plucked the thousand flowers which filled
All valleys with sweet, rich profusion.
I'd nothing, yet I was fulfilled:
My urge for truth, joy of illusion.
Give me those drives yet unrestrained,
The deep and anguished happiness,
The force of hate, love's power and bliss.
Oh, give me back my youthful days!
COMIC ACTOR
But youth, good friend, is what is needed most
When foes beset you in a fight;
When on your neck a loving host
Of women hang in sheer delight;
When in fast race, afar you glance
The hard-earned goal, the wreath's in view;
When after wild and whirling dance
You feast and drink whole nights. But you
We need to pluck familiar tone
Upon the strings with fiery grace,
|With beautiful digressions roam,
Concluding at your chosen place.
For that's your role, old sirs, today,
For we don't venerate you any less.
For age won't make us childish, as some say,
It finds what still is truly child in us.
DIRECTOR
Enough exchange of chat and banter;
Let's finally see deeds. Each one
Turns compliments upon the other,
When something useful could be done.
What use is talk of moods? Refrain,
And you will never find the mood inspired.
Now if you're poets, as you claim,
Command the poetry desired.
You know just what we need, don't you?
To slurp down some high, potent brew.
So start the mix and don't delay!
Tomorrow you won't do what you don't do today.
We should not let an hour slip by.
The resolute will bravely grasp
The possibilities before they fly;
And hold them by the slightest tuft,
Then work on further for they must.
You know that on our German stage
Each one tries what he likes- feel free.
And so today, for me, don't save
On stage effects and scenery.
So use the great and little heaven's light,
Squander the stars; there's no lack at all
Of water, fire, rocky wall
And birds and beasts for your delight.
So pace out on the narrow house of board
All that creation can afford
And with deliberate speed, range well
From heaven through the world to hell.
Director. Theatre Poet. Comic Actor.
DIRECTOR
You both who have so often stood by me
In trials of need and trouble’s sting,
What hopes for this, our venturing
Have you this time in Germany?
Great is my wish to please the multitude,
Especially since they live and let us live.
The posts are in, the seats are set up true,
And all look to a feast from what we give.
They sit already with their eyebrows raised;
Relaxed there now, they'd like to be amazed.
I know what reconciles the people, yet
I've never felt in such a tricky spot.
I know they're not accustomed to the best;
Although it's true they've read a frightful lot.
How shall we act so all is fresh and new,
With meaning's depth and yet so pleasing too?
For frankly I like seeing crowds stream in,
Surge towards our booth, and press into the place,
With powerful, repeating labouring,
On past the narrow portal way of grace.
In bright day, even earlier than four,
Up to the ticket box they fight and kick,
And as for bread, in famine, at the baker's door,
To get a ticket almost break a neck.
Only the poet works this wonder way
On many different folk; friend, do it today!
POET
Don't speak of that most motley mass to me,
For at the very sight our spirits fly.
Keep surging crowds concealed, that contrary
Of our will leads us to the whirlpool's eye.
No, bring me to a corner of calm heaven,
The only place a poet's joy will blossom,
Where love and friendship nurture and create,
With godlike hand, the blessings on the heart.
What's issued from our heart's own deeper powers,
And shyly stammered on our lips in quiet,
A failure or perhaps success of ours,
Is swallowed up by one wild moment's might.
It often goes for years before it flowers,
Appearing in its finished form. The light
Of glitter's born but for the moment's stages;
What's genuine's preserved for coming ages.
COMIC ACTOR
Don't give that coming ages stuff to me.
If all I talked of was posterity
Who'd give the present world its fun?
It wants it and it will have it too.
The presence of a good, stout lad, look you,
Is something too, when all is done.
He who's at home, imparting all with ease,
Won't be a victim of the people's whim.
He wants a great, big circle please,
So he's more certain of impressing them.
Let it be good, your best in perfect fashion.
Let's have imagination, with all its chorus,
The understanding, reason, feeling, passion-
But mind! Don't leave out folly for us!
DIRECTOR
Have plenty happening especially.
You come to look and you love most to see.
Spin out so many things before their eyes
That all the audience can gape amazed.
You'll win a wide appeal, that treasured prize,
And you'll be loved and highly praised.
You only master mass by mass, my friend.
Each seeks what suits them in the end.
He who brings much, brings many some good touch;
And home they go, quite pleased by such.
You give a piece, so let it be in pieces!
With such a stew fair fortune never ceases.
It's easy to think up and easy to present.
What use would be the whole that you'd invent?
The public picks it all to pieces finally.
POET
You do not feel how awful such a trade can be!
How little pure artists are pleased by such!
Fine Mister Blotch-it-up, I see
Already that's your standard touch.
DIRECTOR
Well, such reproaches do not injure me.
Men thinking to work effectively
Must hold the best tools for the task.
Recall you're splitting softwood. Look, I ask-
For whom is it you really write?
Sheer boredom drives one out tonight,
One's full from overflowing food that day,
And what's the worst yet, many might
Have come from reading what the papers say.
Preoccupied, as to a masquerade, they press,
Each winged by merest curiosity.
The ladies show their jewelled beauty to the best,
Performing for us here for free.
What do you dream on your poetic height?
Why do full houses gladden you?
Peer closely at your patrons here tonight-
Half cold, half crude. When our play's through,
One hopes for card play and yet another chooses
A wild night on a wench's breast. So please explain,
Why do you plague the gracious muses,
You poor mad fools, for such an aim?
I tell you give us more and always, always more,
And you will never miss the bull's eye then.
Just try to mystify all men,
To satisfy them's hard, that's sure-
What's got you now? Creative ecstasy or pain?
POET
Push off and find yourself another slave!
For should a poet see what nature gave,
His highest right, the human right, be bent
To sinful waste to suit your role?
How does he sway each single soul?
How does he conquer every element?
Does not his inward harmony sound out
A unison that wraps the world into his heart?
And if the thread of Nature, ever-long,
Is forced on the impassive-turning spindle,
If crowds, discordant, of all beings ring
Through one another, a tiresome jangle,
Who parts the stream of uniform creation,
So livingly, in rhythm's flow? Who's he
Who calls each thing to universal consecration
And makes it pulse in splendid harmony?
Who lets the storm rage in a passion's power?
Who fills the evening glow with earnest thoughts?
And who will strew each beautiful spring flower
Upon the path his loved one walks?
Who plaits the plain, green leaves into a wreath,
A crown, for merit of all sorts to show it?
Who binds and guards Olympus from beneath?
The human power revealed within the poet.
COMIC ACTOR
Then use these fine, fair powers to aid
And carry on your poet's trade
Just like a love affair is carried out.
By chance you 're near. You're moved. You hang about.
And time by time you're drawn in by degrees.
Your bliss first grows, then you compete to please.
At first you're charmed and then love's pains advance-
And, before you know it, it's a real romance.
Let's have this in the piece we're giving.
Just catch hold of full human living.
Though lived by all, it's only known by few.
Wherever you grab hold it interests you.
Kaleidoscopic scenes with little clarity,
Much error, a spark of full reality;
Yes, that's the way the best drink's brewed,
That makes the whole world feel refreshed, renewed.
For then the fairest flower of the youth
Come see the play and hear its revelation.
Then every tender soul imbibes, in truth,
Melancholy nourishment from your creation.
For as now this, now that emotion's stirred,
All see their inner feelings in your words.
The young are still prepared to laugh and weep all night;
They still crave verve, enjoy illusion on the stage.
For those who've finished growing, nothing's right.
The grateful ones are still of growing age.
POET
So give to me those times once more
When I was growing still; when from within
Full-crowding songs, new-born, would pour
As from an ever-flowing spring.
It seemed a mist still veiled the world.
A bud still promised miracle.
I plucked the thousand flowers which filled
All valleys with sweet, rich profusion.
I'd nothing, yet I was fulfilled:
My urge for truth, joy of illusion.
Give me those drives yet unrestrained,
The deep and anguished happiness,
The force of hate, love's power and bliss.
Oh, give me back my youthful days!
COMIC ACTOR
But youth, good friend, is what is needed most
When foes beset you in a fight;
When on your neck a loving host
Of women hang in sheer delight;
When in fast race, afar you glance
The hard-earned goal, the wreath's in view;
When after wild and whirling dance
You feast and drink whole nights. But you
We need to pluck familiar tone
Upon the strings with fiery grace,
|With beautiful digressions roam,
Concluding at your chosen place.
For that's your role, old sirs, today,
For we don't venerate you any less.
For age won't make us childish, as some say,
It finds what still is truly child in us.
DIRECTOR
Enough exchange of chat and banter;
Let's finally see deeds. Each one
Turns compliments upon the other,
When something useful could be done.
What use is talk of moods? Refrain,
And you will never find the mood inspired.
Now if you're poets, as you claim,
Command the poetry desired.
You know just what we need, don't you?
To slurp down some high, potent brew.
So start the mix and don't delay!
Tomorrow you won't do what you don't do today.
We should not let an hour slip by.
The resolute will bravely grasp
The possibilities before they fly;
And hold them by the slightest tuft,
Then work on further for they must.
You know that on our German stage
Each one tries what he likes- feel free.
And so today, for me, don't save
On stage effects and scenery.
So use the great and little heaven's light,
Squander the stars; there's no lack at all
Of water, fire, rocky wall
And birds and beasts for your delight.
So pace out on the narrow house of board
All that creation can afford
And with deliberate speed, range well
From heaven through the world to hell.
No comments:
Post a Comment