Four Mystery Plays

by Rudolf Steiner

Scene 8

Same room as for Scene 1. Johannes at an easel, before which Capesius, Maria, and Strader are also seated.

Johannes:

I think those are the final touches now,

And feel that I may call my work complete.

Especial pleasure hath it given me

Thy nature to interpret through mine art.

Capesius:

This picture is a marvel unto me

And its creator a still greater one.

For naught, which men like me have up till now

Considered possible, can be compared

With this change that hath taken place in thee.

One only can believe, when actual sight

Compels belief. We met three years ago;

And I was then allowed to count myself

A member of that small community,

In which thou didst attain thine excellence.

A man of sad demeanour wast thou then,

Witness each glance and aspect of thy face.

Once did I hear a lecture in thy group,

And at the end felt urged to add thereto

Words that were wrenched with pain from out my soul.

I spake in such a mood wherein one doth

Think almost always of oneself alone;

And none the less my gaze did ever rest

Upon that painter, whelmed ’neath sorrow’s load,

Who sat and kept still silence, far apart.

Silent he pondered in a fashion strange,

And one might well believe that he heard not

A single word of all those spoken near.

The sorrow unto which he gave himself

Seemed of itself to have a separate life;

It seemed as though the man himself heard not,

But rather that his very grief had ears:

It is perhaps not inappropriate

To say he was by sorrow quite obsessed.

Soon after that day did we meet again,

And even then there was a change in thee;

For happiness did beam forth from thine eyes;

Within thy nature power did dwell again,

And noble fire did ring in all thy words.

Thou didst express a wish to me that day—

Which seemed to me most strange and curious—

To be my pupil didst thou then desire.

And of a truth thou hast throughout these years

With utmost diligence absorbed thyself

In all I had to say on world events.

And, as we grew more intimate, I then

Did know the riddle of thine artist life,

And each new picture proved a fresh surprise.

My thought in former days was ill-inclined

To soar to worlds beyond the life of sense—

Not that I doubted them—but yet it seemed

Presumptuous to draw near with eager mind.

But now I must admit that them hast changed

My point of view. I hear thee oft repeat

That thine artistic skill depends alone

Upon the gift to function consciously

In other worlds; and that thou canst implant

Naught in thy work but what thou hast first seen

In spirit worlds: indeed thy works do show

How spirit stands revealed in actual life.

Strader:

Never so little have I understood

Thy speech; for surely in all artists’ work

The living spirit is thus manifest.

How therefore doth thy friend, Thomasius,

Differ from other masters in his art?

Capesius:

Ne’er have I doubted that the spirit shows

Itself in man, who none the less remains

Unconscious of its nature. He creates

Through this same spirit, but perceives it not.

Thomasius however doth create

In worlds of sense what he in spirit-realms

Can consciously behold; and many times

Hath he assured me, that, for men like him,

No other method of creation serves.

Strader:

Thomasius is a marvel unto me,

And freely I admit this picture here

Hath first revealed to me in his true self

Capesius, whom I thought I knew full well.

In thought I knew him; but his work doth show

How little of him I had really known.

Maria:

How comes it, doctor, that thou canst admire

The greatness of this work so much, and yet

Canst still deny the greatness of its source?

Strader:

What hath my wonder at the artist’s work

In common with my faith in spirit-sight?

Maria:

One can indeed admire a work, e’en when

One hath no faith in that which is its source;

Yet in this case there would be naught to rouse

Our admiration, had this artist not

Trodden the path that led to spirit-life.

Strader:

Yet still we must not say that whosoe’er

Doth to the spirit wholly give himself

Will consciously be guided by its power.

The spirit power creates in artists’ souls,

E’en as it works within the trees and stones:

Yet is the tree not conscious of itself.

And only he, who sees it from without,

Can recognize the spirit’s work therein.

So too each artist lives within his work

And not in spiritual experience.

But when mine eyes now on this picture fall,

I do forget all that allures to thought;

The very soul-force of my friend doth gleam

From out those eyes, and yet—they are but paint!

The seeker’s thoughtfulness dwells on that brow;

And e’en his noble warmth of words doth stream

From all the colour-tones with which thy brush

Hath solved the mystery of portraiture.

Ah, these same colours, surely they are flat!

And yet they are not; they seem visible

Only to vanish straightway from my sight.

The moulding too doth seem like colour’s work;

And yet it tells of spirit intertwined

In every line, and many things besides,

That are not of itself.—Where then is that

Whereof it speaks? Not on the canvas there,

Where only spirit-barren colours lie.

Is it then in Capesius himself?

But why can I perceive it not in him?

Thomasius, thou hast so painted here

That what is painted doth destroy itself,

The moment that the eye would fathom it.

I cannot grasp whereto it urgeth me.

What must I grasp from it? What should I seek?

I fain would pierce this canvas through and through

To find what I must seek within its depths;

To find where I may grasp all that which streams

From this same picture into my soul’s core.

I must attain it.—Oh—deluded fool!

It seems as though some ghost were haunting me,

A ghost I cannot see, nor have I power

Which doth enable me to focus it.

Thou dost paint ghostly things, Thomasius,

Ensnaring them by magic in your work.

They do allure us on to seek for them,

And yet they never let themselves be found.

Oh—how I find your pictures horrible!

Capesius:

My friend, in this same moment hast thou lost

The thinker’s peace of mind. Consider now,

If from this picture some ghost speaks to thee

Then I myself must surely ghostly be.

Strader:

Forgive me, friend, ’twas weakness on my part.

Capesius:

Ah, speak but good, not evil, of this hour!

For though thou seemed’st to have lost thyself,

Yet in reality thou wast upraised

Far, far above thyself; and thou didst feel,

Even as I myself full oft have felt.

At such times, howsoe’er one feels oneself

Strong-armoured at all points with logic’s might,

One can but be convinced that one is seized

By some strange power that can have origin

Not in sense-knowledge or sense-reasoning.

Who hath endowed this picture with such power?

To me it seems the symbol in sense-life

Of soul-experiences gained thereby.

It hath taught me to recognize my soul,

As never heretofore seemed possible;

And most convincing this self-knowledge proved.

Thomasius did search me through and through:

For unto him was given power to pierce

Through sense-appearance unto spirit-self.

With his developed sight he penetrates

To spirit verity; and thus for me

Those ancient words of wisdom: ‘Know thyself,’

In new light do appear. To know ourselves

E’en as we are, we must first find that power

Within ourselves, which, as true spirit, doth

Conceal itself from us in our own selves.

Maria:

We must, to find ourselves, that power unfold

Which can pierce through into our very souls:

And truly do these words of wisdom speak—

Unfold thyself and thou shalt find thyself.

Strader:

If we admit now, that Thomasius

Hath through th’ unfolding of his spirit power,

Attained to knowledge of that entity,

That dwells, invisible, in each of us,

Then must we say that on each plane of life

Knowledge doth differ.

Capesius:

Knowledge doth differ. So would I maintain.

Strader:

If matters thus do stand, then is all thought

Nothing: all learning but illusory;

And every moment I must lose myself.…

Oh, do leave me alone.…

(Exit.)

Capesius:

Oh, do leave me alone.... I’ll go with him.

(Exit.)

Maria:

Capesius is nearer far today

To spirit lore, than he himself doth think;

And Strader suffers deeply. What his soul

So hotly craves, his spirit cannot find.

Johannes:

The inner nature of these two did stand

Already then before my spirit’s eye

When first I dared to tread the realm of souls.

As a young man I saw Capesius,

And Strader in the years he hath not reached

By some long span as yet. Capesius

Did show a youthful promise which conceals

Much that this life will not allow to come

To due fruition in the realms of sense.

I was attracted to his inner self:

In his soul’s essence I could first behold

What is the essential kernel of a man;

And how a man’s peculiarities

In earthly life do manifest themselves

As consequences of some former life.

I saw the struggles that he overcame,

Which in his other lives had origin,

And which have shaped his present mode of life.

I could not see his death-discarded selves

With my soul’s vision, yet I did perceive

Within his nature that which could not rise

From his surroundings as they are today.

Thus in the picture I could reproduce,

What dwells within the basis of his soul.

My brush was guided by the powers, which he

Unfolded in his former lives on earth.

If thus I have revealed his inmost self,

My picture will have served the aim, which I

Did purpose for it in my thought: for as

A work of art I do not rate it high.

Maria:

It will confirm its work within that soul

Which it hath showed the path to spirit-realms.

Curtain falls whilst Maria and Johannes are still in the room