The Marionette Theater by Heinrich von
Kleist Berlin, 1810. When I was spending the winter of 1801 in M., one evening in a public garden I met Mr. C., who had of late been employed in that city as premier danseur of the opera and had been enjoying extraordinary success with the public. I told him that I had been surprised to find him several times in a marionette theater which had been set up in the marketplace and which entertained the populace with little dramatic burlesques, interspersed with songs and dances. He assured me that the pantomime of these puppets gave him much pleasure, and he made the emphatic observation that a dancer who wants to improve could learn many things from them. Since the remark, by the manner in which he uttered it, seemed to me more than a mere fancy, I sat down beside him in order to find out more concerning the grounds on which he could base such a curious assertion. He asked me whether I had not found some of the puppets' dance movements, especially those of the smaller figures, very graceful. I could not deny the fact. A group of four peasants, dancing the round in a brisk tempo, could not have been painted more charmingly by Teniers. I inquired about the mechanism of these figures and how it was possible to control the individual limbs and their points without having myriads of string on one's fingers as the rhythm of the movements of the dancer requires. He answered that I should not think of each limb as if it were moved and controlled individually by the puppet master during the various parts of the dance. Each movement, he said, has a center of gravity. It suffices to control this point inside the figure. The limbs, which are nothing but pendula, follow of themselves in a mechanical manner, without any attention at all. He added that this movement is very simple. Always when the center of gravity is moved in a straight line, the limbs describe curves. Often, the whole puppet, if merely shaken in a random fashion, will begin a kind of rhythmic movement which is similar to dance. This observation seemed to shed some light on the pleasure which he had said he found in the marionette theater. But I still had no idea whatever of the conclusions which he would shortly draw from it. I asked him if he believed that the puppet master who controlled these dolls had to be a dancer himself, or at least had to have some idea about the esthetics of dance. He replied that merely because an occupation is mechanical and simple, it does dot follow that it can be carried on entirely without sensitivity. The line which the center of gravity describes is certainly very simple and, he stated, is in most instances straight. In instances where it is not straight, the equation of its curve appears to be at least of the first order, at most of the second order. And even if of the second order, it is simply elliptical, which form of movement is the natural one for the extremities of the human body (because of the joints) and therefore requires no great skill on the part of the puppet master to reproduce. But then again, he continued, this line, from another aspect, is something very mysterious. For it is nothing less than the path of the dancer's soul. He doubted that such a line could be attained unless the puppet master placed himself in the center of gravity of the marionette or, in other words, unless he dances. I replied that the puppet master's occupation had been presented to me as something rather dull--perhaps like the turning of a crank to play a hurdy-gurdy. By no means, he answered. On the contrary, the movements of the puppet master's fingers are related to the movement of the puppet attached to them in a very complex way, rather as numbers are related to their logarithms, or as asymptotes to a hyperbola. He moreover stated his opinion that last bit of spirit which he had mentioned could be removed from the marionettes and that their dance could be transferred entirely to the realm of mechanical forces and products as I had imagined by means of a crank. I expressed my astonishment at the close attention he paid to this lowly form of a high art, invented for the masses. Not merely did he consider it capable of a higher development, he seemed himself to be concerned with it. He smiled and said he would venture to assert that if an inventor were to build him a marionette following the specifications he would stipulate, he could present a dance with it which neither he nor any other talented dancer of his time, Vestris himself not excepted, would be able to equal. Have you, he asked--here I glanced silently at the ground--have you heard of those mechanical legs which English artisans construct for unfortunate people who have lost a limb? I said no, I had never seen such a thing. I'm sorry, he replied. For if I tell you that those unfortunates dance with them, I almost fear you will not believe me. What do I mean by 'dance'? The range of their movements is certainly restricted. Yet those of which they are capable are effected with a serenity, agility, and grace that would amaze any thinking person. I stated jokingly that he had just found his man. Because an artisan who is able to build such a remarkable limb would undoubtedly also be able to construct an entire marionette according to his specifications. What, I asked--here he in turn seemed a little distracted--what are these specifications which you would require of such an artisan's skill? Nothing, he answered, that is not present here already: symmetry, mobility, agility--but all in a higher degree--especially a more natural arrangement of the centers of gravity. And the advantages which this puppet would have over living dancers? The advantage? Above all, a negative one, my excellent friend. Namely, that it would never be affected. For affectation appears, as you know, when the soul (vis motrix) is located in some point other than the movement's center of gravity. Now since the puppet master, by means of wire or string, of necessity has absolutely no other point besides that in his power, all the other limbs are, as they should be, lifeless, mere pendula, and follow the simple law of gravity--an excellent characteristic which one seeks in vain among most of our dancers. And consider P., he continued, when she plays Daphne and, pursued by Apollo, looks back at him. Her soul is situated in the small of her back. She bends low as if she would break in two, like a naiad of the Bernini school. Or consider young F. when he, as Paris, stands among the three goddesses and presents the apple to Venus. His soul--it is awful to see--is situated in his elbow. Such mistakes, he added rather curtly, have been unavoidable ever since we ate from the tree of knowledge. But paradise is locked and the cherub is behind us. We have to make the journey around the world and see if it is perhaps open again somewhere in the rear. I laughed. Indeed, I thought, the spirit cannot err where it is not present. However I noticed he had more on his mind and I asked him to continue. In addition, he declared, these puppets have the advantage of being anti-gravitational. They know nothing of the inertia of matter, which of all conditions contends the most against dance, because the force that lifts dancers into the air is greater than that which holds them to the earth. What would our good G. give to be sixty pounds lighter, or if a weight of that magnitude came to her aid in her entrechats and pirouettes? The puppets, like elves, need the ground only to touch upon in order to revitalize the energy of their limbs through a momentary restraint. We need it in order to rest, and to recover from the exertion of the dance--an instant which obviously is not itself dance and with which nothing can be done except to make it pass as quickly as possible. I said that however skillfully he might demonstrate the substance of his paradoxes, he would never make me believe that more grace could be contained in a mechanical puppet than in the structure of the human body. He answered that it would be utterly impossible for a man to so much as equal the puppet in that respect. In this sphere, he went on, only a god could compete with inanimate matter, and here is where the two ends of the ring-shaped universe interlock. I was more and more astonished and didn't know what I could say to such strange statements. It would seem, he said as he took a pinch of snuff, that you have not read the third chapter of the first book of Moses closely. And one cannot properly discuss the later stages of human development--much less the final stage--unless one is acquainted with this first stage. I replied that I knew very well what disturbances self-consciousness causes in the natural grace of man. A young man of my acquaintance had lost his innocence before my very eyes through one simple observation and had afterwards never again found that paradise, in spite of all sorts of efforts... Anyway, I added, what conclusions can you draw from that? He asked me what event I was referring to. Some three years ago, I related, I was swimming with this young man, whose form, at that time, was permeated by a splendid gracefulness. He was probably about sixteen years old and only very faintly could the first traces of vanity, called up by the affection of women, be perceived. It so happened that in Paris a short time before, we had seen the famous sculpture of the young who is pulling a splinter from his foot. The casting of the statue is well-known and is found in most German collections. He was reminded of that statue by a glance in a large mirror at the moment he put his foot on the stool to dry it off. He smiled and told me what a discovery he had made. Actually I had made the same discovery at just that moment. Whether it was to test the security of the gracefulness which attended him or to try to assuage his vanity a bit, I laughed and replied, "You must be seeing ghosts!" He blushed and raised his foot a third time, and a fourth time. He must have raised it ten times--in vain! He was incapable of producing the same movement again. What I really mean is that the movements which he made had such a comic element that I had trouble holding back my laughter. From that day, almost from that moment on, an incomprehensible transformation took place in the young man. He began to spend the whole day in front of the mirror, and more and more his attractiveness to others deserted him. An invisible and incomprehensible force, like an iron net, appeared to restrain the free play of his gestures, and when a year had passed, one could not detect in him any trace of the charm that had formerly delighted the eyes of the people who thronged about him. There is, by the way, a man who was witness to that strange and unfortunate event and would confirm it, word for word, as I have told it. At this opportunity, Mr. C. said amiably, I must tell you another story, from which you will easily understand how it fits here. I found myself during a trip to Russia on the estate of Mr. G., a Livonian nobleman whose sons were much involved with fencing. The elder one especially, who had just returned from the university, affected virtuosity. One morning when I was in his room he offered me a foil. We fenced but it so happened that I was better than he. His temper also added to his confusion. Nearly every thrust I directed was a hit, and finally his foil flew into the corner. Half in jest, half in irritation, he said, as he retrieved his foil, that he had met his master--but everybody in the world meets his master, and he would, he said, shortly lead me to mine. The brothers burst into loud laughter and called out, "Let's go! Let's go! Down to the wood stall!" And with that, they took me by the hand and led me to a bear which Mr. G., their father, kept in the barnyard. As I walked toward him, the bear stood on his hind feet with his back against a post to which he was chained. His right paw was raised, ready for battle; he looked me straight in the eye. That was his fencing posture. I didn't know whether or not I was dreaming when I beheld myself confronted by such an opponent. Nonetheless Mr. G. said, "Thrust, thrust and see if you can score a hit." Since I had recovered a bit from my surprise, I attacked the bear with the foil. The bear made a very short movement with his paw and parried my thrust. I tried to deceive him with feints; the bear did not stir. With sudden virtuosity I attacked him again--I surely would have struck a man's chest. The bear made another very short movement with his paw and parried the thrust. Now I was almost in the situation of the young Mr. G. The serious concentration of the bear only further robbed me of my own composure. Thrusts and feints alternated. Sweat poured from me--in vain! Not merely did the bear, like the best fencer in the world, parry all my thrusts; he did not once enter into the feints--in this respect no fencer in the world can be compared to him. He held my eyes, as if he could read my soul in them, always with his paw raised and ready for battle; and if my thrusts were not meant seriously, he did not move. Do you believe this story, Mr. C. asked. Completely, I exclaimed with joyful applause. From any stranger it would certainly be plausible--how much more so from you! Now, my excellent friend, said Mr. C., you are in possession of everything necessary to understand me. We see that, in the world of animate matter, as self-consciousness becomes dimmer and weaker, to the same extent gracefulness manifests itself more and more radiantly and dominantly. Consider how the intersection of two lines, which begins on one side of a point and after passing through infinity, completes itself on the other side. Or, consider how the image in a concave mirror is first seen, then vanishes to infinity, and then reappears right before us. In a similar fashion, gracefulness also reappears when knowledge has passed through an infinity--in such a way that it simultaneously is manifested most purely in that anthropomorphic structure which has either no consciousness at all, or which is infinite--which is to say, either in the puppet, or in God. Therefore, I said a bit distractedly, would we have to eat again from the tree of knowledge in order to revert to the condition of innocence? To be sure, he answered. That is the last chapter in the history of the world. END |
The Tree Man by Douglas Milburn
As I sat one day recently in Bell Park in Houston, I heard over the plash of the fountain a strange, lively muttering. Looking around I saw that the incomprehensible syllables were coming from a slovenly figure making his way slowly along the red clay path that winds through the little park. Our eyes met, he instantly stopped speaking or whatever he was doing, blushed, and made to walk on as if nothing unusual had happened. Just before he reached the sidewalk at the street, I called out, You dropped your bag! For he had in his embarrassment dropped the white paper sack from which he had been strewing who knows what as he walked and muttered. Stopping, but without looking back at me, he was obviously pondering whether or not to ignore me. At last he turned, came back, and sat beside me on the bench. Here you go, I said, extending the bag that I’d picked up. No response. I glanced at him and judged from his clothes that he was just this side of being a homeless street person: tattered black Levi’s, a well-worn blue work shirt—long-sleeved with double pockets from which peeked two packs of cigarettes and other stuff, a shoddy pair of low-top Nike’s, with black socks. His face, though clearly quite a few decades into the latter part of life, was strangely ageless, like that in a Caravaggio painting. You know the person behind the painting has been dead for centuries but there is no denying the spark of life still burning bright in the portrait’s eyes. And it was this gentleman’s eyes which riveted. Out of, or through, a deep, bright blue they mirrored a soul that had seen much and still either believed or doubted mightily. I couldn’t tell which. Thank you, he said, and took the bag. There was a slight accent, somewhere east of the Rhine and west of the Volga perhaps. We enjoyed the music of the dancing water for a time. You must think me mad, he said. I smiled and tried to make a joke. Why should I think you mad just because you were scattering bread crumbs and talking a mile a minute to yourself? Ah. Bird seed, not bread crumbs, and I wasn’t talking to myself. Another silence fell. For such a noisy lone walker, he seemed fond of silences. I think I failed to keep condescension out of my voice: Oh? He looked at me and it was his turn to smile. I was talking to the trees, he said. Most days I only listen to them talk, but when I’m feeling especially strong, I too speak. 
What was I to say to this? I have to admit that I fingered for comfort the cell phone in my pocket, ready at any moment to dial 9-1-1. To my surprise I found myself replying: Like St. Francis and the birds? If you wish, and the stones and the clouds as well. My pocket thumb itched to punch the nine. And you find these to be worthy conversational companions? Oh yes, immensely. They are, one and all, great teachers. Like all great teachers, they are lonely and thus happy when any student, even the most backward and slow, comes along. I pondered the silent stones and trees surrounding us. And what is it that you talk about with them? Another smile played across his lips. Everything, and nothing, he said. He put up a hand, anticipating perhaps my objection to such sententious garbage. It is, you see, very difficult to translate from their languages to ours. My heart feels we talk of everything, but my ears think we talk of nothing. If he was mad, he was at least only half-mad and some part of him could see the craziness of his behavior. Suddenly bored, I made to get up and be on my way. He touched my sleeve lightly and fleetingly and I found myself drawn back down. Have you ever, he said, been to the Prado? Maybe three-quarters mad, I thought at this abrupt turn. Um, as a matter of fact, I started. As if my response were of no interest or importance, he hurried on: You may remember how they have Velazquez’s great painting, Las Meninas, displayed? It has one room, one large room, all to itself. You walk in, and there it is at the farther end, filling the wall. I was fortunate enough to be there once in March, when there were few tourists about. I sat on the small bench at the opposite end, and had the painting to myself for a good thirty minutes. I was young, and that was the first time something that we call an inanimate object spoke to me. The museum provides a large mirror, so that one can look into the mirror and see the painting and in it the painter, who was himself looking into a mirror to render the picture that we see. Now I was silent, curious to see where the madman’s story was going.
I had a number of responses ready by the time he finished his improbable little tale of post-graduate art appreciation. I chose to say: It was then only a hop, skip, and a jump to talking with trees, I suppose. Not in the least offended, he looked at me as if I were a very slow kindergartener. Hardly, he said. Years passed, actually many years, and nothing similar happened. My encounter with Velazquez, stripped of any mention of the voices, became dinner table conversation fodder, a way to convince others of what a sensitive admirer of art I was. Self-deprecation, modesty, honesty, and madness. An odd combination indeed and at that point I wasn’t about to get up until I had heard where the entire bizarre monolog might lead. I tried to think what I could say to encourage him to continue, but encouragement wasn’t necessary. Have you been in Houston long, he said. No, I’m just a visitor. Few people realize that the city is in fact a forest. If you go up in one of the skyscrapers, you see that the city, except for the tall buildings, disappears completely under a vast canopy of trees. And, because of its subtropical location, the canopy is intact year round. Trees in Houston do not sleep. Permanent green. Being less than taken by the urban sprawl into which I had flown to deliver a lecture, I bit my tongue and said nothing. I lived for a time, some twenty years, he continued, under six particularly lovely old oak trees whose limbs sheltered much of the house. A bad Buddhist, I have all my life done meditation in spurts, you might say. Two months and then stop for a year, three months, stop for two years. One morning, seated with eyes closed in a front room over whose roof spread two of the larger oaks, I was watching and listening to my internal chattering monkey, trying to remember he was mine but not me. Abruptly—and with utter clarity—I heard a sentence above and through my so-called stream of consciousness. It came and went, and the chattering monkey continued as if nothing had happened. The part that will be hard, if not impossible, for you to believe is that I was certain the sentence had come from one of the trees. How did I know? I have no idea, but it was as apparent as my knowing it is you speaking when I hear your voice. I opened my eyes, wrote down the sentence, and went about my business. Other days and other sentences, sometimes whole paragraphs, followed, which I dutifully recorded. Comprehensible, coherent, all of them, but their content was against all logic. Ah, here come the birds, he added without a pause as a small flock of sparrows settled on the red clay path for the morning repast he had provided. Another silence, which I was determined not to interrupt. After some moments, he looked at me with surprise. You’re a good one, he said, smiling. Most people immediately want to know what the trees said. I was quiet, and we continued to watch the birds. Some weeks later, he went on, I again fell out of meditating, seduced as always by the idols of the age into the usual pursuits of fortune, fame, whatever. No more tree talk. Years passed, filled with the predictable mix of success and failure. On a hot and sticky August day I was downtown walking hurriedly and purposefully toward some undoubtedly important meeting. I noticed one of my shoelaces had come undone, stopped, and knelt to tie it. As my fingers went through the automatic motions, I looked around and saw that I was between two of those twentieth century monoliths rising 60 or 70 stories that architects in those days loved to cover with mirrored glass. In their cleverness, they designed, you recall, often so that the mirroring extended straight to the ground. One such structure abutted the sidewalk where I was kneeling. Another was facing me across the street. And I saw that I was precisely in the middle of an enormous infinite regress, the kind you sometimes see in hair salons, but this one on a much larger scale. Out of the finitude of the moment and the moment’s trivial action—tie this shoelace and be on your way, you busy dolt!—I was hurled into an infinity of awareness that by our watches probably lasted a split second but that for me endures still. He stood and I thought again was going to leave me hanging, a faulty raconteur who teases and withholds the punch-line. I was wrong. Looking me directly in the eye, he said: What I saw was an impossibility, a visual paradox to match the verbal paradox the trees had given me. I understood paradoxes are not the answer but only a clue, a hint, like the finger pointing at the moon. His hands were at his sides. He turned them so that the palms were facing me. Because you didn’t ask, I can tell you the utter nonsense that the trees said to me and that the facing mirrors in their dazzling way confirmed. I opened my mouth, started to say something. He shook his head. It’s very, very simple, he said. Finitude is an illusion. Infinity is an illusion. Es geht dir nichts verloren. Against all reason, in spite of all appearance, nothing is lost. That is our hidden triumph, and our tragedy. END
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