The Rudolf Steiner Archive

2. The Origin of the Theory of Metamorphosis

[ 1 ] If one traces the history of the development of Goethe’s ideas on the formation of organisms, one is all too easily led to doubt the extent to which they can be attributed to the poet’s youth—that is, the period before his arrival in Weimar. Goethe himself thought very little of his knowledge of the natural sciences during this period: “I had no concept of what is actually called external nature, nor the slightest knowledge of its so-called three kingdoms.” (See Goethe’s Scientific Writings in Kürschner’s German National Literature, ^{4Hereinafter abbreviated as Natw. Schr. .} Volume 1 [p. 64].) Based on this statement, people generally assume that his scientific reflections did not begin until after his arrival in Weimar. Nevertheless, it seems necessary to go back even further if one does not wish to leave the entire spirit of his views unexplained. The invigorating force that directed his studies in the direction we shall later describe is already evident in his earliest youth.

[ 2 ] When Goethe arrived at the University of Leipzig, the spirit that had characterized much of the eighteenth century still prevailed in the natural sciences there—a spirit that divided all of science into two extremes, which no one felt the need to reconcile. On the one hand stood the philosophy of Christian Wolff (1679–1754), which operated entirely within an abstract realm; on the other, the individual branches of science, which lost themselves in the external description of endless details and lacked any effort to seek out a higher principle in the world of their objects. That philosophy could not find its way out of the sphere of its general concepts into the realm of immediate reality, of individual existence. There, even the most self-evident things were treated in great detail. One learned that the thing was a “something” that contained no contradiction within itself, that there were finite and infinite substances, and so on. But when one approached things themselves with these generalities in order to understand their workings and life, one was left completely at a loss; one could not apply those concepts to the world in which we live and which we wish to understand. The things surrounding us, however, were described in a rather unprincipled manner, purely according to appearances, based on their external characteristics. Here, a science of principles—which lacked living substance and a loving immersion in immediate reality—stood in opposition to a principle-less science—which lacked ideal substance—without any mediation, each remaining fruitless for the other. Goethe’s sound nature was equally repelled by both of these one-sided approaches ^{5See *Poetry and Truth*, Part II, Book 6.} And in conflict with them, ideas developed within him that later led him to that fruitful conception of nature in which idea and experience, in mutual interpenetration, enliven one another and become a whole.

[ 3 ] The concept that those extremes were least able to grasp was therefore first developed by Goethe: the concept of life. When we observe a living being based on its outward appearance, it presents us with a multitude of details that appear to us as its limbs or organs. A description of these parts—their form, relative position, size, and so on—can form the subject of a lengthy lecture, to which the second of the schools of thought we have mentioned devoted itself. But in this way, one can also describe any mechanical composition of inorganic bodies. It was completely overlooked that, with regard to the organism, it must first and foremost be noted that here the external appearance is governed by an internal principle, that the whole is at work within every organ. That external appearance—the spatial juxtaposition of the parts—can still be observed even after life has ceased, for it does indeed persist for some time. But what we have before us in a dead organism is, in truth, no longer an organism. That principle which permeates all the details has vanished. Goethe early on countered that line of thought—which destroys life in order to understand it—with the possibility and necessity of a higher one. We see this already in a letter from his time in Strasbourg dated July 14, 1770, where he speaks of a butterfly: “The poor creature trembles in the net, shedding its most beautiful colors; and even if one catches it unharmed, it still ends up lying there stiff and lifeless; the corpse is not the whole creature; there is still something more to it, still a central element—and in this instance, as in every other, a principal element: life [WA 1, 238] The words in *Faust* [Part 1/Study] also sprang from this same perspective:

“Whoever wishes to recognize and describe something living,
Must first seek to drive out the spirit;
Then he has the parts in his hand,
But, alas, the spiritual bond is missing.”

[ 4 ] However, as one might expect given his nature, Goethe did not stop at this rejection of a particular view, but sought to develop his own more and more; and in the hints we have about his thinking from 1769 to 1775, we often already recognize the seeds of his later works. Here he develops the idea of a being in which each part animates the others, in which a single principle permeates all details. In *Faust* [Part 1/Night], it reads:

“How everything weaves itself into a whole,
Each part working and living within the other.”

[ 5 ] and in *Satyros* [Act 4]:

“As the primordial essence welled up from the absurd,
The power of light resounded through the night,
Penetrating the depths of all beings,
So that a surge of desire sprang forth
And the elements opened up,
Pouring into one another with hunger,
All-pervading, all-permeated.”

[ 6 ] This being is conceived as being subject to constant change over time, yet at every stage of that change, only onebeing is revealed, which asserts itself as the enduring, constant element amidst the flux. In *Satyros*, the following is further stated about that primordial being:

“And rolling up and down went
That all-encompassing, one, and eternal thing,
Ever changing, ever constant!”

[ 7 ] Compare this with what Goethe wrote in 1807 as an introduction to his theory of metamorphosis: “But if we consider all forms, especially organic ones, we find that nowhere does anything static, nothing at rest, nothing complete exist; rather, everything fluctuates in constant motion.” (Natw. Schr., Vol. 1 [p. 8]) He contrasts this fluctuating state with the idea—or “something captured in experience only for a moment”—as the constant . It is clear enough from the above passage from “Satyros” that the foundation for these morphological ideas was laid even before his arrival in Weimar.

[ 8 ] What must be noted, however, is that this idea of a living being is not immediately applied to a single organism, but rather that the entire universe is conceived as such a living being. The impetus for this, of course, is to be found in the alchemical work with Miss von Klettenberg and in the reading of Theophrastus Paracelsus following his return from Leipzig (1768/69). One sought to capture that principle permeating the entire universe through some experiment, to represent it in a substance. ^{6“Poetry and Truth,” Part II, Book 8.} Yet this mystical view of the world, which borders on the mystical, constitutes only a temporary episode in Goethe’s development and soon gives way to a healthier and more objective way of thinking. The view of the entire universe as a great organism, as we found it hinted at above in the passages from “Faust” and “Satyros,” nevertheless persists until around 1780, as we shall see later in the essay “Nature.” It reappears in *Faust*, specifically where the Earth Spirit is portrayed as the life principle permeating the entire cosmic organism [Part 1/Night]:

“In the floods of life, in the storm of deeds
I surge back and forth,
I weave to and fro!
Birth and grave,
An eternal sea,
A shifting weave,
A blazing life.”

[ 9 ] While certain ideas were taking shape in Goethe’s mind, a book came into his hands in Strasbourg that sought to promote a worldview directly opposed to his own. It was Holbach’s *Système de la nature*. ^{7“Poetry and Truth,” Part III, Book 11.} Whereas until then he had only had cause to criticize the fact that living things were described as a mechanical aggregation of individual things , in Holbach he was able to encounter a philosopher who truly regarded living things as a mechanism . What there arose merely from an inability to recognize life at its root led here to a dogma that killed life. Goethe says the following about this in “Poetry and Truth” (Part III, Book 11): “There was to be a matter that existed from eternity and had been in motion from eternity, and this matter was now to produce, through this motion—to the right and left and in all directions, without further ado—the infinite phenomena of existence. We would even have been satisfied with all this if the author had truly constructed the world before our eyes out of his moving matter. But he knew as little about nature as we do; for, having staked out a few general concepts, he immediately abandons them in order to transform that which appears higher than nature—or as a higher nature within nature—into material, heavy nature that is indeed in motion but nonetheless directionless and formless, and thereby believes he has gained quite a great deal.” Goethe could find nothing in it but “moving matter,” and in contrast to this, his concepts of nature took on ever clearer form. We find them presented in context in his essay “Nature,” ^{8Natw. Schr., Vol. 2, p. 5 ff.; regarding this essay, see also Rudolf Steiner’s remarks in “Grundlinien einer Erkenntnistheorie der Goetheschen Weltanschauung,” Complete Edition, Dornach 1960, p. 138 (note on p. 28) and “Methodische Grundlagen der Anthroposophie 1884–1901,” Complete Works, Dornach 1961, p. 320 ff.} which was written around the year 1780. Since this essay brings together all of Goethe’s thoughts on nature—which we had previously found only scattered and hinted at—it takes on special significance. The idea of a being that is in a state of constant change yet always remains the same is presented to us here: “Everything is new and yet always the same.” “She (Nature) is eternally transforming, and there is not a single moment of stillness in her,” but “her laws are immutable.” We shall see later that Goethe seeks, within the infinite variety of plant forms, the one primordial plant. We find this idea hinted at here as well: “Each of its (Nature’s) works has its own essence, each of its manifestations its most isolated concept, and yet everything constitutes the One.” Indeed, even the position he later took regarding exceptional cases—namely, not to regard them simply as developmental errors but to explain them in terms of natural laws—is already quite clearly expressed here: “Even the most unnatural is nature” and “its exceptions are rare.” ^{9See note 1 at the end of this text regarding the authorship of this essay. [Rudolf Steiner had intended to write notes for the special edition of all the introductions to Goethe’s *Scientific Writings*, 1st–5th eds., Dornach 1926—he intended to write notes on this and 35 other passages he had already designated—all of which bear a note in the present text. He was unable to carry out this intention.}

[ 10 ] We have seen that Goethe had already developed a specific concept of an organism before his arrival in Weimar. For although the aforementioned essay “Nature” was written long after that time, it nevertheless contains, for the most part, Goethe’s earlier views. He had not yet applied this concept to a specific class of natural objects or to individual beings. This required the concrete world of living beings in immediate reality. The reflection of nature filtered through the human mind was by no means the element that could inspire Goethe. The botanical discussions at Court Councilor Ludwig’s in Leipzig had just as little profound effect as the dinner conversations with his medical friends in Strasbourg. With regard to scientific studies, the young Goethe appears to us entirely as Faust, who lacks the fresh, original perception of nature and who expresses his longing for it with the words [Part 1/Night]:

“Oh! If only I could walk upon the mountain’s heights
In your (the moon’s) lovely light,
Hover around mountain caves with spirits,
Weave upon meadows in your twilight.”

[ 11 ] It seems to us that this longing is fulfilled when, upon his arrival in Weimar, he is able to “exchange the air of rooms and the city for the atmosphere of the countryside, the forest, and the garden” (Natw. Schr., Vol. 1, p. 64).

[ 12 ] We should regard the poet’s engagement in planting vegetation in the garden given to him by Duke Karl August as the immediate inspiration for his study of plants. Goethe received the garden on April 21, 1776, and the “Diary” edited by R. Keil frequently reports from this point on about Goethe’s work in this garden, which became one of his favorite pastimes. The Thuringian Forest offered him another arena for pursuits in this direction, where he had the opportunity to become acquainted with the life processes of lower organisms as well. He was particularly interested in mosses and lichens. On October 31, 1777, he asked Mrs. von Stein for mosses of all varieties, if possible with their roots and still moist, so that they might reproduce. It must strike us as highly significant that Goethe was already engaged here with this lower realm of organisms and yet later derived the laws of plant organization from the higher plants. In light of this circumstance, we must attribute this—unlike many others—not to an underestimation of the significance of less developed organisms, but to a fully conscious intention.

[ 13 ] From this point on, the poet no longer leaves the realm of plants. It is likely that he had already read Linnaeus’s writings quite early on. We first learn of his familiarity with them from the letters to Mrs. von Stein in 1782.

[ 14 ] Linnaeus’s efforts were aimed at bringing systematic clarity to the study of plants. The goal was to establish a certain order in which each organism would occupy a specific place, so that it could be easily located at any time—indeed, so that one would have a means of orientation within the boundless mass of details. To this end, living organisms had to be examined according to their degrees of kinship and grouped accordingly. Since the primary concern was to identify each plant and easily locate its place in the system, particular attention had to be paid to those characteristics that distinguish plants from one another. To make it impossible to confuse one plant with another, these distinguishing characteristics were sought out above all else. In doing so, Linnaeus and his students regarded external characteristics, as well as the size, number, and position of the individual organs, as characteristic. In this way, the plants were indeed arranged in a sequence, but in the same manner that one might have arranged a number of inorganic objects: according to characteristics derived from outward appearance, not from the plant’s inner nature. They appeared in an external juxtaposition, without any necessary internal connection. Given Goethe’s profound understanding of the nature of a living being, this approach could not satisfy him. Nowhere had the essence of the plant been investigated. Goethe had to ask himself: What is that “something” that makes a particular entity of nature a plant? He also had to acknowledge that this “something” was present in all plants in the same way. And yet there was the infinite diversity of individual beings, which demanded an explanation. How is it that this one essence manifests itself in such manifold forms? These were likely the questions Goethe raised while reading Linnaeus’s writings, for he himself says: “What he—Linnaeus—sought to separate by force, according to the innermost need of my being, had to strive toward union.” ^{10Cf. Natw. Schr., Vol. 1 [p. 68].}

[ 15 ] Goethe’s first encounter with Rousseau’s botanical pursuits occurred around the same time as his first acquaintance with Linnaeus. On June 16, 1782, Goethe wrote to [Duke] Karl August: “In Rousseau’s works there are some most delightful letters on botany, in which he presents this science to a lady in the most accessible and elegant manner. It is truly a model of how one should teach and a supplement to *Emile*. I therefore take this opportunity to once again recommend the beautiful realm of flowers to my lovely female friends.” [WA 5, 347] Rousseau’s endeavors in botany must have made a deep impression on Goethe. The emphasis on a nomenclature derived from and corresponding to the nature of plants, the originality of observation, the contemplation of the plant for its own sake, apart from all principles of utility that we encounter in Rousseau—all of this was entirely in keeping with Goethe’s thinking. After all, both had in common that they had come to the study of plants not through a specifically scientific endeavor but through generally human motives. The same interest bound them to the same subject.

[ 16 ] The next detailed observations of the plant world date back to the year 1784. Wilhelm Freiherr von Gleichen, known as Rußwurm, had published two works at that time that dealt with subjects of great interest to Goethe: “The Latest from the Kingdom of Plants” (Nuremberg 1764) and “Selected Microscopic Discoveries in Plants, Flowers, Insects, and Other Curiosities” (Nuremberg 1777–81). Both works dealt with the processes of fertilization in plants. The pollen, stamens, and pistils were carefully examined, and the processes taking place were illustrated in beautifully executed plates. Goethe then replicated these experiments. On January 12, 1785, he wrote to Mrs. von Stein: “A microscope has been set up to observe and verify the experiments of von Gleichen, known as ‘Rußwurm,’ with the onset of spring.” [WA 7, 8] That same spring, he also studied the nature of seeds, as a letter to Knebel dated April 2, 1785, shows: “I have reflected on the nature of seeds to the extent of my experience.” [WA 7, 36] In all these investigations, Goethe was not concerned with individual details; the goal of his efforts was to explore the essence of the plant. On April 8, 1785, he reported to Merck that in botany he had “made some nice discoveries and combinations .” [WA 7, 41] The term “combinations” here also demonstrates that he was seeking to mentally construct a picture of the processes occurring in the plant world. The study of botany was now rapidly approaching a specific goal. We must, of course, bear in mind that Goethe had discovered the interosseous bone in 1784—a topic we will discuss in detail below—and that this had brought him a significant step closer to unraveling the mystery of how nature proceeds in the formation of organic beings. We must also bear in mind that the first part of Herder’s *Ideas on the Philosophy of History* was completed in 1784 and that discussions between Goethe and Herder on topics related to nature were very frequent at that time. For example, Mrs. von Stein wrote to Knebel on May 1, 1784: “Herd’s new work suggests that we were once plants and animals … Goethe is now pondering these matters with great depth, and everything that has first passed through his imagination becomes extremely interesting.” [On German Literature and History, ed. by H. Düntzer, Vol. 1, Nuremberg 1857, p. 120.] From this we can see the nature of Goethe’s interest in the greatest questions of science at that time. His reflections on the nature of plants and the speculations he made on the subject in the spring of 1785 must therefore seem entirely understandable to us. In mid-April of that year, he went to Belvedere specifically to resolve his doubts and questions, and on June 15 [1786!], he sent the following message to Mrs. von Stein: “I cannot express to you how legible the book of nature has become to me; my long process of deciphering it has helped me, and now it all clicks into place at once, and my quiet joy is indescribable.” [WA 7, 229] Shortly before that, he even intended to write a short botanical treatise for Knebel in order to win him over to this science. ^{11“I would gladly send you a short botanical lesson, if only it were already written.” [Letter to Knebel dated] April 2, 1785. [WA 7, 36]} Botany attracted him so much that his trip to Karlsbad, which he undertook on June 20, 1785, to spend the summer there, turned into a botanical study trip. Knebel accompanied him. Near Jena, they met a 17-year-old youth, [Friedrich Gottlieb] Dietrich, whose tin drum indicated that he was just returning home from a botanical excursion. We learn more about this interesting journey from Goethe’s “History of My Botanical Studies” and from several accounts by [Ferdinand] Cohn ^{12“Deutsche Rundschau” (Berlin, etc.) Vol. XXVIII (July–Sept.) 1881, p. 34 ff.} in Breslau, who was able to obtain them from one of Dietrich’s manuscripts. In Karlsbad, botanical discussions now often provide pleasant entertainment. Upon returning home, Goethe devotes himself with great energy to the study of botany; using Linnaeus’s *Philosophia* ^{13Carl Linnaeus, *Philosophia botanica*, Stockholm 1751.} observations on fungi, mosses, lichens, and algae, as we can see from his letters to Mrs. von Stein. Only now, having already thought through and observed so much himself, does Linnaeus become more useful to him; he finds in Linnaeus’s work clarification on many details that help him advance his own combinations. On November 9, 1785, he reports to Mrs. von Stein: “I continue to read Linnaeus, for I must; I have no other book. It is certainly the best way to read a book, one I must practice more often, especially since I do not easily finish a book. This one, however, is intended not so much for reading as for reviewing, and it is now serving me most excellently, since I have thought through most of the points myself.” [WA 7, 118] During these studies, it became increasingly clear to him that there is, after all, only one basic form, which appears in the infinite multitude of individual plants; this basic form itself also became ever more vivid to him, and he further recognized that within this basic form lies the capacity for infinite variation, through which diversity is generated from unity. On July 9, 1786, he wrote to Mrs. von Stein: “It is a realization of the . . . form with which nature, as it were, is always at play, and through which it playfully brings forth the manifold life.” [WA 7, 242] Now the primary task was to develop the enduring, the constant—that primordial form with which nature, as it were, plays—into a concrete image in detail. This required an opportunity to separate the truly constant and enduring aspects of plant form from the changing and impermanent ones. Goethe had not yet explored a sufficiently broad range of subjects for observations of this kind. He had to observe one and the same plant under various conditions and influences; for only in this way does the changeable truly stand out. With plants of different species, this is less noticeable to us. All of this was made possible by the delightful journey to Italy, which he had begun on September 3 from Karlsbad. Many observations had already been made regarding the flora of the Alps. Here he found not only new plants he had never seen before, but also those he already knew, though altered. “While in the lower regions the branches and stems were sturdier and more robust, the nodes were closer together, and the leaves were broad, higher up in the mountains the branches and stems became more delicate, the nodes moved farther apart—so that there was a greater space between them—and the leaves took on a more lance-shaped form. I noticed this in a willow and a gentian and convinced myself that they were not, in fact, different species. At Lake Walchensee, too, I noticed longer and slimmer rushes than in the lowlands.” ^{14Italian Journey, Oct. 8, 1786.} Similar observations were repeated. In Venice, by the sea, he discovered various plants that exhibited characteristics which could only be attributed to the ancient salt in the sandy soil—but even more so to the salty air. There he found a plant that seemed to him like our “innocent coltsfoot,” “but here it was armed with sharp spines, and its leaves were like leather, as were the seed capsules and the stems; everything was fleshy and rich.” ^{15Italian Journey, Sept. 8, 1786.} There, Goethe saw all the plant’s external characteristics—everything about it that is visible to the eye—as impermanent and changeable. He concludes from this that the essence of the plant does not lie in these characteristics, but must be sought deeper. Darwin, too, drew on observations similar to Goethe’s here when he expressed his doubts about the constancy of external generic and specific forms. The conclusions drawn by the two, however, are entirely different. While Darwin indeed considers the essence of the organism to be exhausted in those characteristics and concludes from their variability: “Thus, there is nothing constant in the life of plants,” Goethe delves deeper and concludes: “If those characteristics are not constant, then the constant must be sought in something else that underlies those variable external manifestations.” Developing this latter aspect becomes Goethe’s goal, whereas Darwin’s efforts are directed toward investigating and elucidating the causes of that variability in detail. Both approaches are necessary and complement one another. One is entirely mistaken if one believes that Goethe’s greatness in organic science lies in viewing him merely as Darwin’s precursor. His approach is much broader; it encompasses two aspects: 1. The type, i.e., the regularity manifested in the organism—the animal nature within the animal, the life that forms itself from within and possesses the power and capacity to develop into manifold external forms (species, genera) through the potentials inherent within it. 2. The interaction between the organism and inorganic nature, and among organisms themselves (adaptation and the struggle for existence). Darwin developed only the latter aspect of organic theory. One cannot therefore say that Darwin’s theory is the elaboration of Goethe’s fundamental ideas; rather, it is merely the elaboration of one aspect of the latter. It focuses only on those facts that cause the world of living beings to develop in a certain way, but not on that “something” upon which those facts exert a determining influence. If only one aspect is pursued, it cannot possibly lead to a complete theory of organisms; it must be pursued essentially in the spirit of Goethe, and it must be supplemented and deepened by the other aspect of his theory. A simple comparison will make the matter clearer. Take a piece of lead, melt it by heating, and then pour it into cold water. The lead has undergone two successive stages of its state; the first was brought about by the higher temperature, the second by the lower temperature. How these two stages manifest themselves depends not only on the nature of heat, but also, quite significantly, on that of the lead. Another substance, subjected to the same conditions, would exhibit entirely different states. Organisms, too, are influenced by their surrounding environment; they, too, assume various states as a result of these conditions, and these states correspond entirely to their nature—to that essence which makes them organisms. And this essence is found in Goethe’s ideas. Only those equipped with an understanding of this essence will be able to grasp why organisms respond (react) to certain stimuli in precisely this way and no other. Only such a person will be able to form correct conceptions of the variability of the forms of appearance of organisms and the associated laws of adaptation and the struggle for existence. ^{16Needless to say, this is by no means intended to cast doubt on the modern theory of descent, nor to limit its assertions; on the contrary, it provides them with a firm foundation.}

[ 17 ] The idea of the primordial plant takes shape more and more distinctly and clearly in Goethe’s mind. In the botanical garden in Padua (Italian Journey, Sept. 27, 1786), where he walks among vegetation unfamiliar to him, “the idea becomes ever more vivid to him that all plant forms might perhaps be derived from a single one.” On November 17, 1786, he wrote to Knebel: “My little knowledge of botany delights me all the more in these lands, where a more cheerful, less interrupted vegetation is at home. I have already made some quite decent, general observations that will also be of interest to you in the future.” [WA 8, 58] On February 19, 1787 (see Italian Journey), he wrote from Rome that he was on his way to “discovering new and beautiful relationships, such as how nature develops from the simple the most diverse forms—a monstrosity that looks like nothing.” On March 25, he asks that Herdern be told that he will soon have finished his work on the “primordial plant.” On April 17 (see *Italian Journey*), he writes the following words about the primordial plant from Palermo: “There must surely be such a thing! How else would I recognize that this or that form is a plant, if they were not all formed according to a single pattern?” He has in mind the complex of formative laws that organizes the plant, makes it what it is, and through which, when faced with a specific object of nature, we arrive at the thought: “This is a plant”—that is the primordial plant. As such, it is an ideal, something that can be grasped only in thought; yet it takes on a shape, acquiring a certain form, size, color, number of organs, and so on. This external form is not fixed, but can undergo infinite variations, all of which conform to that complex of formative laws and necessarily follow from it. Once one has grasped those laws of formation, that archetype of the plant, one has captured in the idea what nature, as it were, lays as the foundation for every individual plant and from which it derives and brings about that same plant as a consequence. Indeed, one can even invent plant forms in accordance with those laws—forms that necessarily follow from the essence of the plant and could exist if the necessary conditions were met. Goethe thus seeks, as it were, to recreate in the mind what nature accomplishes in the formation of its beings. On May 17, 1787 ^{17Italian Journey.} he wrote to Herder: “Furthermore, I must confide in you that I am very close to the secret of plant generation and organization, and that it is the simplest thing that can possibly be conceived... The primordial plant will be the most wondrous creature in the world, one for which nature itself will envy me. With this model and the key to it, one can then go on to invent an infinite number of plants that must be consistent—that is to say, plants that, even if they do not exist, could exist, and are not merely picturesque or poetic shadows and illusions, but possess an inner truth and necessity. “The same law will apply to all other living things.” Here, yet another difference between Goethe’s conception and Darwin’s becomes apparent, particularly when one considers how the latter is usually presented. ^{18We have in mind here not so much the theory of evolution espoused by those naturalists who stand on the ground of sensory empiricism, but rather the theoretical foundations—the principles—upon which Darwinism is based. Above all, of course, the Jena School, with Haeckel at its head; it is in this preeminent spirit that Darwin’s theory, with all its one-sidedness, has found its consistent formulation.} This theory assumes that external influences, like mechanical causes, act upon the nature of an organism and alter it accordingly. For Goethe, the individual changes are various manifestations of the primordial organism, which possesses within itself the capacity to assume manifold forms and, in a given case, assumes the form that is most appropriate to the surrounding conditions of the external world. These external conditions are merely the occasion for the inner formative forces to manifest themselves in a particular way. These inner forces alone are the constitutive principle, the creative element in the plant. That is why, on September 6, 1787, Goethe ^{19Italian Journey.} also refers to them as — 7(51) (the One and All) of the plant world.

[ 18 ] If we now turn our attention to this primordial plant itself, the following can be said about it. The living being is a self-contained whole that brings its states into being from within itself. Both in the coexistence of the parts and in the temporal succession of a living being’s states, there is an interrelationship that does not appear to be determined by the sensually perceptible properties of the parts, nor by a mechanical-causal dependence of the later on the earlier, but which is governed by a higher principle standing above the parts and states. It is inherent in the nature of the whole that a particular state is established as the first and another as the last; and the sequence of the intermediate states is also determined within the idea of the whole; what comes before depends on what comes after, and vice versa; in short, in the living organism, development of one from the other—a transition of states into one another—is not a finished, completed existence of the individual, but rather constant becoming. In the plant, this dependence of each individual part on the whole occurs insofar as all organs are constructed according to the same basic form. On May 17, 1787 ^{20Italian Journey.} Goethe wrote this thought to Herder with the words: “It had occurred to me, in fact, that in that organ (of the plant) which we usually refer to as a leaf, the true Proteus lies hidden, capable of concealing and revealing itself in all forms. Whether looking backward or forward, the plant is always and only a leaf, so inseparably united with the future bud that one cannot conceive of one without the other.” While in animals that higher principle, which governs each individual, presents itself to us concretely as the one that moves the organs, uses them according to its needs, and so on, the plant still lacks such a real principle of life; in the plant, this principle reveals itself only in a more indeterminate way, in that all organs are constructed according to the same pattern of formation; indeed, every part potentially contains the entire plant and, under favorable circumstances, can bring the whole plant forth from itself. This became particularly clear to Goethe when, during a walk with him in Rome, Rat Reiffenstein, snapping off a twig here and there, claimed that it must be planted in the ground, where it would continue to grow and develop into a whole plant. The plant is thus a being that develops certain organs over successive periods of time, all of which are structured according to one and the same idea—both in relation to one another and individually in relation to the whole. Every plant is a harmonious whole composed of plants. ^{21We will have the opportunity to elaborate in various places on the relationship of these individual parts to the whole. If we were to borrow a term from modern science to describe such an interaction of animate parts forming a whole, it would be something like that of a “colony” in zoology. This is a kind of state of living beings, an individual that in turn consists of independent individuals, an individual of a higher order.} Once this was clearly before Goethe’s eyes, his focus shifted solely to the individual observations that made it possible to describe in detail the various stages of development that the plant undergoes from within itself. The necessary groundwork for this had already been laid. We have seen that Goethe had already examined seeds in the spring of 1785; writing from Italy on May 17, 1787, he reported to Herdern that he had found the point where the embryo is located quite clearly and beyond doubt. This took care of the first stage of plant life. But the unity of structure among all leaves also soon became sufficiently evident. Among numerous other examples, Goethe found in this regard—particularly in fresh fennel—the difference between the lower and upper leaves, which are nevertheless always the same organ. On March 25 ^{22Italian Journey.}, he asked Herdern to report that his theory of the cotyledons had been so refined that it would be difficult to go any further. It was only a small step to regard the petals, stamens, and pistils as metamorphosed leaves as well. The studies of the English botanist Hill, which were becoming more widely known at the time and dealt with the transformation of individual floral organs into others, could lead to this conclusion.

[ 19 ] As the forces that organize the essence of the plant enter into actual existence, they take on a series of spatial forms. What is at work here is the living concept that connects these forms both backward and forward.

[ 20 ] When we examine Goethe’s theory of metamorphosis, as it appears to us from the year 1790, we find that, for Goethe, this concept involves alternating expansion and contraction. In the seed, the plant’s formative forces are most strongly contracted (concentrated). With the leaves, the first unfolding—the expansion of these formative forces—takes place. What is compressed into a single point within the seed spreads out spatially in the leaves. In the calyx, the forces contract again at a central point; the corolla is brought about by the next expansion; the stamens and pistil arise from the next contraction; the fruit from the final (third) expansion, after which the entire force of plant life (this entelechial principle) is once again concealed in the seed in its most highly contracted state. While we can now trace virtually all the details of the idea of metamorphosis up to its final elaboration in the essay published in 1790, the same cannot be said so easily for the concepts of expansion and contraction. Yet one would not be mistaken in assuming that this idea—which, incidentally, was deeply rooted in Goethe’s mind—had already been interwoven with the concept of plant formation during his time in Italy. Since the essence of this idea is the greater or lesser spatial unfolding brought about by formative forces—that is, it lies in what the plant immediately presents to the eye—it will likely arise most easily when one undertakes to draw the plant in accordance with the laws of natural formation. Now, in Rome, Goethe came across a shrub-like carnation plant that illustrated the metamorphosis to him with particular clarity. He writes about it as follows: “Seeing no other way to preserve this wondrous form, I undertook to draw it precisely, thereby gaining ever greater insight into the fundamental concept of metamorphosis.” ^{23Italian Journey / Disturbing Observations of Nature; see also Goethe’s letter to Knebel dated Aug. 18, 1787 (WA 8, 251).} Such drawings may have been made more often, and this could then have led to the concept in question.*

[ 21 ] In September 1787, during his second stay in Rome, Goethe presented the subject to his friend Moritz; in doing so, he realized how vivid and vividly the subject came to life in such a presentation. It is always written down, how far they have come. From this passage and several other remarks by Goethe, it seems likely that the writing down of the theory of metamorphosis—at least in aphoristic form—also took place while he was still in Italy. He goes on to say: “In this way—in conversation with Moritz—I was able to put some of my thoughts down on paper.” ^{24Italian Journey, Sept. 28, 1787.} There is no question that at the end of 1789 and the beginning of 1790, the work was written down in the form in which it now stands before us; but to what extent this final draft was merely of an editorial nature and what else was added will be difficult to say. A book announced for the upcoming Easter season, which might have contained roughly the same ideas, prompted him in the fall of 1789 to organize his ideas and push for their publication. On November 20, he wrote to the Duke that he felt inspired to put his botanical ideas into writing. On December 18, he had already sent the manuscript to the botanist Batsch in Jena for review; on the 20th, he traveled there himself to discuss the matter with Batsch; on the 22nd, he informed Knebel that Batsch had received the work favorably. He returned home, revised the manuscript once more, and then sent it back to Batsch, who returned it on January 19, 1790. Goethe himself recounted in detail the various stages the manuscript and the printed work went through (see Natw. Schr., Vol. 1 [pp. 91ff.]). We will discuss the great significance of the theory of metamorphosis, as well as its nature in detail, below [570ff.] in the essay: “On the Nature and Significance of Goethe’s Writings on Organic Formation.”