The Rudolf Steiner Archive

2. The People of Schiller and Fichte

[ 1 ] As we look, in these fateful times, to those who stand out in the East and West and who, with their blood and their souls, stand up for what our times demand—we saw this eight days ago in the lecture. In this lecture, too, I do not intend to violate the words Bismarck spoke regarding those who remained at home. In an age when, in other fields and in ways other than through the spoken word, great destinies are still being decided for humanity, the spoken word must not inappropriately interfere with decisions that must be brought about by other means. Yet what speaks from outside and what speaks to our hearts inspires trust, hope, and confidence wherever we look; it inspires devotion and selflessness in such a wondrous way.

[ 2 ] Well, in our time, in contexts where the underlying tone of discourse is more materialistic than it may be here, there is much talk of heredity and inherited traits. Today, in light of the great events unfolding out there, it is easier to translate into the mental and spiritual realms what is currently discussed in more materialistic circles regarding heredity. What lives out there in the deeds of those who bleed for their people? And what should live in the hearts of those who wish to be genuinely connected to this momentous, fateful era?

[ 3 ] Today, one may not encounter any misunderstanding if one still uses the word “heredity” in a higher sense: when one points to the real forces that emanate from the great ancestors and continue to exert their influence, forces that sweep through the ranks like a magical breath; when one points out that what lived in the great geniuses of the Central European people lives on in the deeds of the warriors. And perhaps one will not encounter misunderstanding either when one dares to say that this “life” refers to something real—that it is truly not merely as expressed in the Greek fable: that the power of the great ancestors lives on in the immediate present, as if bestowing a blessing upon those of today—but rather that this reality permeates and pulses through blood and souls. And since we, as human beings endowed with full consciousness and insight, should in fact live within what surrounds us spiritually as well, perhaps two figures may be singled out today from the ranks of the great Central Europeans who, in a sense, remain close to the present: two geniuses, one of whom has most certainly become part of the hearts and souls of the Central European people, while the other can, as it were, stand before us, expressing in his spiritual essence the greatest and highest qualities of this Central European people. Even if it may be said again today that there are perhaps many who are playing a heroic role in this era and yet know little of Schiller, and even less of Fichte, we can still take heart in the fact that the very same force that flows outward in the guise of heroes is the same force that flowed through Schiller, through Schiller’s works, and through Fichte’s great inspiration of his people. Truly, not to evoke sentimental feelings in your hearts, but because I believe that there is indeed something characteristic in the fact that the German people so eagerly wish to be intimately connected with the most significant moments of their great figures, I would like to draw your attention to the final moments of the earthly lives of the two great geniuses of whom we are to speak today.

[ 4 ] Schiller—he passed through the gates of death in such a way that the great German scholar Herman Grimm, mentioned earlier, could say of Schiller’s death: “Goethe passed away, Goethe fell asleep; Schiller died.” The younger Voß literally leads us into Schiller’s death chamber. We see how Schiller lived with the utmost exertion of the powers of the mind and the soul; we know that he was able to sustain himself until the age he unfortunately only reached by the mind and the soul winning a tremendous victory over the body. Thus we see that in his final days, when the body was already, in a certain sense, surrendered to death, this soul remained heroically connected to all the great things it had conceived, contemplated, and created throughout his life, and, guided by the younger Voß, we follow him into Schiller’s deathbed chamber; we witness the final moments of the great genius. We see how his spirit, even in his weakened body, still reaches toward his great ideals; we see how he then has his youngest child brought into the deathbed room, how he gazes at this child with the eyes through which so much greatness has looked upon the world, looks deeply into its eyes, then hands the child back to his caregivers, and then—as we sense—casts a glance into the deepest recesses of his soul, of which we can indeed say: Certainly, the younger Voß is right when he says that Schiller may have thought he could have been much more to this, his youngest child, in life. But this action may strike us as symbolic, in the sense that we feel: If Schiller had looked into all our eyes and then turned away into his own innermost being, thinking that he had much, much to say to us as well, then we feel ourselves to be his heirs in a sense quite different from merely being the heirs of his works and of what he himself said; then we feel connected to his innermost impulses of life—so connected that we know: if we wish to be of his essence, if we wish to be worthy of him, we must, from those same deepest impulses of life, face life and the world ourselves, and become spirit from his spirit!

[ 5 ] And Fichte—in difficult times, he sought to shape and express in words what he had drawn from the deepest recesses of his philosophical nature; words he spoke to his fellow Germans during a time of German humiliation and misery, in order to uplift them and instill in them a sense of greatness for the future life of the nation. And he was deeply connected to everything that ultimately led to his people’s struggles for liberation. And it is a marvelous thing to look back now on Fichte’s final moments. He had, after all, often pondered whether he himself should perhaps take to the battlefields; but he had then concluded that he could wield another sword more effectively for the good of his people: the sword of the word—and he did so courageously. But his wife—who was a faithful caregiver to those who had fought in the battles—brought home to him the fever from the military hospital, and he was struck down by it. It was during his final moments that his son brought him the news of the Germans’ crossing of the Rhine and of the current state of the struggle for liberation. And now we see how one of the greatest philosophers, who shaped the most powerful yet also the most crystal-clear thoughts, lives out his feverish fantasies—but these feverish fantasies are characteristic of him. In the final moments of his life, he saw himself in spirit right in the midst of the fighters. And what he believed he could give to the world and the German people from the very depths of his life’s impulses—what he could have done for Germany’s redemption—resounded from the soul of the great German philosopher in his feverish fantasies; a moment that can deeply move us. The medicine was offered to him. He refused it, saying, “Leave that alone; I need no medicine; I feel that I am healed!”

[ 6 ] They stand there like fighters themselves, these two great geniuses—fighters for the very best that the world has produced—and at the same time, we see the two of them, Schiller and Fichte, connected to everything that the times, the immediate present, demand.

[ 7 ] And now let us turn to the two great thinkers; let us try to discern through them what—to borrow this saying of Fichte’s—springs from the deepest roots of German life. Let us turn to Fichte to bring to light, so to speak, what we have to say for ourselves—even if not yet for others in these deeply troubled times—when judgments about European culture are being hurled at us from so many quarters, judgments that stem from sources which most certainly do not highlight the German essence and the German spirit. It is through Fichte that one can come to know the people who are now so often denounced as a barbarian people.

[ 8 ] Fichte posed three questions when he sought to speak to his people about what this people could achieve; and we must be clear that when Fichte delivered his inspiring “Addresses to the German Nation” back then, this took place in a different era than our own, in a time with a different character. Fichte posed three questions that today—at most with a single qualifying clause—can no longer be posed in the same way. But it is precisely from these three questions of Fichte’s that there is an immense amount to be learned for the present day. The first question is:

[ 9 ] “Whether it is true or not that there is a German nation and that its continued existence in its unique and independent form is currently in danger?”

[ 10 ] If we set aside the second part of this question, we must say: it is impossible to pose this question in this way today, for Fichte’s successors have proven that there is a German nation. Similarly, his second question can no longer be posed today:

[ 11 ] “whether it was worth the effort or not worth the effort to preserve it?”

[ 12 ] And the third question is:

[ 13 ] “Is there any sure and effective means of preserving it, and what is that means?”

[ 14 ] Well, here I have spoken year after year about the affairs of human spiritual life. And truly: precisely with regard to what has been said about this spiritual life of human beings, I was convinced that it is the further development of what already existed before Fichte, before Schiller, and before other thinkers. At that time, Fichte sought to find the means to lead the Germans out of oppression and misery—the means for a German to become aware of himself, to act from the deepest root of the life impulse. Fichte sought a complete transformation of education; and from the way the German people express themselves in “language,” he wanted to discern how they related to other cultural worlds. Today, it is not possible to engage with the way Fichte elaborated on these questions; what matters is that the force capable of inspiring and enlivening us in Central Europe today is the same as the one within him. Today we will neither seek the essence of the German people in such a way that we, like Fichte, look for it expressed in language—although we certainly wish to acknowledge the full significance of language—nor will we speak today of Fichte’s educational system, which, after all, could not be implemented at that time. But we may point out that from the vital impulses out of which Fichte delivered his “Addresses to the German Nation” at that time for the self-preservation of his people, there resounds a spirit which—when further developed—provides genuine, true spiritual science. We can already glean this from many things that are perhaps not always given sufficient attention when one immerses oneself today in these marvelous “Addresses to the German Nation” by Fichte. Let us speak today—and this has often been discussed in this very place—about the fact that there is not only materialistic science, materialistic knowledge, which views human beings as they develop between birth and death; that there is not only that kind of knowledge which passively surrenders to external phenomena and forms its judgment based on what is gleaned from the external world in the sense of this knowledge. Rather, let us speak of the fact that there is a courageous, active form of knowledge that dares to grasp the “innermost roots of human life’s impulses,” as Fichte puts it, in order to apprehend the human being where his essence transcends birth and death—where, according to Lessing’s great idea, he grasps that which passes from life to life in physical reality. There is a form of knowledge that, through a bold and courageous grasp of the soul’s inner forces, soars up to that which, even after death, looks down upon the human being’s physical activity and upon his corpse itself; there is a science that truly grasps the soul—that science which leads to the divine just as external science leads to the natural. For if one grasps the outer, material human being through external science—through the natural sciences—one discovers how the human being emerges from all the forces of nature, as it were, as a blossom of nature; if one grasps the human being through spiritual science, one becomes aware of how the soul, with its deepest roots, is connected to the Divine, to that which weaves and lives in the spiritual realm. Even if we can no longer stand by Fichte’s position with regard to his individual statements, we can stand by what lives in his thinking as a disposition, as a character. Thus we ourselves find how the fundamental nuance, the fundamental tone of spiritual-scientific knowledge, lies in the speeches through which he sought to arouse enthusiasm among his people when he uttered the words: “/p”

[ 15 ] “It (the philosophy he refers to) perceives time, eternity, and infinity as arising from the emergence and manifestation of that One, which is utterly invisible in itself and can only be grasped—truly grasped—in its very invisibility.”

[ 16 ] “Any persistent existence that does not appear to be spiritual life is merely an empty shadow cast by vision, mediated in many ways by nothingness; in contrast to this, and through the recognition of this nothingness as something mediated in many ways, vision itself is to rise to the recognition of its own nothingness and to the acknowledgment of the invisible as the only truth.”

[ 17 ] Attention has often been drawn here to how the soul can grasp its innermost being, in which it becomes aware of what lies beyond death. Then—not from a passive but from an active science—it may speak of how, after death, the human being looks down upon his physical body from this eternal core of his being in a higher consciousness. There is something remarkable in Fichte that lives within him like an intuition. We can hardly imagine someone—in whose deepest roots of the soul there does not already dwell the inkling of such spiritual insight, which can arise precisely from his own intuitions—using a parable the way Fichte does. He speaks of a new education for his people; of how people are to learn to find their way into something they have not yet experienced, and into which they can only find their way with difficulty, because it is challenging in comparison to what is familiar, which must be cast aside. And Fichte now describes what it is like for this people when it is to be rejuvenated and will look back on its old way of being, from which—according to his ideal—it is to emerge, as it were; and he speaks in such a way that the parable he uses seems to be drawn directly from the modern spiritual science of the immediate present. Seeking to inspire the people, he says:

[ 18 ] “Time seems to me like an empty shadow standing over its corpse—from which an army of diseases has just driven it out—wailing, unable to tear its gaze away from the shell it once loved so dearly, and desperately trying every means to get back into the dwelling of the plagues. True, the life-giving breezes of the other world, into which the departed has entered, have already embraced her and surround her with a warm breath of life; true, friendly voices of the sisters are already greeting her and welcoming her; true, something is already stirring and expanding within her in all directions to develop the more glorious form into which she is to awaken; yet she still has no sense of these breezes or hearing for these voices; and even if she did, she is consumed by grief over her loss, believing that in it she has also lost herself.”

[ 19 ] Truly, one might think that this comparison is taken from what modern spiritual science has to say about the soul’s experience! And then we stand, one might say, with even greater “faith” before Fichte than he could stand before himself, so that we say: Yes, in this personality there stirs something of what we wish to hold fast to as a spiritual insight into the true nature of the human being.

[ 20 ] And just as Fichte—with whom, at least for a certain period of time, he had a deep connection in his intellectual life—sought to reach the innermost source of the soul’s stirrings, so too did Schiller, each in his own way, seek to do the same!

[ 21 ] Oh, even though Schiller has grown so dear to our people’s hearts, it is still not fully recognized today what fruits have been borne by the forces that reside in the people of Schiller and Fichte. And one might say: we must bring our understanding in line with what is already manifesting itself in such a magnificent way on the battlefields in the West and the East; for these are the very same forces that have been spiritually elevated in Schiller. Ceaselessly, Schiller—to use his own expression—sought within human nature, in contrast to what the everyday person is—the person who lives with the things of the external world, who takes in and processes these things of the external world—ceaselessly did he seek, in contrast to this person, what he calls the “higher human being” who lives within everyone. And what Schiller expressed in his *Letters on Aesthetic Education*, particularly in relation to the search for this higher human being, ranks among our greatest cultural treasures. — In my last lecture, I took the liberty of pointing out that one professes and identifies with Germanness in a different way than members of other nations relate to their national identity: one is a Russian, one is a Frenchman, one is an Englishman, but one is constantly becoming more German; that is to say, one seeks an ideal that can still be elevated; one seeks something higher than what lives in ordinary people. And so Schiller seeks in his “Aesthetic Letters” to express how, on the one hand, a person cannot attain the fullest understanding of his innermost impulses—which is his higher self—if he lives only for the external world, only for what is outwardly real. Schiller says that one who lives solely according to external stimuli is like a slave who lives under the impulses of external sensual needs. But for Schiller, neither is a fully realized human being one who inclines only toward abstract thought, who submits only to the necessity of reason. On the one hand, Schiller sees the necessity of reason; on the other, the necessity of the senses. But he seeks the human being in the everyday person who can live his life in such a way that he is able to look upon ennobled nature in such a way that sensory life meets him with the expression of beautiful spirituality, yet to which reason also has access. Only he is a complete human being in Schiller’s view who is capable of confronting the spiritual with the same vitality and sense of beauty as the other confronts the sensual. And from the middle state of mind that results from this, Schiller believes he can derive the kind of person who can conjure forth a higher human being from the everyday human being. But that man must do this—Schiller regards this as the highest ideal of humanity, and in this he is once again one of the great inspirers of true spiritual-scientific knowledge, which seeks with all its might what lives within man as the higher human being, and which, if it is to seek this in the truly modern spirit, has no choice but to draw upon the impulses that flow, for example, from Schiller’s Aesthetic Letters. Precisely what I took the liberty of saying in my lecture eight days ago today—how one always becomes a German, how, as a German, one does not seek the “German” in a one-sided way, but rather the human being who transcends all nationality, who regards all nationality as something belonging to the outer human being— —this is so beautifully reflected in what Schiller strove for, what he sought to express in his Letters on the Aesthetic Education of Man, and what is ultimately expressed in all the works of art that Schiller presented to his people, and which have grown so dear to the hearts and souls of the people.

[ 22 ] And Fichte—does he articulate a one-sided concept, a one-sided idea of Germanness? No! we can say; he articulates a universal concept of Germanness, a concept of which it can truly be said: The German is always striving to become; and he believes that one can only be a German in the fullest sense of the word if one is a human being in the fullest sense of the word. Hence the beautiful words in Fichte’s “Addresses to the German Nation,” these wonderful, thought-provoking words:

[ 23 ] “The principle according to which it”—whatever Fichte’s philosophy may be—“must arrive at this conclusion is set before it; whatever believes in spirituality and in the freedom of that spirituality, and desires the eternal development of that spirituality through freedom—whatever that may be, wherever it may have originated, and in whatever language it may speak—belongs to our race; it is ours, and it will turn toward us.”

[ 24 ] Anyone who thinks this way belongs with us and will join us. This is Schiller’s way, this is Fichte’s way: to become German by seeking, in the broadest and most universal sense of the word, the higher human being within man—the one who seeks the path to that which is foreign to the outward man, the one who is human and great because he is capable of loving all that is great and worthy of love even in people of other nationalities. And this is what Schiller seeks as a true German, in that he was permitted to speak the words—which were not published until long after his death—not only in the presence of the German people, but of all civilized humanity:

[ 25 ] “He who shapes and masters the spirit must ultimately come to rule; for at the end of time, if the world has a plan, if human life has any meaning at all, custom and reason must finally triumph, and brute force must yield to form—and the slowest of peoples will catch up with all the swift and fleeting ones.

[ 26 ] “He”—the German—"is destined for the highest, and just as he stands at the center of the peoples of Europe, so he is the core of humanity; they are the blossom and the leaves.

[ 27 ] He has been chosen by the World Spirit to work on the eternal edifice of human education during the struggle of time, to preserve what time brings.

[ 28 ] That is why he has, up to now, assimilated what is foreign to him and preserved it within himself.

[ 29 ] Everything of value that arose in other times and among other peoples—that came into being and faded away over time—he has preserved; it remains intact for him—the treasures of centuries.

[ 30 ] Not to shine in the moment and play one’s part, but to win the great process of time. Every nation has its day in history, but the day of the Germans is the harvest of all time.»

[ 31 ] This is what they said. And in their spirit—in the sense that, as Germans, we are always becoming and striving forward, never resting on our past achievements—we can become disciples and successors of these great figures. To swear literal allegiance to our ancestors in this way cannot be our way. But this can be our way: to try, out of the very same innermost impulses of life from which they created, to understand our own time, to continue to act and to work. And having thus turned our gaze toward these great ancestors, we now ask ourselves—even if, perhaps, in the course of the nineteenth century and right up to our own time, some things have changed from what these great geniuses had directly envisioned in their consciousness: Has anything flowed from these impulses they provided that corresponds to those impulses? Is there anything in Central Europe in which one can recognize a spirit akin to Schiller’s spirit, a soul akin to Fichte’s soul?

[ 32 ] Well, it will undoubtedly not be easy to speak, in the immediate present, of what one’s own people have achieved, of what lives within them. And you will understand that one might, in a certain sense, shy away from even remotely touching upon what appears to be a self-characterization—even if only a self-characterization of the people—especially in these fateful times. Therefore, I wish to choose a different path, so that it cannot be said that this people, reviled as a “barbarian people,” is engaging in self-praise and self-love. I would like to choose a path through which we can hear, as in an echo, what has become of the people of Schiller and Fichte. Let us choose words that were spoken—in English—by the great American Emerson, words that are therefore not our own. Emerson, the great American, spoke the following words about the essence of the German people in the post-Schiller, post-Fichte era—as I said, not even in German—by saying what he had to say about Goethe:

[ 33 ] “One trait in particular, which Goethe shares with his entire nation, makes him a remarkable figure in the eyes of both the French and English publics,”

[ 34 ] — so, as I said: a trait that Goethe shares with the entire nation! — “that everything in him is based solely on inner truth. In England and America, talent is respected, but people are satisfied only when it works for or against a party in accordance with their convictions. In France, people are already delighted when they see brilliant ideas, no matter where they lead. In all these countries, however, gifted men write to the best of their ability. If what they produce stimulates the discerning reader and contains nothing that offends good taste, it is held in sufficient regard. So many columns, so many hours spent pleasantly and usefully. The German spirit possesses neither the French vivacity nor the English understanding, which is sharply focused on practical matters, nor, finally, the American spirit of adventure; yet what it does possess is a certain probity that never stops at the outward appearance of things, but always returns to the main question: Where is this leading? The German public demands that a writer rise above things and simply speak his mind.

[ 35 ] There is mental alertness: well then, what is it for? What is this man’s opinion? — Where does it come from? — Where does he get all these thoughts?»

[ 36 ] This, says Emerson, is what the German public demands of anyone who wishes to speak to it, who wishes to mean something to it. Another of Emerson’s statements—we may regard it as an echo of what emerged from the ideas of Schiller and Fichte:

[ 37 ] “The English see only the particular and do not know how to view humanity as a whole in terms of higher laws.... The Germans think on behalf of Europe.”

[ 38 ] — That’s what English speakers in America say! —

[ 39 ] “... The English appreciate the depth of the German genius

[ 40 ] “no.” And what has become of these reasons that Emerson cites here for himself? He provides the answer to that as well. Once again, I would like to read his own words aloud:

[ 41 ] “For this reason, the terms used to distinguish concepts in sophisticated conversation are all of German origin. While the English and French, who are renowned for their acumen and erudition, view their studies and their perspective with a certain superficiality—and their personal character is not deeply connected to what they have grasped or to the way they express themselves—Goethe says,”

[ 42 ] — Emerson is referring here to the German nation, even though he is also speaking about Goethe —

[ 43 ] “He is the head and the essence of the German nation, not because he has talent; rather, the truth concentrates its rays in his soul and shines forth from it. He is wise to the highest degree, even though his wisdom may often be veiled by his talent. How excellent what he says is—yet he has something in mind that is even better... He possesses that awe-inspiring independence that springs from communion with the truth.”

[ 44 ] This is what the English-speaking American had to say about what became of the ideas of those whom Central Europeans regard as their great geniuses.

[ 45 ] Well, there is one sentence from Emerson’s writings that should take particularly deep root in our consciousness today—the sentence in which Emerson says: “The English do not appreciate the depth of the German genius.” It goes without saying that when we speak of intellectual insight, we must be clear that whenever we speak of “human beings,” we cannot mean that these human beings should be identified with their nationality. Intellectual matters are matters of all humanity; there are no distinctions based on nation or race. So we are not speaking of individuals; rather, when we—as we now intend to do—turn our attention to what the German nation has gained from Schiller and Fichte, this is something that transcends the national, something that is supranational, something that is divine and eternal. And was this—perhaps we may ask this question especially in our time, when so much harmful talk reaches our ears, particularly from across the Channel—was this always the prevailing opinion? We may ask: In light of what is said today, does what was said in calmer times seem less significant to us?

[ 46 ] Well, there is something peculiar here. And even if you do not wish to delve into Miss Wylie’s detailed book—or books—which, with a preface by Lord Haldane, has also been published in German, you can still immerse yourself in Miss Wylie’s writings by picking up the two special issues of the *Süddeutsche Monatshefte*, those brown booklets available at every train station. I’d like to single out just one thing that an Englishwoman said about the people of Schiller and Fichte very shortly before the outbreak of the current war; and her words may be quoted because she lived in Germany for eight years and got to know the people whom Emerson says are simply unknown in English-speaking countries. Miss Wylie not only came to know German intellectual life at first hand, but she also came to know how German intellectual life manifests itself in hospitals, schools, universities, and industry. She says:

[ 47 ] “We read a great deal about the new Germany and its new spirit. But there is no new Germany and no new spirit. What exists is the matured work of generations, that which has always been. Dazzled by the sudden splendor of Germany’s prosperity, we are inclined to forget that, save for prosperity, it has rarely occupied anything other than one of the very foremost places among the nations. In religion and philosophy, Germany shone at a time when all around it was dark; in literature, it provided an epoch-making impulse; in music, it has always dominated.”

[ 48 ] — That’s Echo! We’re not just saying this ourselves. —

[ 49 ] “German literature, German religion, and German philosophy are books sealed with seven seals to us. What we know is how many dreadnoughts Germany possesses and by how much its trade has increased. What really matters is not the dreadnought, but the mind of its builder, the courage and talent of its commander. What really matters is not the increase in sales, but the human qualities that brought it about.

[ 50 ] Forty years ago, Germany was fighting for its very existence. And it is still fighting for it today. It is completely wrong to believe that Germany has already reached its peak. It is waging a quiet but determined struggle against powerful rivals whose power and experience were forged generations ago... At every border and across the seas, its adversaries—both commercial and political—lie in wait, eagerly anticipating the moment when Germany shows even the slightest sign of weakness so they can pounce and bring it down. Germany knows this all too well.”

[ 51 ] So says the Englishwoman. Yes—she knows it! But others have known it, too. Last time I spoke of a book, *Germany in the Nineteenth Century* by Herford, which grew out of lectures given at the University of Manchester and was intended to instruct those who know nothing—namely, as the book itself states, the “press people”—about what the German spirit is. Today, too, I would like to quote—albeit only briefly—from this very book, which contains, as it were, admonitions regarding the German spirit that were spoken in Manchester in 1912—that is, not long ago—because they pertain to the actual circumstances of the very immediate present. This is what was said in Manchester:

[ 52 ] “On the whole, there is no question that the establishment of the German Empire has been conducive to world peace. This statement will seem strange to those who know nothing but the events of the present and for whom history is nothing more than an ever-changing, dazzling movie. But history ought to be something more than that. It is fitting for history to let the light of the past shine upon the confused turmoil of the present, and in that higher light, things that appear offensive will take on a natural appearance. For when we look to the past, we find”—this was spoken in Manchester, in English! — “that our ancestors regarded France with far greater fear than even the wildest rabble-rousers today fear Germany. And our ancestors’ fear had good reason. ...”

[ 53 ] “To sum it all up, it can be shown that the founding of the German Empire was a benefit for Europe.”

[ 54 ] — That’s what they say in Manchester! —

[ 55 ] “and therefore also for Great Britain. For the events of the years 1866 through 1871 put an end once and for all to the possibility of waging wars of plunder against the hitherto unprotected heart of Europe, thereby eliminating a temptation to war that had so often led France astray in earlier centuries; they enabled the German people to develop their political capabilities, which had hitherto been stunted, and they helped to establish, on a secure foundation, a new European system that maintained peace for forty years.”

[ 56 ] — Spoken in English in Manchester in 1912! —

[ 57 ] “This blessing stemmed from the fact that German unification achieved in one fell swoop what Great Britain, despite all its expenditure of blood and money, could not have accomplished—namely, securing the balance of power so decisively that a major war became the most dangerous of all ventures.”

[ 58 ] So it has been recognized to some extent that there is indeed some truth to what I took the liberty of citing in my lecture eight days ago, in the words of Herman Grimm: that while the German will always sacrifice himself for his fatherland when the time demands it, he would not long for or bring about the moment when this might happen through war. And given that we also hear this as if it were an echo from outside, we may also turn our attention to our immediate present. Therefore, I now ask you—I would say: in order to direct our thoughts toward how we should view the situation in which we find ourselves during these fateful times—to recall what took place in the days at the end of July and in the first days of August, which is well known. I would like to attempt, in a unique way, to characterize how these events might present themselves; with words that could express what an impartial observer of Central Europe—or, as others might say, a “biased” observer—might have felt about the way Central Europe stands in relation to the Great War. Let us bring this to mind. I will attempt to do so with the following words:

[ 59 ] We recall the newspaper reports that reached us from Russia as early as this past spring. It was evident from these reports that a sort of press campaign was gradually taking shape in St. Petersburg, through which German policy was being attacked. These attacks intensified in the period that followed, culminating in strong demands that we exert pressure on Austria in matters where we could not readily challenge Austrian law. Germany could not go along with this; for if we alienated Austria, we would—unless we wished to be completely isolated in Europe—necessarily find ourselves dependent on Russia. Would such dependence have been tolerable? One might previously have believed it could be, because people told themselves: we have no conflicting interests at all; there is no reason whatsoever why Russia should ever renounce its friendship with us. When speaking with Russian friends about such disputes, one cannot exactly contradict them. However, events showed that even a complete subordination of our policy—for a certain time—to Russia’s did not protect us from entering into conflict with Russia against our will and against our best efforts.

[ 60 ] I believe these words might illustrate what a person today might say about the characteristics of spring and summer. But I did not put these words together at all; I did not write them at all. I merely altered them slightly. These words were, in fact, spoken by Bismarck on February 6, 1888, in the German Reichstag, when he was defending a military bill and sought to explain that this bill was not in the interest of a war of aggression, but in the interest of peace. And now I would like to read his words to you:

[ 61 ] “... as a sort of press campaign gradually began in St. Petersburg, I was personally suspected of having certain intentions. These attacks intensified over the course of the following year, up until 1879, escalating into strong demands that we exert pressure on Austria in matters where we could not readily challenge Austrian law. I could not go along with this; for if we alienated Austria, we would—unless we wished to be completely isolated in Europe—necessarily fall into dependence on Russia. Would such dependence have been tolerable? I had previously believed it might be, telling myself: we have no conflicting interests; there is no reason whatsoever why Russia should ever sever its friendship with us. At the very least, I had not outright contradicted my Russian colleagues who had explained this to me. The events surrounding the Congress disappointed me, for they showed me that even a complete subordination of our policy (for a certain time) to Russia’s would not protect us from entering into conflict with Russia against our will and against our best interests.”

[ 62 ] This characterizes the forces that were not limited to a single year, but had existed since that time—forces that anyone who knew what was smoldering and smoldering in Europe was well aware of. Anyone who considers the historical context in this way will be able to see—simply from the correspondence between what we feel today and what Bismarck said back then—that it would have been impossible to avoid the conflict with Russia, even if German policy had been “completely subordinated to Russian interests.” I think this kind of historical perspective speaks volumes—truly, volumes. And what was the spirit in which these words were spoken back then? Was it perhaps Herman Grimm alone who spoke of the fact that Germany—that the German people as such—wants peace, and that they also wish to place their armaments in the service of peace? Bismarck said in that same speech—and this is something we should also bear in mind—that he had done so much for Russia at the Congress of Berlin in 1878 that he would have deserved the highest Russian order with diamonds—if he hadn’t already possessed it. Nevertheless, he had to utter those words that he spoke back then. And we also hear him speak about the mood from which they flowed:

[ 63 ] “One does not launch an attack with the mighty machine that we are building the German army to be. If I were to stand before you today and say—if circumstances were different from what I am convinced they are—: “We are under significant threat from France and Russia; it is foreseeable that we will be attacked; based on my conviction as a diplomat and on military intelligence regarding this matter, I believe it is more advantageous for us to use the enemy’s advance as a pretext for a defensive strike, to strike immediately; it is more advantageous for us to wage a war of aggression, and I therefore ask the Reichstag for a credit of one billion or half a billion to wage war against our two neighbors today”—yes, gentlemen, I do not know whether you would have enough confidence in me to grant me that. I hope not.”

[ 64 ] All of this serves to truly reinforce the conviction that, fundamentally, Germany wanted a war only if it arose from European necessities, and that it was far, far from wanting war for war’s sake in any way. But then one must decide whether these voices—including this one regarding the immediate external events—correspond to what German intellectual life is. — I cannot help but say a few words about another impression that German intellectual life made at a certain point.

[ 65 ] We heard it this summer: a man who truly could not find harsh enough words—and I mean harsh words—to denounce German “barbarism.” That same man once cited three figures who had most—or at least significantly—shaped his worldview: the mystic Ruysbrock, the American Emerson, and the German mystical poet Novalis. This man, who among those who guided him to his spiritual perspective speaks quite specifically of the German mystical poet Novalis, poses a curious question—the question: What, after all, is the significance of everything contained in Shakespeare’s plays—what is discussed between the individual characters and what unfolds from person to person—compared to what lives in many other works of poetry? For suppose—he argues—a spirit were to come to us from another planet, one that lived under conditions entirely different from those of earthly souls: would it be in the least interested in what the characters in Shakespeare’s plays experienced? Wouldn’t we have to offer him something entirely different—something that generally doesn’t come to expression in everyday life, something that emanates from the human soul—if he were to pay us any attention at all? And then he recalls how a German mystical poet—Novalis—has given him something that speaks of what he would most like to keep silent about, but which he believes the soul of another, coming down from a different world, would have to see as something worth communicating. And so the person in question speaks of Novalis, the German mystical poet, who possesses within his soul something that, coming from the innermost depths of the human being, could even be revealed to a spirit from beyond the earth, were it to ask for it:

[ 66 ] “But if further proof were needed, she”—that is, the soul, presumably—“would lead him among those whose works border on silence. She would open the gate to the realm where some loved her for her own sake, without concerning themselves with the slight gestures of her body. Together they would ascend to the lonely highlands, where consciousness rises by one degree and where all who are plagued by anxiety about themselves attentively survey the immense ring that links the world of phenomena with our higher worlds. They would go with him to the very limits of humanity; for at the point where man seems to end, he probably begins, and his most essential and inexhaustible parts lie in the unseen, where he must be ceaselessly on his guard. Only at these heights are there thoughts that the soul can approve of, and ideas that resemble it and are as commanding as the soul itself. There, humanity has reigned for a moment, and these dimly lit peaks are perhaps the only lights that announce the Earth to the spirit realm. Their reflection truly bears the color of our soul. We sense that the passions of the mind and body would resemble the sounds of bells in the eyes of a higher reason; but in their works, these men from the small village of the passions have emerged and have spoken words that are of value even to those who do not belong to the earthly community.”

[ 67 ] This is what a man says after having formed an impression of Novalis and wanting to speak his mind about him. This is the same man who has now, in a peculiar way—as you are no doubt mostly aware—expounded on Germanness and the German spirit: Maurice Maeterlinck. When we hear that Maeterlinck has said something like this, can we not say that he has, in fact, quite “fundamentally” changed his nature? Might one not even say that his current words sound such that one could say of them: In truth, it is difficult to question one’s soul and to hear its faint, childlike voice amid the useless loudmouths that surround it? One might truly be tempted to count him among those useless screamers himself, against whom weak childlike voices cannot prevail. But I have also taken these words from Maurice Maeterlinck; for they are his own words, which he also speaks on the occasion cited: “In truth, it is difficult to question one’s soul and to hear its weak childlike voice amid the useless screamers that surround it.”

[ 68 ] We have attempted to explore, at least to some extent, what Schiller and Fichte expected of their people. And we have tried—albeit only indirectly—to discern to what extent these aspirations have been realized. Today there is much talk of all sorts of feelings that these Germans are said to harbor toward the other nations with whom they are at war; for example, there is talk of feelings of hatred that the Germans are said to have toward the Russians, the English, and even the French. Truly, in light of the words I have spoken today and last time, what I am about to say will not be interpreted as an un-German attitude, but rather as one that must flow from the true principles of spiritual science. For I believe: if we look to the innermost roots of the German way of life, then these feelings of hatred, these feelings of contempt toward other peoples, are all untrue! Even though many a word may be spoken these days that we ourselves might find “un-German” even within the German context—what was said regarding Schiller and Fichte remains true: As Fichte himself says, whoever seeks the “human being,” the higher human within the human, belongs to us! And the German ceaselessly seeks to transcend the narrow bonds of his nationality. Therefore, I do not believe that it can amount to more than a passing phase when people speak today of feelings other than devotion—even toward the most valuable aspects of other nations. And may we not also cite evidence for this?

[ 69 ] Oh, we may believe that what has emerged as the highest fruit of German intellectual life truly lives within the most primitive German nature. Do Germans really hate the English? I would say: no. I would even like to coin this paradoxical phrase: The German has proven that he loves the English even more than they love themselves. Let us take the saying seriously: “By their fruits you shall know them.” How has the German cherished Shakespeare? Compare the significance Shakespeare has gained within German intellectual life—as opposed to what he has become in England. One can then say: We see the revival of Shakespeare in German intellectual life. The Germans have cherished Shakespeare more than the English—even if this is taking the statement to an extreme. But just as it was said that every soldier’s knapsack contains a marshal’s baton, so this spirit resides in the soul of even the humblest German, even if it must now be sought out a little, given that the Germans are threatened from all sides. — But we can also turn to more recent times. We have spoken of Goethe. Goethe, too, belongs to those who, with the most affectionate disposition, have immersed themselves in what is universally human, across all nationalities and throughout all ages. We see him immersing himself in what was so dear to him—ancient Greek culture—and we see this immersion symbolically depicted in the second part of *Faust*, in the union of Faust and Helena, as a symbol of the union of the two national elements. And Goethe allows something to emerge from this union: Euphorion, who—in light of everything we have already said about Faust—may appear to us as something connected to Goethe’s ideal of humanity. Euphorion is a remarkable figure. Let us recall Euphorion’s words, which can resonate deeply, deeply within our souls, especially today, in our own time. Euphorion says:

No, I have not appeared as a child:
The youth arrives in armor!
Joining the strong, the free, the bold,
He has already done so in spirit.
Now go!
Now there
The path to glory opens up.

[ 70 ] Then continue:

And do you hear the thunder on the sea?
There, valley after valley thunders anew,
In dust and waves, army upon army,
Wave upon wave of pain and torment!
And death
Is the command;
That is simply the way it is.

[ 71 ] And then:

Should I watch from afar?
No! I share in their sorrow and hardship!

[ 72 ] Who did Goethe have in mind when he sought to paint this essence of humanity before his soul? Byron, the great English poet, served as his model for what he portrayed in his “Euphorion”!

[ 73 ] At times, it might seem as if Germans are also prone to letting their peculiarities come to the fore in the presence of foreigners. But one need only realize that in this display, there is always an underlying motive to resist something. These are words that Friedrich Schlegel once spoke when Paris made a great impression on him: “Paris would actually be a wonderful city, if only there weren’t so many French people in it.” Certainly, such words have been spoken. But there is more to it than that. There is, in particular, something that symptomatically suggests how the German, at the very least, wishes to position himself within the whole of cultural life. This is evident in Schiller’s view of a great figure of world history. Others, too, have looked upon this figure of world history: Shakespeare, Voltaire—an Englishman, a Frenchman. I am referring to the “Maid of Orleans.” If we truly bring this matter before our souls, we cannot help but say: Shakespeare approached the Maid of Orléans in a narrow-minded, nationalistic manner; Voltaire treated her with cool, dismissive skepticism. In contrast, it must be recalled that Schiller could only express himself toward her by saying: “The world loves to blacken what shines and to drag the sublime into the dust.” And so he sought to portray her—this figure who, for him, had become a messenger from heaven, a messenger from the spiritual world. Schiller has often been criticized for having created the figure of the Maid of Orleans. Today, when considering the way Germans engage with cultural life, we should recall how Schiller sought to immerse himself in everything that came to him from France as a gift from heaven, in order to embody it—though in the judgment of the German spirit, this is linked to struggle, conflict, and victory. Unless one thinks like a German, one finds it hard to believe that courage, a fighting spirit, and a readiness for conflict can coexist in the soul—and that humanity can nevertheless be preserved in the heart. That is precisely what Schiller sought to express. To those who do not think in a German way—who say this is not possible at all—we must say: Fundamentally, it is possible for every German, if we consider German nature at the roots of its vital impulse. For unlike many others, the German approaches battle and war in a particular way, and it lies within him—sometimes more obscurely, sometimes more clearly—that he must treat the one against whom he fights only as an adversary in a duel. He does not hate him; he stands opposite him and is happiest when he can touch him with the utmost humanity. I would say: Schiller sought to imbue the Maid of Orleans with such a truly German quality. Anyone who knows what the Maid of Orleans was will naturally find it understandable that Schiller could be so moved by her, even at a time when Germans had absolutely no reason to glorify the French spirit. But Schiller also—and this is why he has once again become the greatest source of inspiration for German intellectual life—wove the forces of the invisible into his drama. And so they weave their way in, as in the invisible being, Talbot, who appears as a black knight. This has been criticized many times; but Schiller could not help but allow the eternal spiritual forces to play a part in his drama as well. That is why he so truly embodies that quality which is quintessentially German: making no distinction between one nation and another when it comes to what is greatest and highest in human life. That is why I said: I do not believe, when people today speak of feelings of hatred and antipathy on the part of the Germans toward other peoples, that these feelings reach down to the innermost roots of German life. One need not, therefore, be blind or insensitive to all that comes to light; but one knows how to distinguish between what presses upon a person from the outside—and what the person, with his higher self, seeks to overcome. And Schiller, too, is not so far removed from external, practical life that we would have to say he was blind to what constitutes the outward appearance of the various nations. He wrote a poem titled “The Dawn of the New Century”; in it we read the meaningful lines that are still very relevant to our present-day lives:

Two mighty nations wrestle
For sole dominion over the world;
To devour the freedom of all nations,
They wield the trident and the lightning bolt.

Every land must weigh gold for them
And, like Brennus in those barbaric times,
The Frank lays his iron sword
On the scales of justice.

Greedily like the arms of an octopus,
And the realm of the free Amphitrite
He wishes to enclose, as if it were his own home.

[ 74 ] These are also Schiller’s words, which resonated even though Schiller was among those who, in a truly German spirit, sought to uphold the principle of not seeking the human in the national—or rather, to put it another way: seeking the human in every national aspect. That is why one may say that it may well be true that something Schiller and Fichte longed for their people is emerging as the most beautiful fruit precisely from our fateful times: the German has often said that he knows how to live together with other nationalities. And when we look today at a country that borders Germany directly—and which has understood how to remain neutral not only in external relations but right down to the very core of human conduct—when we look at Switzerland, that very Switzerland in which Fichte found the roots of his German national education in Pestalozzi, then we may say: We see in this model nation of nationalities that it is indeed possible for Germans to live in harmony with other nations. Anyone who observes Swiss life knows that for the inhabitants of this country—where three nations coexist in an exemplary manner—it is of the utmost importance that they be able to uphold, in spirit, what is truly in the deepest interest of their national territory: the spirit of neutrality. However, one should respect the spirit of neutrality and bear in mind that the Swiss, drawing entirely on their own sound judgment, know what the historical mission of the German spirit is. And one should understand that it can justifiably offend sensibilities there if a region—for which it is particularly significant in the immediate present that it stands on the ground of the most honest neutrality—is overly inundated with what is today called “Enlightenment literature.” I believe that anyone who speaks of the German mission as I have done is also entitled to draw attention to such matters.

[ 75 ] So we may now say: Like an echo, we can hear the impact of Schiller’s and Fichte’s ideas. Let us briefly recall, as we conclude, the words Emerson spoke of Goethe: “He is wise to the highest degree, even if his wisdom is often veiled by his talent. However excellent what he says may be, he has something in mind that is even better... He possesses that awe-inspiring independence that springs from communion with the truth.” ” But from this “communion with truth” also springs this trust, this confidence and hope, as well as the selflessness and spirit of sacrifice that we see all around us—and which are placed in the service of our great age to bring to fruition that of which Emerson, in turn, speaks:

[ 76 ] “The world is young; the great men of the past call out to us with a friendly voice. We must ‘write’ sacred texts to reunite heaven and the earthly world anew. The secret of genius is not to tolerate any lie remaining for us, to turn everything of which we are conscious into truth; to awaken faith, certainty, and trust in the sophistication of modern life, in art and science, in books and in people; and—at the beginning as at the end, in the midst of the journey, as if for all eternity—to honor every truth not only by recognizing it, but by making it a guiding principle of our actions.”

[ 77 ] When contemplating German life—which, through a mindset such as that of Fichte and Schiller, strives toward true spiritual understanding—words like these emerge from personalities such as Emerson. And then we understand how—as it were, arising from the elemental—even in Bismarck’s speech of 1888, that which is intimately connected with this search for the higher human being within the everyday person finds expression. What is intimately connected here? I already said this at the beginning of the lecture, when I pointed out how, in the end, the greatest German geniuses point the way to spiritual science: Just as the outer human being rests in outer nature, so does that which can be found in the human being as the higher human being—that which passes from life to life, that which even passes from one nationality to another in the course of earthly lives—rest in the divine All-Being. And when a person grasps the roots of his innermost being, he feels connected to the God whose essence interweaves and pulses through the world. And Schiller and Fichte speak of that God of whom Bismarck also speaks when, in his characteristic, straightforward manner, he addressed the Germans in the aforementioned speech with the words:

[ 78 ] “We can easily be won over by love and goodwill—perhaps too easily—but certainly not by threats! We Germans fear God, but nothing else in the world; and it is precisely this fear of God that leads us to love and cherish peace. But whoever breaks it nonetheless will find that the combative love of country—which in 1813 rallied the entire population of what was then a weak, small, and impoverished Prussia to the banners—is today a common heritage of the entire German nation, and that whoever attacks the German nation in any way will find it united and armed, with every soldier holding this firm belief in his heart: “God will be with us!”

[ 79 ] The German has always sought this God of his in the spiritual realm. The German has attempted—as I already hinted at last time—to create in Goethe the figure of Faust, of whom one cannot say that he is “German” or “French,” “English,” “Russian,” or “American”; but of whom one can say that he is human, and yet can spring only from the German spirit. I have also pointed out how one always becomes German. Right alongside his “Faust,” however, Goethe places the figure of Mephistopheles, the embodiment of evil, above all of untruth. Thus, the German may look within his consciousness at the juxtaposition of Faust and Mephistopheles—and, recognizing his mission in the world as Emerson articulates it, he may emphasize: Within every German, wherever we may seek to carry the German spirit, lies the consciousness expressed in Faust’s words: “To stand on free soil with a free people!” These are words spoken from a spirit that, in reality, seeks to recognize and appreciate every nationality in its true worth and hates none. Thus, the German can also calmly look to one of his last great forefathers, to Bismarck himself, and to the words: “We Germans fear God, but nothing else in the world.” And, listening to this great statesman, he can hear certain words coming from the realm of the spirit that are nonetheless—one need only know Bismarck—genuinely Bismarckian: “It is, of course, beyond doubt that the threats and insults, the challenges that have been directed at us, have also aroused in us a very considerable and justified bitterness, and this is quite difficult for the German, for he is less prone to national hatred than any other nation; but we are striving to allay it, and we still desire peace with our neighbors.” Whoever, therefore, knows the Germans will look deeper if he wishes to find in them what he might despise or hate. Goethe looked; but he did not portray a single human being—instead, alongside Faust, he placed Mephistopheles! Wherever people live—we will seek out their humanity, regardless of their nationality. But we must not be blind to what dwells within people: the spirit of untruth. Precisely in our time, when such harsh and untrue things ring in our ears, we may still say: it is as if we were hearing Bismarck’s words. He always strove not to despise his opponents, but to do them justice—for example, when, living through the war with the French, he pointed out the old French, the refined French character, with which he so enjoyed negotiating. This was also the case during the aforementioned speech, in which he said: “Bravery is, after all, the same among all civilized nations; the Russian and the Frenchman fight just as bravely as the German.” Truly, the German does not seek in others what he might have to hate, reject, or feel antipathy toward. He is intellectually inclined; he seeks the spiritual—just as Goethe, in his *Faust*, sought the spiritual essence of the lie in Mephistopheles. And so, in conclusion, we may well say—as if we were hearing Bismarck himself, whispering to us from the realms of the spirit: When we hear untruths spoken in the West, the Northwest, and the East, we must not allow ourselves to be led into hating and despising individuals or nationalities; for just as it is true that the German, when he rises to his higher self, finds the universal humanity that can be found everywhere on earth where the human face appears, so it is also true that the German must first find the object of his hatred through spiritual contemplation. It is true: just as the German feels united with his God in his innermost, most sacred humanity, so too can he only delve into the deeper roots—all the way to the spiritual—where he hates, where he allows himself to hate. Thus it is true—in a certain sense, profoundly true—that the German fears God, but nothing else in the world. But in the face of everything that resounds against us—I might say, from all directions—the following words may also be coined, words that will prove true once the roots of the German essence are viewed more clearly than they are today:

[ 80 ] The German, at heart, hates no nationality and no person, insofar as they live on the physical plane. The German hates only—if one must speak of it—the spirit of lies and untruth; for he loves and wishes to love the spirit of truth wherever it can be found!