The Rudolf Steiner Archive

7. The Driving Force of the German Spirit

[ 1 ] This evening, as part of this lecture series, I would also like to take a look at the broader context of the German spirit, because it seems to me that in our great, yet also painful and sorrowful times, spiritual scientific reflections carry, in a certain sense, a kind of ethical obligation, and because, furthermore, genuine human feeling yearns to shed light—precisely from the spiritual-scientific perspective—on the horizon of the fateful events within which we find ourselves. This evening, however, the focus will be more on, so to speak, shedding the “light of perception” provided by spiritual science on certain processes in German intellectual life and on the understanding with which this intellectual life is met. Tomorrow, I will then take the liberty of addressing a more specific spiritual scientific topic.

[ 2 ] If one wishes to consider those phenomena in German intellectual life that, particularly in recent times, stand before us as truly expressing the entire character of this intellectual life, one of them is the one that has already been alluded to frequently in these lectures: Herman Grimm, the great German art historian, who viewed art from the deepest sources of what German intellectual life, with all its impulses, had poured into his soul. In one of this winter’s lectures, I took the liberty of calling Herman Grimm, so to speak, “Goethe’s successor in the second half of the nineteenth century.” Just as Goethe, through everything he produced, lived within what—concentrated in Goethe—was contained as the German essence, as the essence of the German national soul, which then poured into the stream of German intellectual life—so, in a certain sense, Herman Grimm is a representative figure of German intellectual life in the second half of the nineteenth century.

[ 3 ] Just under two years before Herman Grimm’s death, essays from the final years of his life were published, to which he gave the collective title “Fragments.” In the preface to these Fragments, he makes an exceptionally characteristic remark. He points out that these individual, sometimes very short essays on various aspects of German or foreign culture stem from his overall intellectual worldview. Furthermore, Herman Grimm mentions that he had intended to compile the lectures he had delivered on this subject over the course of fifty years at the University of Berlin into a book that was to depict the growth and the entire development of the German spirit in an intellectual sense. At the same time, however, he points out that every time he set out to prepare an individual lecture, he found himself compelled to revise what he had previously worked out. And now he says that this would have to happen one last time if these lectures were to be compiled into a book on the entirety of German intellectual life; he does not know whether he would get around to it in his lifetime, for this reworking requires a great deal of effort and time. But—and here comes the defining point—this whole of German intellectual life stands before his soul, and he wants the individual essays he publishes to be understood as if they were selected individual parts of that which stands before his soul as a whole.

[ 4 ] Herman Grimm never got around to writing the book he had hinted at. After all, he died in 1901, less than two years after publishing these “Fragments.” He had actually planned, as early as his youth, to write a comprehensive history of the intellectual development of the European peoples. And when we now consider how he—as he often emphasized—wanted the individual major works he produced to be understood within the context of this comprehensive portrayal of European intellectual life—his major work on Homer, his biographies or monographs on Michelangelo and Raphael, and finally his work on Goethe—when we take this into account, something extraordinarily characteristic becomes apparent. We are actually dealing with something that lived in Herman . . . Grimm’s soul—something that was never truly portrayed by him in the form in which it lived within him, but from which—one might say—every single line he wrote and every single word he spoke in his life sprang forth. And when one now considers the entire manner in which Herman Grimm speaks about art and German cultural life, something else distinctive is added to what has just been said. Herman Grimm always strives to stand up for what he expresses with his whole soul, with his entire undivided personality; and anyone who feels the urge to have all things clearly “proven,” anyone who loves a mode of exposition that proceeds demonstratively from one judgment to the next, will not find what they are looking for in Herman Grimm’s presentation. One might say: Everything he has written springs directly from his entire soul, and one actually has nothing else as proof of the truth other than the feeling that overwhelms one: this man, this personality, has experienced a great deal—in the broadest sense—in relation to the things he describes; and he conveys his experience. Thus, the individual details he describes spring from a whole that, in essence, is not even there.

[ 5 ] What, then, is it that lives on in Herman Grimm? What is it that instills in us the conviction that every individual thing springs from a whole? What do we sense, as it were, as a shadow of the spirit behind all the details that Herman Grimm portrays, which he has given to the world?

[ 6 ] What one senses there, what permeates one as one moves from page to page through his books—I would like to describe it as: it is the driving force of the German spirit—that German spirit which, for those who fully understand it, is not merely some abstract concept that can be summarized with terms and ideas or expressed in mental images, but which is truly felt, like a living being, throughout German history; like a being one senses as if one were conversing in one’s soul with this being and allowing oneself to be inspired by it for every single thing one has to say. So that, fundamentally, as soon as one has such an experience, one needs nothing more than the certainty that this spirit stands behind it as an inspiration—and one has produced something that has its sound, “proven” foundation. This being, of which one can say it is the living German spirit, approaches German development slowly and gradually; yet it enters the consciousness of the finest minds in the most decisive manner.

[ 7 ] We can find this German spirit—this fundamental German spirit—particularly vividly expressed in one remarkable passage. It is found where one of the finest and most insightful Germans, Johann Gottfried Herder, attempted to depict the entire history of humanity in its development. Herder, this great predecessor of Goethe, essentially set out early on to let his gaze wander over the entire development of peoples in order to gain an overall picture of the forces and essences that live within this development of peoples. And what he was then able to achieve as a presentation of his ideas regarding this course of development, he summarized in his *Ideas for a Philosophy of the History of Mankind*. In these “Ideas,” a tableau unfolds before us—a journey through the development of humanity—in such a way that we sense that within all individual phenomena and events there live essences and forces that all have a fully vivid effect on Herder’s soul. Even in his relatively early youth, Herder turned against Voltaire’s approach to history. He could fully acknowledge that Voltaire was one of the most brilliant men; but what he found in Voltaire’s view of history was that this entire perspective ultimately boiled down to a set of ideas that, as it were, prevailed throughout all of history.” In contrast, Herder objected that ideas only ever give rise to more ideas. Herder did not want people to speak only of the “ideas” at work in history. He wanted to speak of what is less abstract, what is more alive and concrete than historical ideas. He wanted to speak of how invisible, living beings stand behind all historical events. For example, he once said something like this: What the external historical events are actually has, in the end, only value for the human observer if one takes into account the spirits and spiritual forces at work behind them, from which what is perceptible through the senses first emerges clearly; for what unfolds externally is merely like a cloud that arises and passes away, behind which, however, lies the entire workings of the spirit that runs through human history—which is what one must contemplate.

[ 8 ] Slowly and gradually, German thought rose to such a grand conception of history. One might say that the seeds of such a conception were already sown in ancient Greece. There we already find echoes of it—a longing to present such a comprehensive picture of human development. Such endeavors, however, then receded; and it was not until later that we find new approaches in this direction emerging, as in Italy in the fifteenth century, as well as in Western Europe, in France, and in England. People began to seek connections in the historical development of humanity. But these connections were understood in a certain materialistic sense. People made the course of history dependent on climate, geographical conditions, and all sorts of other factors. It was only when the German spirit took hold of this comprehensive view of history that—one might say—a truly living spirit entered into it. And in Herder’s soul a vision arose that synthesizes the processes of nature and the human development that crowns these natural processes as the highest achievement. Herder first turned his gaze to how natural beings develop and how the spirit, which operates at a subordinate level in nature, then asserts itself more distinctly in human beings. This spirit, which Herder—consciously, in his view—allows to emerge from the essence of the Universal Divinity, operates in nature, but it also permeates the human soul. And what human beings accomplish in history is, for him, not merely a sum of successive events, but has significance in that human beings themselves continue the coherent plan of the divine spiritual beings on Earth through their actions.

[ 9 ] There is greatness in Herder’s description of human beings as “helpers of the Deity” in their earthly work. Here again we find something of the ideas, sensibilities, and feelings of German mysticism, which seeks God acting directly within the human soul itself. Herder seeks God in history, as God manifests Himself in the events that unfold in historical development. God Himself brings about historical development; and human beings, insofar as they are imbued with God, are God’s helpers. For Herder, the entire natural world is established first, then the human realm, and upon that, the realm of higher spirits; and he makes the significant statement: “Man is an intermediate creature between animal and angel.” Herder thus situates man within the overall development in such a way that man appears as a direct expression, as a revelation of the divine spirit. And when one examines Herder—who was not a systematic philosopher and was far from seeking to construct any abstract ideas—and investigates how he came to devise, with unspeakable diligence and truly ingenious insight, an overarching picture of evolution through which human actions can be synthesized with the workings of nature, one must say: It is a divine power that animates Herder himself. He is aware that the divine forces at work in history live within him. It is the sustaining power of the German spirit within Herder that sketches out a comprehensive picture of human development as well as the development of nature.

[ 10 ] “Development” has, after all, become the magic word that seems so significant to the worldview of our day. In those days when Herder lived, when Goethe spent his youth striving, through Herder and others, to ascend to the worldview sustained by the German spirit—it was then that the idea, the concept of “development,” entered German intellectual life. This idea of “development” was infinitely deeper than the way it is understood by the materialistic worldview. For in what is regarded as “developing,” the German spirit saw the spirit at work; and in every single product of nature, insofar as development is concerned, it saw the spirit as the architect, the bearer, and the agent of development. Consequently, it was able to introduce the idea—which reveals the spirit as evolving in the process of becoming human—fruitfully, above all, into the history of ideas and into the entire history of evolution.

[ 11 ] And standing alongside Herder as one of the great guides in intellectual life is Winckelmann, who was the first to steer art history into that current which can be called: a historical-developmental worldview carried by the German spirit. Goethe says of Winckelmann, the first German art critic: “Winckelmann, a second Columbus, discovered the development and destiny of art, bound as it is to the general laws of development, keeping pace in its rise and fall with the culture and fortunes of the people.”

[ 12 ] Thus we see how, through these thinkers—as was already the case with Lessing—the Spirit is perceived in all becoming as the true bearer, as the true substance of development. And this worldview leads directly to a sense of being sustained by the spirit, to being carried by the spirit. This, in turn, fills the soul with confidence and inner strength. One might say: in all of this there was already a premonition that this German spirit, with all its idealism, contains the seeds of a truly scientific, spiritual worldview toward which humanity must strive. For when one considers that spiritual science strives for a knowledge of the world achieved by the soul developing its inner powers, which slumber in its depths, so that it comes to see—with the organs of the spirit or, to use Goethe’s words, with the eyes and ears of the spirit—what works and weaves invisibly behind the visible, — when one considers this and then recalls a certain statement by Herder, a sense of confidence fills the soul: humanity will one day share in this spiritual view of the world. For how beautifully Herder’s words ring out: “The human race will not perish until the genius of the Enlightenment has permeated the earth.” Herder’s gaze was constantly directed toward the intimate weaving and essence of the spiritual that reigns within all that is sensory. Herder regards every human being—not merely the great historical figures—in such a way that thoughts are not merely thoughts grasped by our brains, but something living, substantial, and weaving. And when such thoughts are capable of being seized by the spirit of the age and incorporated into the flow of events, Herder speaks of those individuals who, through such thoughts, exert a formative influence on an entire era: Often these—the geniuses—live and work in the utmost silence; but a single thought of theirs, grasped by the spirit of the times, brings a whole chaos of things into harmony and order.

[ 13 ] When one considers these things, one can never say that they sprang from merely abstract philosophical reflection; for they do not stand in isolation as the impressions of a single personality, but rather stand there as if organically connected to the continuous flow of German intellectual life—and always in such a way that one must regard the personalities who express them, and who thereby reveal their convictions, as inspired by the sustaining force of the German spirit. And this sustaining force of the German spirit is surely deeply felt, even in the present day, by those who have a sense of it. What is felt as this sustaining force of the German spirit is not merely absorbed into abstract philosophy; it is absorbed into the deepest feelings of the soul.

[ 14 ] For example, when Paz! de Lagarde—who died in 1891 and was yet another of the most German of minds—once said the following—which is quite characteristic of his entire attitude toward this driving force of the German spirit: “Once, a relative of a friend whom I had accompanied to his grave asked me to deliver the eulogy—and to do so only after we had reached the cemetery.” Apparently, Lagarde then spoke of what connects the human soul to the eternal, to the spiritual—that which passes through the gate of death as a living entity—for he goes on to say: “Now I actually felt ashamed. What was I, really? What am I, really, that I should presume to speak of what pertains to the eternal and the spiritual? I was ashamed, but I found that what I had said fell on fertile ground in the minds of those who had accompanied the deceased to his grave.” And now Lagarde says, drawing the practical conclusion, as it were: “So it is with the German when he speaks of love of country: he feels that this speaking of love of country is, at its core, such an intimate, sacred matter that he feels ashamed to speak of it; but he also feels that if he speaks of it, it may find a receptive audience.”

[ 15 ] One need only bring to mind a saying such as this, which truly characterizes the German spirit in the most eminent sense, and one can deduce from it how the German, when he truly feels at home within the German national character, must conceive of and feel his relationship to his national spirit—in which, for him, the divine spirituality of the world as a whole finds expression—and how he perceives it as a living being to which he approaches—even with full awareness—only with reverence. Lagarde is one who, in the second half of the nineteenth century, spoke at length about Germanness—drawing on deep scholarship but also on a profound, soulful sensibility—about the sources of Germanness and its prospects. He is one of those who never tire of pointing out, time and again, that the essence of Germanness lies in the spiritual, in that which, as the spirit common to all, runs through the entire course of German development. Anyone who wishes to grasp the essence of Germanness at its root is not satisfied with what a materialistic view of national identity designates as “blood” or “race.” Lagarde was not satisfied with this; for he felt that the essence of Germanness can be expressed only through spiritual ideas and spiritual sentiments. Thus Lagarde says: “German-ness lies not in the blood, but in the spirit. Among our great men, Leibniz and Lessing are certainly Slavs; Handel, as the son of a Halloren, is a Celt; Kant’s father was a Scot—and yet, who would reproach them for being un-German?” — What Lagarde, one of the most German of Germans, seeks as the German essence is the sustaining force of the German spirit, into which anyone who knows how to feel and realize the German essence within themselves can immerse themselves. Time and time again, the finest Germans never tire of explaining how the essence of the German can be expressed and revealed only through the spiritual.

[ 16 ] When one engages in such reflections, the German spirit becomes an ever more concrete, ever more real entity. One feels it flowing through the current of German life, especially through the current of German intellectual life; and one then understands how, in the course of his development, the German felt the need to enrich his own being in the present more and more with what, in earlier times, the German spirit had already allowed to flow from its sources into German folk culture.

[ 17 ] Thus we find how, drawing on Goethe, the German Romantics—as it were, renewing the ancient German spirit—delved not only into folk songs but into the entire German intellectual tradition, in order to absorb it and bring it to life in their souls, thereby allowing that which is inherent to German culture as a whole to take effect within their own souls. And then we see again how German development, in the Brothers Grimm, draws inspiration from what the German spirit produced in ancient times. We see how the Brothers Grimm went down among the people and had them tell the old fairy tales so they could collect them. And what lies within this collection of German fairy tales, which truly convey such a hundredfold variety of impressions, drawn directly from the folk spirit? Nothing else lies within them but the sustaining power of the German spirit!

[ 18 ] And how does this sustaining force of the German spirit continue to exert its influence?

[ 19 ] We have seen this particularly evident in the work of the aforementioned Herman Grimm. Often, when one allows Herman Grimm’s refined, elegant, and comprehensive characterizations of art to take effect on the soul—especially when one visualizes in one’s mind’s eye certain exceptionally intimate subtleties found in these writings—one must ask oneself: How did this individual manage to make his soul so elastic, so supple, that it could plunge into the deepest mysteries of artistic activity and artistic creation? And I believe there can be no other answer than that which follows from the evidence of how Herman Grimm expressed himself poetically and artistically before he turned to the contemplation of the art of humanity. For this mode of expression is particularly characteristic of the driving force of the German spirit. I would like to point out just a few things.

[ 20 ] Right at the beginning of the volume *Novellen*, which brings together the stories and poems of Herman Grimm, we find one titled “The Singer”; a story that, as is customary in the novella form, focuses solely on those events that unfold before people’s eyes—events that can be immediately grasped by the imagination bound to the body. Herman Grimm first masterfully depicts what takes place in the external world: he portrays a female character who is deeply attracted to a male character; but because of her disposition and her entire nature, this female character repels the male one. To go into the details would be going too far here. It thus comes to pass that the male character commits suicide. The female character is left behind. And now, following the death of the man who loved her, she feels not merely pain and sorrow; no, something intervenes in her inner life that is of a directly supersensible nature. She spends the night at a friend’s house—the very friend at whose home her lover’s suicide had taken place. She feels unsettled. At first, she does not suspect the reason for this. But then she says she cannot sleep alone in the room; the friend should watch over her. And as he watches over her, it becomes clear that she is having a vision, which the poet clearly intends to convey as more than a mere flight of fancy. The spectral form of the deceased enters through the bedroom door. And if one investigates what Herman Grimm actually intends to convey with this apparition, it is that he wishes to say: What takes place here before the earthly eyes of human beings does not exhaust the entire event; rather, spiritual factors and spiritual beings intervene in physical events; and when death has occurred, what has passed through the gate of death is present in the spiritual world and active for those who are receptive to it.

[ 21 ] Herman Grimm is thus a short-story writer who allows the spiritual world to shine directly into his narrative and artistic portrayal. It has often been explained here in these lectures what it actually is that appears to this bereaved lover. It is what might be called the etheric body of the deceased in question, which can manifest itself in the form of the deceased to those who are receptive to it. However, not all people are receptive to this.

[ 22 ] Herman Grimm also wrote a novel, *Unüberwindliche Mächte* (*Invincible Forces*), which is of great significance as a cultural-historical novel and in the intellectual history of humanity in general, but which, unfortunately, has received far too little attention. Here, too, the lover dies for the sake of his beloved. And as she seeks healing in a place in the south, she wastes away more and more in the memory of her beloved and ultimately dies. Herman Grimm describes her death in the final chapter of *Unüberwindliche Mächte* in a truly unique way. He describes how a spiritual form rises from her body and hastens toward her beloved. Once again, Herman Grimm does not conclude the narrative with the events visible on earth, but rather brings together what is outwardly visible to the senses and to the intellect with the supernatural, which continues beyond death.

[ 23 ] I would not cite such examples if they did not correspond entirely to what spiritual science has to say about these matters. Of course, one cannot cite artists as evidence for spiritual science. But if one cites such examples as evidence of what spiritual science has to offer humanity, it can be done insofar as the emerging spiritual science is embodied in a spirit such as that of Herman Grimm, who was artistically active in the second half of the nineteenth century. Although he is not yet in a position to articulate spiritual science as such, he portrays things artistically in such a way that one perceives: spiritual science seeks to make its entry into the spiritual culture of humanity out of the sustaining power of the German spirit.

[ 24 ] Herman Grimm—as is evident from his entire literary oeuvre—never really wanted to admit to himself what actually motivated him to produce such depictions. He had a certain reluctance to translate these things—which he wished to approach only in the most intimate, artistic, and spiritual way—into ordinary concepts. But if he was not able to approach these things in the way that spiritual science can speak of them today, and yet he portrayed them appropriately—one might say “expertly”—what was it, then, that lived within him? The sustaining power of the German spirit—that was his source of inspiration! And so we find this German spirit, with its sustaining power, to be a very real entity, and we must direct our spiritual gaze toward it if we wish to come to know the German essence at all.

[ 25 ] Goethe once uttered a very significant remark that ought to be taken into account when discussing the relationship between the German spirit and the individual German, when discussing how the German essence lives directly within German lands—one might say—lives before people’s eyes, when their gaze is fixed on certain personalities and certain people within German lands. In a private conversation in recent years, Goethe said to his secretary Eckermann: “My works cannot become popular; anyone who thinks so and strives for that is mistaken. They are not written for the masses, but only for individual people who want and seek something similar and who are thinking along similar lines.”

[ 26 ] This is a significant statement. One might say: it lies in the very essence of Germanness—to use Fichte’s term—to truly perceive the German spirit as a living entity and to still experience the totality of the German essence, the unity of the German spirit, as something distinct alongside that which manifests itself externally as German life. The totality of the German essence is therefore no less real; it can, at least, exist for everyone. Hence the German’s urge to view the individual phenomena of the world in the context of the entire development of the world and humanity. After all, in the second half of the nineteenth century, we had a poet living within the German regions of Austria who—one might say—traveled the entire world in order to understand the individual human being within the collective spirit by drawing upon the most diverse cultural spirits. I am referring to Robert Hamerling, who in his poem “Aspasia” attempts to let the collective Greek spirit speak through the individual human being; who then attempts to portray the immediately personal German essence in his *King of Zion*; who further attempts to express the true spirit of the French Revolution in his drama *Danton and Robespierre*; and who, finally, seeks to render the spirit of our time in his *Homunculus* in a grandiose and comprehensive poetic work. Hamerling’s constant need is to portray the individual human being in connection with that which, as spiritual weaving and becoming and as a sum of spiritual entities, animates and permeates the flow of human events. This view of a whole—of a living spiritual reality that transcends individual phenomena—permeates German intellectual work precisely where it manifests in its most intense forms.

[ 27 ] That is why it is so incredibly difficult for someone who—one might say—can see no further than a few meters beyond the tip of his nose and considers whatever constitutes “Germanness” within a limited sphere; for one can only grasp it by truly contemplating the connection between the German soul and the spiritual beings that weave through the world and reveal themselves in the German spirit. And this, along with much of what has already been mentioned in these lectures, is the reason why this German spirit—why this fundamental German spirit—can be so misunderstood, why it is now so reviled and so vilified. One must ask oneself: How does this German spiritual life relate to the spiritual life of other peoples?

[ 28 ] Today, using a characteristic example—and building specifically on a recent occasion—I would like to discuss how difficult it is for a German who feels connected to the German spirit to make himself fully understood when he seeks to apply what he perceives from that spirit to a single phenomenon. There has been much talk recently that French intellectual life—which had grown old and somewhat decadent—has undergone a sort of rejuvenation, and that there are young French people who no longer go along with official French ideology. And in many circles—which, one hopes, this war will open the eyes of more than they were open before—people had begun to see in this “young French spirit” something that would now understand the German spirit much better than official Paris and official French culture. Attention had been drawn to characteristic phenomena within this “young French spirit.” Indeed, there is much to be found there that—one might say—is quite significant. There are young French intellectual movements that are dissatisfied with France as it is officially defined—which, however, is the France that is currently at war with Germany.

[ 29 ] What do these young French people say? — I would like to give just a brief example by quoting what Leon Bazalgette said:

[ 30 ] “One of the joys that nationalist campaign booths bring us lies in the wonderful openness that is heightened by the young and old supporters who crowd around them. An openness that encourages our own and demands some appropriate responses from us, the spectators.

[ 31 ] Just look how they swell with satisfaction when they utter the words: “French Renaissance” (three years old—they proclaim—the child is chubby-cheeked and is already playing with little soldiers), “Awakening of National Pride,”

[ 32 ] These are the men who wish to divert all the creative energies of a people in order to channel them into enthusiasm for that virtue which is still unknown: hatred. In an age when the whole world is abuzz with activity, ambitious endeavors, dreams, and new aspirations that transcend borders, their sole purpose and pursuit—of which they are proud—is to settle an old neighborhood feud with fists. Oh, poor conceited fools, who are incapable of conjuring up any forms of heroism other than “revenge.” Poor little fools of passion, who harbor no more suitable desires to satisfy your ravenous hunger for action...

[ 33 ] ... In the name of what great idea—one of those ideas for which, throughout history, almost no one has hesitated to give their life—would we wage war against Germany? Is our freedom at stake, perhaps? Do we live under the yoke, or are we threatened by it? Are we dealing with countries that need to be “civilized” through annexation, or with peoples who must be rescued from slavery? No, it is solely an attempt to reconquer territories that once belonged to us and that we lost in a war—territories, a good half of which are no more French than they are German...; and even less is it about the reconquest of these territories per se than about satisfying an old thirst for revenge. That is the “idea in whose name this country, which is only too happy to claim the title of ‘champion of noble causes’ (familiar tune), would start a war.”

[ 34 ] One was—one might say—somewhat moved in certain circles by some of the voices coming from the young Frenchmen, those young Frenchmen who were said to want to establish a new France. And one of those whom certain Germans before the war particularly counted among these young Frenchmen who would bring forth a new France is Romain Rolland, who wrote a great novel—“great” in the sense of its length, for it consists of many volumes. It is interesting, first of all, to take a look at how, in certain circles here—even if those circles were perhaps still rather small—people viewed this very novel by Romain Rolland.

[ 35 ] One critic could not resist saying that this novel, *Jean Christophe*—whose German name is Johann Christof Kraft—is the most significant contribution to the reconciliation between Germany and France since 1871. In fact, there were quite a few who said: Look at this novel, *Jean Christophe*, and see how one of those young Frenchmen views German culture with love—with deep, heartfelt love—and how he belongs to those who will make it impossible for these two nations to live in discord in the future.

[ 36 ] Not only has this turned out to be a false hope, but there is something else as well: Romain Rolland is among those who, along with Maeterlinck, Verhaeren, and others, spoke out in a rather unmodest manner about Germany and the German character as soon as the war began. Now, however, it is interesting to take a closer look at how this man, Romain Rolland—about whom so many of us said that he could understand the German character so well, that he had truly grasped, from the innermost core of the German national soul and the German spirit, that which is the sustaining force of the German spirit—how this man understood the German character. I am well aware that it is not only the French who will find something “barbaric”—a word that is, after all, in common use today—in what I am about to say; but I am well aware that I am not offending any true aesthetic sensibilities by saying what I must say, uninfluenced by the various judgments that have been passed on this novel precisely in the direction I have indicated.

[ 37 ] What particularly captivated people is that the French author portrays a German, Johann Christof Kraft, who has outgrown his German nature—we will see how in a moment—and who, after spending his youth in Germany, goes to France to find his further development there. This is seen as a very special bridge spanning the contrast between the German and French characters. — Now, in order to fully understand what needs to be said, we must first bring the basic framework of this *Jean Christophe* to mind.

[ 38 ] I am well aware of the standing enjoyed by the critics who have expressed their opinions on this novel: the character of Jean Christophe is said to be one taken directly from life; not a single trait—so it seems—could be any different in this portrayal. But I must say: This Jean Christophe strikes me as a rather indigestible stew, his character a rather discordant amalgam of traits from the young Beethoven, Wagner, Richard Strauss, and Karl Marx. May the admirers of Jean Christophe forgive me, but that is the impression I have. This Jean Christophe grows up—he is merely transposed into the present—in much the same way that Beethoven grew up. One recognizes all the traits of the young Beethoven—but distorted into a caricature—down to the smallest details, yet in such a way that the life of the young Beethoven appears everywhere as a magnificent work of art, whereas the life of Jean Christophe appears as a caricature. Now, it is certainly not the poet’s task, when he alludes to historical events, to remain faithful to those events. I can raise against myself all the objections that critics might make in this regard; nevertheless, I must say this: Jean Christophe grows up in an environment that—in the view of many people—portrays the German spirit. We are introduced to his grandfather, grandmother, uncle, and others who are his friends. He grows up in such a way that the German character from which he emerges is perceived as the greatest obstacle to his developing genius. The German character is, for example, portrayed as follows. Like Beethoven, the young Jean Christophe is a sort of precocious composer; he is already writing compositions at a young age. His father, who is a drunkard, feels compelled to showcase this precocious talent to the world. This father is a secretary, a servant to a minor German prince. The particular “Germanness” of this father is depicted in cultural-historical terms by the fact that, when planning a concert featuring the young Jean-Christophe—who is seven or eight years old—at which the prince is also to be present, he ponders how to dress the boy. Finally, he comes up with a very clever idea; this is depicted from the perspective of the “cultural-historical idea of genuine, true Germanness”: He has him put on long pants and a tailcoat, along with a white sash, so that the boy looks like a little eight-year-old man. I won’t go into detail here—as that would take us too far afield—about how this German endeavor plays out later. Nor do I want to describe in detail how he feels revulsion toward everything the entire German environment has to offer—this environment that is marked by “love”—in the view of some people—and is supposed to present a faithful picture of the German character. But when he can no longer bear to be in this environment, he feels compelled—as the book puts it—to draw inspiration from the Latin spirit. So he goes to Paris. There he finds a friend who, in many ways, is a clear reflection of Romain Rolland himself. This is the one who expresses what the young, reborn French spirit promises for the future; it is he who instills some order in the mind of this confused soul, this puppet welded together from the young Beethoven, Wagner, Richard Strauss, and others. This is the “love” with which a German character, Jean Christophe, is imbued, according to certain people. Jean Christophe then goes through various experiences in Paris—we now notice some traits of Richard Wagner—and when he loses his friend, he turns further south, undergoing experiences that border on the criminal, even leading him to attempt suicide, which ultimately fails. And now that this Jean Christophe—who was unable to flourish in his German environment—has been shaped by a Latin sensibility, he finds himself, as it were, in a lonely old village; he conquers his own spirit. Eternity dawns upon him.

[ 39 ] Now let us simply allow a few examples of this truly affectionate immersion in the German spirit—taken from the novel—to sink in. For example, there is the characterization of the father, who is modeled after Beethoven’s father, Melchior. I am, of course, aware that someone might say: You are taking words out of a novel that do not necessarily reflect the author’s actual opinion. Yet the artistic composition of this novel does not at all correspond to what Schiller had already demanded in the beautiful words he wrote about *Wilhelm Meister*, and to what truly belongs to the artistic composition of a novel. When Goethe was criticized for the fact that certain traits of the characters in his novel did not appear entirely moral, Schiller said: “If people can prove to you that the immoral elements come from your own soul, then you have made an aesthetic mistake; but if they come from the characters, then you are justified in every respect.” — This golden rule of art is also something that has since become part of the driving force of the German spirit. The finest works of art we find in Germany are truly written under the influence of this Schiller-Goethean mindset. With Romain Rolland, however, one continually encounters—almost on every third page—passages in which it is evident that it is the author speaking, and not the characters. Therefore, in this case, it is merely an excuse to object that one should not consider what the author occasionally says—one cannot even say that the characters say it—but rather what the author says in the character descriptions, to be characteristic of the way the author has immersed himself in the German spirit. The father, Melchior, for example, is portrayed in the following manner:

[ 40 ] “He was a smooth talker, well-built, though a bit clumsy, and the epitome of what is considered classical beauty in Germany: a broad, expressionless forehead, strong, regular features, and a curly beard—a Jupiter from the banks of the Rhine.”

[ 41 ] Next, a description of Melchior’s friends, as they gathered at their father’s house and played and sang together there:

[ 42 ] “At times they would sing together in a four-part men’s choir one of those German songs which, one after another, move along ponderously—in a manner of speaking, on all fours—with solemn simplicity and in simple harmonies.”

[ 43 ] What a loving portrayal of the German character! I mention this merely as an example. Then there is a character named Uncle Theodor in the novel—who is, in fact, the grandfather’s stepson—and he is described in the following manner. I have no objection to individual characters being portrayed in this way; my objection is solely to the idea that this portrayal is meant to be a cultural portrait of the German character—for it is clear that Romain Rolland constantly weaves in whatever strikes his fancy so that he can say it about the German character. Of this Uncle Theodor, it is said:

[ 44 ] “He was a partner in a large trading firm that maintained business ties with Africa and the Far East. He epitomized the very type of those “new-style” Germans who take a particular delight in mockingly spurning the old idealism of their race and, intoxicated by victory, vigorously and successfully cultivate a culture that proves they are not accustomed to living under that banner. But since it is impossible to suddenly change the centuries-old nature of a people, the repressed idealism repeatedly resurfaced in their language, their behavior, their moral views, and in their quotations from Goethe on the occasion of even the most trivial domestic events; and so, through the bizarre effort to reconcile the honorable principles of the old German bourgeoisie with the cynicism of these new shop-front condottieri, a strange mixture of conscientiousness and self-interest arose—a mixture that carries a rather repulsive stench of hypocrisy—which amounts to fashioning, out of German strength, greed, and self-interest, the symbol of all that is right, all justice, and all truth.”

[ 45 ] What a lovely description! The young noblewoman with whom Jean Christophe falls in love is portrayed as a typical young German girl. Her name is Minna:

[ 46 ] “Incidentally, despite all her sentimentality and romanticism, Minna was calm and reserved. Despite her aristocratic name and the pride that the little word ‘von’ instilled in her, she had the disposition of a simple German housewife—” and then it continues:

[ 47 ] “Minna, this naïve and sensual little German girl, knew some strange games.”

[ 48 ] And to explain, from a cultural-historical perspective, what is said to be particularly characteristic of the German character, it is pointed out that they also understood this: spreading flour on the table and placing certain objects in it, which one then had to find with one’s mouth.

[ 49 ] Now it remains to be shown why the German character becomes so unbearable for Christof; and once again, one can only say: the author is itching to express his own feelings about the Germans. The aim is to depict the insincerity, the self-righteousness in German idealism—that idealism which Romain Rolland believes was invented solely because people find the truth uncomfortable and therefore turn to the ideal; they lie about the truth and call it idealism. Thus, the Germans are said to have the trait of not looking at people calmly, but rather “idealizing” them, lying their way past their true characteristics. Christof had also adopted this trait, but it had become increasingly repulsive to him:

[ 50 ] “Now that he had convinced himself that they”—certain people—“were exceptional and ought to appeal to him, he, as a true German, made every effort to believe that he truly did find them appealing. But he did not succeed at all: he lacked that compliant Germanic idealism that refuses to see—and indeed does not see—what would be embarrassing for him to discover, for fear of disturbing the comfortable tranquility of his judgment and the ease of his life.” “German idealism”—invented for the very reason of not disturbing the ease of life! Now the novel turns to a young girl—with whom Jean Christophe, of course, also falls in love—an archetype of ugliness, “little Rosa.” One can literally feel, through the novel, how her nose barely sits right on her face, and other such things; yet this is what is said about her in a loving cultural description:

[ 51 ] “The Germans are remarkably forgiving when it comes to physical imperfections: they manage not to notice them; they can even go so far as to embellish them with benevolent imagination by discovering unexpected connections between the face they wish to see and the most magnificent examples of human beauty. It would not have taken much persuasion to induce old Euler”—Rosa’s grandfather—“to declare that his granddaughter had the nose of Juno Ludovisi.”

[ 52 ] But after he had thus tested the fallacy of German idealism on himself—something we have seen time and again with well-known “geniuses”; though it was not previously believed that “idealizing” people was a characteristic of the German nature or a distinctive trait of the Germans—he now comes to the conclusion that, fundamentally, all German musicians have a flaw, that something is amiss somewhere; this, too, is connected to German idealism! And now he concludes that Schumann must be more significant than all the others. To illustrate this point, a few words about Schumann:

[ 53 ] “But it was precisely his example that led Christophe to realize that the worst falsehood in German art did not lie in the artists’ attempts to express feelings they did not actually feel, but rather in their expression of feelings they did feel—feelings that were, however, inherently false. Music is a relentless mirror of the soul. The more naive and trusting a German musician is, the more he reveals the weaknesses of the German soul—its uncertain foundation, its soft sentimentality, its lack of candor, its somewhat insincere idealism, and its inability to see itself, to dare to look itself in the face.”

[ 54 ] Well, since he is, after all, nothing more than a reincarnated Beethoven—who, of course, lives after Wagner—and is supposed to become a genius the likes of which the world has never seen, he must naturally extend his anger to Wagner as well. And so all sorts of affectionate remarks—one really cannot say that they are put into Johann Christof’s mouth, which would be forgivable—are instead always expressed in such a way that they detach themselves from the person of Johann Christof and become something that takes on the author’s own distinct character. Thus, with regard to *Lohengrin* and *Siegfried*, the following is said about Richard Wagner:

[ 55 ] “Germany took delight in this art that was at once elderly and childlike, this art of unrestrained beasts and mystically chattering little girls.”

[ 56 ] Well, I would say that the German character is portrayed even more thoroughly and in such a loving way. Here is a sample:

[ 57 ] “Especially since the German victories, they did everything they could to reach compromises, to bring about a repulsive hodgepodge of new power and old principles. They did not want to give up their old idealism: that would have been an act of boldness of which they were incapable; instead, in order to make it subservient to German interests, they had contented themselves with distorting it. They followed the example of Hegel, the cheerfully duplicitous Swabian who had waited for Leipzig and Waterloo to adapt the fundamental ideas of his philosophy to the Prussian state,” — it may perhaps be said, after all, that Hegel’s seminal work, *The Phenomenology of Spirit*—though Romain Rolland probably understands very little of it when he says that Hegel’s philosophy emerged after Leipzig and Waterloo—was written amid the thunder of cannon fire at the Battle of Jena, that is, in 1806, and already contains the entirety of Hegel’s philosophy—

[ 58 ] “And now, since interests had changed, it also changed its principles. When Germany was defeated, it was said that Germany’s ideal was humanity. Now that they were defeating the others, they claimed that Germany was the ideal of humanity. As long as other countries were the more powerful ones, they said, echoing Lessing, that patriotism was a heroic weakness that one could very well do without, and they called themselves citizens of the world. Now that they had emerged victorious, they could not muster enough contempt for the “French” utopias—such as world peace, brotherhood, peaceful progress, human rights, and natural equality; they said that the strongest nation had an absolute right over the others, while the others, as the weaker ones, had no rights in relation to it. It seemed to be the living God and the Spirit incarnate, whose progress was achieved through war, violence, and oppression. Power, now that it was on their side, had been sanctified. Power had now become the very embodiment of all idealism and all reason. To give truth its due, one must say that for centuries Germany...”

[ 59 ] That is perhaps the only thing people look for in Germany—the desire to do justice to the truth! — “It had suffered so greatly from possessing idealism without power that, after so many trials, it was quite excusable if it now made the sad confession that it needed, above all, power, whatever form that might take. But how much hidden bitterness lay in such a confession by the people of Herder and Goethe! And what a renunciation, what a humiliation of the German ideal lay in this German victory! — And, alas, this renunciation found all too much willingness on the part of all the best Germans, who had a lamentable tendency to submit.

[ 60 ] “What characterizes the Germans,” Möser said more than a century ago, “is obedience.”

[ 61 ] And Madame von Staël:

[ 62 ] “You parry neatly. You resort to philosophical reasoning to explain the most unphilosophical thing in the world: respect for power and the habituation to fear, which transforms respect into admiration.” Christof found this sentiment reflected in everyone in Germany, from the greatest to the least—starting with Wilhelm Tell, the deliberate, small-minded philistine with the muscles of a porter, who, as the free Jew Börne says, in order to reconcile honor and fear, with his eyes downcast, so that he could claim that one who did not see the hat was not disobedient— “all the way up to the honorable seventy-year-old Professor Weiße, one of the city’s most respected scholars, who, when a lieutenant passed him, hastily yielded the sidewalk to him and stepped down onto the road.”

[ 63 ] It goes on to say:

[ 64 ] “Incidentally, Germany did indeed bear the heaviest burden of sin in Europe. Once victory has been won, one is responsible for it; one has become indebted to the vanquished. One tacitly assumes the obligation to lead the way for them, to show them the path. The victorious Louis XIV brought the splendor of French reason to Europe. What light did the Germany of Sedan bring to the world?” —

[ 65 ] So this, then, is the affectionate portrayal. But I must not forget anything, and—so as not to be unfair—I must not fail to mention that there is, after all, one passage in this novel where a loving portrayal of the German character shines through clearly and distinctly. This occurs when a German professor in a small town—whose name, of course, is “Schulz”—becomes enthusiastic about the early works of Johann Christof, which are misunderstood by everyone else. Johann Christof has the opportunity one day to visit the old professor. Two other acquaintances happen to drop by as well, and then—in addition to Johann Christof performing his works to the delight of the three—there is a feast, a huge luncheon. During the meal, Salome (!), the cook of the old professor, who has long been a widower, takes particular delight in seeing how everyone is able to eat. And a piece of the German spirit is now portrayed in a manner that is truly “culturally and historically accurate” and “affectionate.”

[ 66 ] Salome peered through the crack in the door to see how those inside were enjoying a bit of German culture; and as for what she saw, it is said:

[ 67 ] “It was like an exhibition of unforgettable, honest, authentic German cuisine with its aromas of all kinds of herbs, its thick sauces, its hearty soups, its exemplary meat dishes, its monumental carp, its sauerkraut, its geese, its homemade cakes, and its anise and caraway breads.”

[ 68 ] It is no surprise that Johann Christof, after going through all of this, “wants to get out” of this environment, since his genius simply cannot flourish in this milieu. But this Johann Christof actually knows nothing about France. He is completely uneducated—merely a great musician. But since he knows nothing, his departure for France is characterized as follows:

[ 69 ] “Instinctively (since he did not know France!), however, his eyes turned toward the Latin South. And first and foremost toward France. Toward France, the eternal refuge from German turmoil.”

[ 70 ] In France, he meets his friend Olivier. Olivier enlightens him about the “young French movement.” And perhaps that is what has so delighted people on this side of the Rhine—what these young Frenchmen say about the Germans. Olivier informs Johann Christof about the distinctive views of the young French generation regarding the nature of official Paris and about the very things he used to criticize just as vehemently as the others:

[ 71 ] “The best among us are locked away, prisoners on our own soil... No one will ever know what we have suffered—we who are devoted to the genius of our race, who preserve the light we received from it as a sacred trust and desperately defend it against the hostile breath that seeks to extinguish it; and in doing so we stand alone, feeling all around us the foul air of those metics who, like a swarm of mosquitoes, have descended upon our thoughts, and whose repulsive larvae gnaw at our reason and defile our hearts; we have been betrayed by those whose mission it should be to defend us—our superiors, our stupid or cowardly critics; they fawn over the enemy to secure forgiveness for being of our own kind; we are abandoned by our people, who do not care about us, who do not even know us... What means do we have to make ourselves understood to them? We cannot reach them... And that is the hardest part. We know that there are thousands of us in France who think the same way; we know that we speak on their behalf, and we can do nothing to be heard! The enemy controls everything: newspapers, magazines, theaters… The press shuns every idea or allows it only if it serves as an instrument of entertainment or a partisan weapon. Intrigues and literary cliques leave the way open only to those who sell themselves out. Misery and overwork are crushing us to the ground. The politicians, whose sole concern is to enrich themselves, are interested only in the proletariat that can be bought. The indifferent and self-serving middle class stands by and watches us die. Our people do not know us; even those who fight alongside us, who like us are shrouded in silence, know nothing of our existence, and we know nothing of theirs... Wretched Paris! Certainly, it has also done good by organizing all the forces of French thought into groups. But the evil it has created is at least equal to the good; and the good itself, in an era such as ours, turns into evil. It is enough for a pseudo-elite to seize Paris and ring the immense bell of public opinion to stifle the voice of the rest of France. Far more than that: France is confusing itself; it remains silent in dismay and anxiously withdraws its thoughts into itself... I used to suffer greatly from all of this. But now, Christof, I am at peace. I have come to understand my strength—and the strength of my people. We need only wait until the floodwaters recede. They will not erode France’s fine granite. Beneath the mud they carry with them, I want you to feel it. And already, here and there, high peaks are emerging...”

[ 72 ] That is really all it takes to characterize the French spirit that is now waging war against Germany. But now—I would say—there is something even more beautiful. This novel has been published. It has also been translated into German. I would now like to read you a few words from a German critic of this novel, which were addressed to Romain Rolland in the form of a letter printed in a Berlin newspaper.

[ 73 ] “For me, the completion of your *Jean Christo* is even more of an ethical event than a literary one... Gobineau, Maeterlinck, Verhaeren, and even Verlaine have enjoyed their living fame and exerted their true influence more in Germany than in France, and nothing would be more fitting than for you, too, to be fully appreciated here before you are in your homeland, for your book belongs in Germany—the land of music—more than any other. In many ways, it is a German book, a coming-of-age novel like *Green Henry* and *Wilhelm Meisten*... German music, which has won the world for Germany, has also chosen you as its advocate; it was German music that led you to the German language and made you love Goethe, to whom you have erected many monuments of love and reverence in your work...

[ 74 ] I find myself at a loss as to just how many times I ought to thank you. The man, the connoisseur, the artist, the German, and the world-lover within me—each one is pushing forward, eager to say a word to you. But let the artist speak about this novel another time, let the connoisseur speak another time, and let the human being wait until he may shake your hand again. Today, let only the German express his gratitude; for I have the feeling that French youth has drawn closer to us through this book, which has done more than all the diplomats, banquets, and associations combined.”

[ 75 ] This serves, above all, as an example of how the driving force of the German spirit can be misunderstood, and how the painfully significant events we are forced to endure must serve as an eye-opener in many ways—truly, they must serve as an eye-opener. And please forgive me if, at the very end, I bring up something that may seem personal, but which is only connected to the personal because I have just experienced it today.

[ 76 ] The spiritual scientific movement to which we belong had, years ago, a certain relationship with a theosophical movement based in England and India. This movement gradually became so absurd that it was no longer compatible with a genuine sense of truth to have any association with much of this Anglo-Indian theosophical movement. Many years before this war, therefore, we made a complete break with it. At that time, we were reviled—and perhaps even more strongly—by German followers of that movement in particular; one might even use stronger words. But one would have thought that the matter was now over and that there was no particular reason to revisit it at this very moment. However, the president of this Anglo-Indian movement has seen fit to revisit this matter precisely now and to characterize us Germans. And she does so with the following words, which are not presented here out of personal considerations, but to show how, from a certain perspective, one is capable of characterizing in such a way what we, as Germans, had to do out of our sense of truth:

[ 77 ] “... Now, when I look back, in light of the German methods as the war has revealed them to us, I realize that the long-standing efforts to take over the Theosophical Society and place a German at its head— the anger directed at me when I thwarted those efforts—the complaint that I had spoken of the late King Edward VII as the protector of European peace, rather than giving that honor to the Kaiser—that all of this was part of the widespread campaign against England, and that the missionaries were tools, skillfully used by the German agents here” — in India —, “to carry out their plans. If they had been able to transform the Theosophical Society in India, with its large number of administrative officials, into a weapon against the British government and had been able to instill in it the notion of looking to Germany as its spiritual guide—instead of standing up, as it has always done, for the equal alliance of two free nations—then it could gradually have become a conduit for poison in India.”

[ 78 ] So this is who we are, as seen through the lens of English Theosophy, in our spiritual science movement. But I must say—please forgive this remark; you know, after all, that I do not like to make personal remarks—I can assure you that I had no intention whatsoever of doing any of that, and above all, I had no intention of leaving the German spiritual science movement. For such thoughts did not dwell within me, nor, I believe, within many others who feel connected to the German spirit and its sustaining power—unlike Johann Christof, who was driven out of Germany by his instinct. For even if it is difficult to connect the immediate phenomena—to which the uninformed eye of the traveler Rolland is currently directed—with the sustaining power of the German spirit, one must nevertheless say: The authenticity of the German character will—precisely through the experiences of our fateful times—make it increasingly possible to bridge the gap between what we experience in everyday life and what constitutes the sustaining power of the German spirit. And when we are presented with all the figures in Johann Christof’s environment—from which his “genius” drives him—then perhaps, in conclusion, something may now be said—without presumption, of course.

[ 79 ] I don’t want to quote a foreigner right now. But I may refer to one who has long since passed away—who died in the year 1230—and who, for his part, also expressed an opinion on whether a German genius must indeed be driven out of its surroundings by all that lives there: Minnas and Rosas with crooked noses, which German idealism recognizes as the nose of Juno Ludovisi. Perhaps not with a genius like Johann Christof, but with one whom we know—from his connection to the driving force of the German spirit—to have been a German genius. With such a German genius, perhaps we may—without arrogance—think together for a moment: with Walther von der Vogelweide. And we may admit to ourselves: it is not by Johann Christof, the hero portrayed by Romain Rolland, that we are to judge how German men and women influence a genius, but rather by a spirit such as Walther von der Vogelweide. Let these reflections conclude with his words, to be followed tomorrow by a special lecture on the humanities.

[ 80 ] Walther von der Vogelweide is not driven from Germany by his instincts; he must think differently about those among whom he lives. I don’t know how they would be portrayed if they fell under Romain Rolland’s pen; but Walther von der Vogelweide says of them—and this seems to me to indicate a deeper understanding than Romain Rolland reveals—:

German men are well-bred,
Their women are like angels,
Whoever scolds them is deceived,
I could never understand it any other way.
Virtue and pure love,
Whoever seeks them,
Let them come to our land, where there is much joy.
May I live long in it!