The Rudolf Steiner Archive

3. Why are the People of Schiller and Fichte called “barbarian people”?

[ 1 ] Dear friends, Year after year, I have recently had the privilege of speaking here in this city on topics related to the humanities. Since our friends have requested such reflections again this year, I will endeavor to offer them here, even in these fateful times. But it will seem understandable, distinguished guests, that at least today’s introductory reflection is directly related to what is unfolding in our fateful times—events that touch our souls and hearts so deeply, so deeply. For in our time, one would not wish to turn one’s thoughts away from all the immeasurable sacrifices that must be made, from the duties and the high demands that this era places upon us; one would not wish to utter a single word that cannot at the same time be spoken with this emotional nuance—and that can certainly be spoken in the heart—to those who, on the battlefields where today words are not spoken but deeds are, is expressed through suffering and blood, through the full commitment of the whole person—one would not wish to utter a single word that is not spoken in spirit to those who, in these fields, must stand up for the great events of the present!

[ 2 ] For the topic of today’s lecture, I have chosen a question, ladies and gentlemen, a question that may arise when one allows oneself to be influenced by the many things that confront Central Europeans today from all sides—not only from Europe, one might say, but from the entire world: Let the question be posed: Why do “they” call the people of Schiller and Fichte a “barbarian people”?

[ 3 ] But—and this is the point I wish to make—my concern here is not so much to answer this question in great detail before you, but rather to show how this question relates to our present; or rather, how it is possible for this question to [relate to our present]. For it may perhaps become clear from my remarks that it is not up to us here in the heart of Europe to answer this question, but it is very much up to us to truly grasp this question—as a reminder to history—for times to come, to grasp it from the very core of Central European being.

[ 4 ] It is said of the great battles fought by the ancestors of the Central European peoples and the peoples of antiquity that these peoples went into battle singing songs dedicated to the great ancestors, [which] were dedicated to the great ancestors because these peoples were deeply convinced that the spirit of the ancestors was directly present in the very air they breathed. In this way, wherever human feeling was originally incorporated into the worldview, the question of heredity—which is now so frequently discussed in material science—was understood in a spiritual sense. While materialistic science speaks of heredity as if only the characteristics of living beings were passed on to their physical descendants through physical means, in the context of the great moral and spiritual events that unfold in the course of human development, one must speak of the fact that not only are the characteristics of the ancestors present in subsequent generations, but also that, in a spiritual and spiritual—that which has flowed from the ancestors into the culture of their descendants remains alive and active in the midst of what the later generations have to do.

[ 5 ] Of course, it is not possible to discuss here all the ancestors—even those from the most recent past—who come into consideration when it comes to examining the German, Central European essence. We shall highlight two intellectual forefathers of German development: Schiller and Fichte.

[ 6 ] One of these figures hails directly from the land in which we now find ourselves; the other originally connecting the German intellectual life of more northern regions—including through personal friendship—with the achievements of the great Württemberg poet Schiller; the other figure whom we wish to choose today, so that his ideas may take effect upon us in a way that resonates with our sensibilities, is Johann Gottlieb Fichte. And let it be understood, truly not, esteemed guests, that my intention is to arouse sentimental feelings at first—that is far from my mind—but because I believe that something like a magical spiritual aura does indeed radiate from the very last moments of these two intellectual heroes’ earthly lives. For this reason—not for sentimental reasons—have we taken as our starting point the final moments of Schiller’s and Fichte’s earthly lives; for it is precisely through the intimate nature of German intellectual reflection that we can, in the case of these two figures, look so intimately upon their final moments—the moments their souls spent within their physical bodies.

[ 7 ] The younger Voß tells us what Schiller’s final days and even his final moments were like. There it stands before us, Schiller’s death—a death of which we are convinced, when we consider Schiller’s life, that although it came early, it came so late only because Schiller’s strong soul and his powerful intellectual impulses wrested this death from his decaying body for years on end! And from the accounts we have—of this Schiller—we can follow him as he remains, in his final days, still very much present in spirit and soul, while his body already bears the marks of death. We follow him into this hour of death according to Voß’s descriptions, and with deeply moved hearts we observe how Schiller’s spirit, struggling against the darkening forces of the body, gazes again and again through those eyes that were once so fiery; how he then allowed himself—Schiller—to be given his youngest, still very small child, how he turns his final glances toward this little child from the depths of his soul through his spirited eyes—which have now died in death—as if he had something important to say to the child; how he then returns the child, turns away, and faces the wall. We are left with the feeling, esteemed audience, as if we were meant to identify in some way with this child. The person who described this scene says: “It was as if Schiller still wanted to say to this child, ‘I could not be a good enough father to you; I still had so much left to do for you.’”

[ 8 ] One is tempted to say: The entire German people can feel themselves to be Schiller’s children and can apply these words to themselves. It was as if Schiller had still had much, much more to say to his people when he passed away. And the feeling that emerges from contemplating such a scene is this: it is essential for the German people to immerse themselves in the impulses that sprang from Schiller’s intellectual power—impulses that must be embraced in every age—in order to channel them toward the goals of human evolution in the way that the German people are naturally inclined to do: to bring ever more and more to fruition what lay in the blossoms of what Schiller once gave them.

[ 9 ] And when we turn our attention to the other figure—Johann Gottlieb Fichte’s final days—one might say that reflecting on those last days penetrates our hearts and souls just as deeply and just as directly. He often pondered this—Fichte, the great philosopher of humanity and at the same time the great philosopher of his people—he often pondered whether he should take part directly as a fighter in the great struggle for Germany’s freedom that had to be waged in his final years. He then believed that through his intellectual power—for every person must, after all, act to the best of their ability where they are—he then believed that he could achieve more through his intellectual power than through physical strength. But Fichte’s wife, who was so wonderfully his equal, devoted herself to nursing the sick and brought the hospital fever home to him. He had to nurse his wife. She recovered, but the illness spread to Fichte. And so, in a certain sense, he indirectly became a victim of the German struggle for freedom.

[ 10 ] But now he stands before us—the man who, through the strength of his will, gave birth to a world of the spirit—just as he was in his final moments. His thoughts were focused solely on what had been achieved by the German armies fighting their way westward. And when he had to lie down and feverish dreams began to mingle with those ideas that had been so energetically clear throughout his entire life, those feverish dreams were filled with images of the battles he had heard about; then he, the philosopher, felt himself right in the midst of them, among the fighters. There, the philosophical thoughts he had felt sprouting in his soul immediately merged with these—one might say—so real, real in relation to the events of the time—feverish fantasies, and the philosopher sees himself, even in the delirium of fever, deeply connected to what was moving his time.

[ 11 ] His son came to his deathbed, and someone brought him some medicine. In his feverish dreams, he felt so deeply absorbed in spirit, so deeply united with the great task of his time, that he said, “I don’t need any medicine,” and he pushed the medicine away with his hand, “for I feel: I will recover.” He did recover—albeit only to die—but his spirit lives on among us. And one gains, as it may seem, a good insight into the nature and the very essence of that people whom they now call a “barbarian people,” if one turns one’s gaze just a little toward Johann Gottlieb Fichte. At a time when the German people had to fight their way out of the deepest humiliation to assert their worth, it was Johann Gottlieb Fichte who—not only on the basis of theoretical and philosophical foundations, but also out of the connection he felt between his own soul and the soul of the German people—sought to bring clarity to himself and to this people regarding the very essence of the German people.

[ 12 ] And we are immediately drawn to a characteristic of this people at its very core when we consider how Fichte, back when he delivered his significant “Addresses to the German Nation” during one of the most difficult periods in German history, took three questions as the starting point for his reflections. And these three questions, which Fichte raised back then in his “Addresses to the German Nation,” strike us as remarkable. The first is: “Is it true or not true that there is a German nation, and that its continued existence in its distinctive and independent form is currently in danger?”

[ 13 ] Today, distinguished guests, we would hardly—given what the German spirit has become precisely through the Schiller-Fichte era—wish to raise this question anew, but the concluding sentence still cuts deep into our hearts; and we can also say of our present: “Is this nation, in its unique and independent essence, currently in danger?” The second question is: “Is it worth the effort—or not worth the effort—to preserve it?” The contributions made by the German spirit to the development of the world in the nineteenth century provide the answer. The third question, which Fichte developed specifically from his perspective on the world, was this: “Is there any sure and effective means of preserving it, and what is that means?” Fichte then linked these three questions to the reflections that form the content of his “Addresses to the German Nation.”

[ 14 ] World history is moving rapidly in our present time—and we must include the past century in that as well—at a rapid pace. Now that what was sown as seeds during the Schiller-Fichte era has come to the fore in intellectual life, it is impossible to continue to profess—to profess directly—the answers that Fichte himself gave to these questions. All the more, however, one feels a kinship when one allows oneself to be imbued with the Central European, the German essence—with the way Fichte himself, back then, provided his answers in his “Addresses to the German Nation,” specifically to these three questions.

[ 15 ] Fichte attempted, so to speak, to construct this response of his in two parts, beginning with a consideration of the nature of the German people. For he wanted, after all, to address the German people. Fichte attempted—certainly, we will not attempt this today in Fichte’s manner, but rather we must answer such questions [with the faculties that we, in turn, have gained through this Fichtean approach]—he attempted to answer these questions for himself by examining the distinctive characteristics of the German language. He believed he could discern how this language differed, in terms of its folk character, from the languages of those peoples who were at that time at war with the German peoples. And he believed he could derive the essence of this from the fact that the German people [throughout their entire development], beginning at the very roots of their development, have remained connected to the source of their language; that they have developed this language directly from these linguistic roots in an unbroken succession and have remained faithful to this language; and that they have embodied in this language that which they had to form from the depths of their souls.

[ 16 ] According to Fichte, while the Romance peoples suffered a break in their development—in that up to a certain point in that development they shared the feelings and sensibilities embodied in the German language— they subsequently adopted a foreign language and now live out their spiritual characteristics within a foreign linguistic framework, resulting in a rupture in their development and the loss of that which Fichte regards as the essence of the German spirit—the original freshness and immediacy with which the national spirit expresses itself.

[ 17 ] It is not what Johann Gottlieb Fichte believes he has gained in insight through this approach that we can fully endorse today, for this scholarly analysis has moved beyond it, even though these insights are true at their root in one respect—but this is not what Fichte arrived at; rather, it is the entire manner in which Fichte approaches the consideration of the essential core of his people—that is what we still find fruitful today.

[ 18 ] For what did Fichte seek? He sought to understand the nature of the German people by allowing himself to perceive this nature as springing from the innermost, most secret roots of the human soul, without any break in its development. He believed such a people to be secure in its future—indeed, in its eternity—because it stands, in unbroken development, in connection with the roots of inner vitality, as he repeatedly puts it, with the deepest essence of spiritual vitality.

[ 19 ] But that, ladies and gentlemen, is essentially the underlying tone of all the spiritual scientific reflections I have been privileged to present here in this hall for years. In this respect, this spiritual scientific reflection feels, in its innermost essence, connected to the nature of Johann Gottlieb Fichte.

[ 20 ] To what extent these roots of human life lead to spiritual insight—we will discuss this tomorrow—and to what extent what is sought here truly points back to Fichte in the genuine, proper sense—let us say just a few words about this now.

[ 21 ] It emerged from all the considerations I have been able to present here that this spiritual science aims to be—in contrast to a merely external science that reflects on the senses and the intellect bound to the brain—a science that arises directly from the activity of the innermost core of the human being, from the recognition that this innermost core of the human being — which, in contrast to the mortal body, is the eternal and imperishable aspect of the human being — can already be detached, even during earthly life, through the means to be discussed tomorrow, from the ordinary perception of the external senses and the intellect, so that it can act independently of the body and is able to look into the spiritual world, so that one’s own spiritual core becomes an immediate reality.

[ 22 ] In the deepest sense, spiritual science seeks to appeal to this human sense of self, which springs from the sources of spiritual life. In this respect, spiritual science stands in stark contrast to the science that merely passively surrenders to external impressions and allows itself to be addressed only by what external observation and intellectual analysis based on that observation can yield. Spiritual science stands in contrast to the merely passive reception of a science! Spiritual science aims to be—if the word may be used without arrogance—a courageous science that does not arise from passivity, but from activity, from appealing to the roots of life, from drawing upon this innermost source of the roots of life.

[ 23 ] And when they are drawn out through an appeal to spiritual vision—which confronts a spiritual world in such a way that it first produces the spiritual sense organs—to use a phrase from Goethe, the spiritual eyes and ears — from within itself in order to direct them toward the spiritual world and to perceive this spiritual world as truly as physical eyes and ears can perceive the sensory world as real, as truly real, then spiritual science may consider itself a student of what Johann Gottlieb Fichte intuited, of what he intended.

[ 24 ] And precisely when one considers, distinguished audience, the way in which Fichte felt so deeply connected to the entire character and nature of the German spirit, one can be certain that the special aptitudes for allowing the spirit to ascend to spiritual heights are truly present in this German spirit. “What kind of philosopher one is”—as Fichte once put it—“depends on what kind of person one is.” And he demonstrated this: he wanted to be a German person. That is why he became the German philosopher that he was. What kind of philosopher, then, was Johann Gottlieb Fichte? He who ceaselessly appealed from the mere sensory world to the spiritual world and emphasized that which was then so beautifully expressed in 1811 in his lectures at the University of Berlin on the “Facts of Consciousness,” where he said: “What I have to say to you presupposes a special spiritual sense. Those who are willing to accept only what the external senses perceive will not understand me. To them I speak as the sole sighted person among a crowd of those born blind.”

[ 25 ] Fichte’s endeavor was directed toward the contemplation of the spirit, toward experiencing the spiritual weaving and essence in the world and in the human soul; he felt this welling up from the very depths of his people’s vital impulses. And so we see—not in the striving toward the spiritual, but in the deep inclinations to connect this spiritual inquiry and search with the innermost sources of personality, with the innermost life impulses of the human being—that is precisely where we see in Fichte the core, the expression of the Central European people, the German people.

[ 26 ] Thus, as with Fichte, we encounter this sharp emphasis, this concise emphasis, which, as a worldview, must be directed toward the contemplation of the spirit. It takes only a few words, [esteemed audience], to describe what Fichte expressed as the very core of his inquiry and striving—which he knew to be identical with the striving of the German national spirit—to characterize what is actually meant by this.

[ 27 ] Thus, Fichte’s wonderful words—which he himself spoke in his “Addresses to the German Nation”—characterize both the deepest human aspirations and the deepest intellectual dispositions of his people, and Fichte characterizes both by saying:

She beholds time, eternity, and infinity

[ 28 ] — he is referring to the philosophy he sought [from the innermost roots of his people’s vitality] —

in its origin, from the emergence and becoming visible of that One which is, in and of itself, utterly invisible and is grasped—truly grasped—only in this very invisibility of its.[...]

All persistent existence that appears as non-spiritual life is merely an empty shadow cast from vision, mediated in many ways by Nothingness; in contrast to this, and through the recognition of it as a manifoldly mediated Nothingness, vision itself is to rise to the recognition of its own Nothingness and to the acknowledgment of the Invisible as the only Truth.

[ 29 ] But, distinguished audience, Fichte did not express what he perceived as the innermost essence of his quest merely in such abstract terms. Our reflections on spiritual science have often led us to demonstrate how spiritual science can establish within the human being a conviction, grounded on sound foundations, that the eternal core of being can be experienced within the human being—a core that consciously passes through the gate of death to begin a new existence in the spiritual world after a period of purely spiritual experience. And spiritual science—which is an active science, which without arrogance seeks to be a courageous science, a science grounded in the active forces of the soul—does not speak in vague terms about life after death; rather, it seeks to grasp the unique nature of the human being in order to show how it steps into the spiritual world. Thus it also knows how to speak of this—not merely in an abstract way, but in a concrete way—how the soul knows itself to be alive, how it can know itself to be alive through those insights we will discuss tomorrow, which the soul can gain when it is outside the body, when it looks back at this body from outside, as at an external object, as at something external.

[ 30 ] Just as the other science speaks of the things of the sensory world—of the things perceived by the senses—so spiritual science speaks of that perception which looks back from the spiritual world onto the physical world and is able to bring them into relationship with one another.

[ 31 ] When Fichte attempts to address the second part of the third question he has raised—namely, what this means might be for the development of his people—he makes a peculiar remark. Fichte seeks these means in a radical form of national education that would transform the prevailing worldview. We cannot today—[since time truly does not permit it]—discuss the details of Fichte’s ideas; but in a radical change of all educational principles, Fichte seeks to identify what he is convinced is most conducive to the development of his people. An education that does not focus merely on outward appearances, but reaches down to the deepest “roots of the life forces.” And when he speaks of this, Fichte senses that this educational ideal differs quite significantly from what people, according to previous views, had to consider possible in education. He then placed himself in a position as if he were looking out from his own horizon, into which his ideal truly shines, and wanted to look down upon what he considered obsolete [of old educational principles]. And he now describes how what has become obsolete appears to him; he describes it once again with characteristic words found in the “Addresses to the German Nation”—words that are easily overlooked but which must touch the heart deeply of anyone who has taken the newer spiritual science to heart. Fichte says:

Time seems to me

[ 32 ] — that is, the period when the old educational principles prevailed —,

Time seems to me like a shadow standing over its corpse—from which an army of diseases has just driven it out—wailing and 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 plagues. True, the life-giving breezes of the other world, into which the departed soul has entered, have already taken her in and surround her with a warm breath of love; true, the secret voices of her sisters already greet her joyfully and welcome her; true, something is already stirring and expanding within her in all directions to develop the more glorious form into which she is to grow; 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 losing it she has also lost herself.

[ 33 ] Well, distinguished guests, if one takes together the insights of spiritual science as they can be genuinely developed in our time, if one attempts, symbolically, to draw from the nature of spiritual science—this way in which a human being looks back upon their physical body after death, how they feel about this body—and if one wishes to forge a symbol from this for something from which one wishes to evolve, then one cannot develop a better symbol [than the one Fichte develops here]. Must we not say:

[ 34 ] In the best of what we seek lives that which was realized in Fichte, that which lived in his great ancestor. For was he not truly part of the best of what we seek—that which must be sought in the transition of human development toward a spiritual life? And does it not mean something that Fichte connects this search so intimately with the German spirit? It is precisely what the German spirit is that becomes so vivid when one—not in abstract theory, but in a living, human sense—takes in what emerges from such discussions as Fichte presents in his “Addresses to the German Nation,” [when one] allows oneself to be influenced by them.

[ 35 ] Very curious: In Fichte, one of the philosophical representatives of the German nation stands before us during a formative era of that nation—[a time] when it was indeed facing a severe trial, when it had already gone through centuries of development—questioning the innermost essence of this nation and posing the great, fundamental question of destiny: “What, after all, is a German?”

[ 36 ] This, ladies and gentlemen, is something truly characteristic of the German spirit. One is English, French, or Italian by virtue of what has been instilled in one through national characteristics. One is English, French, Spanish, Italian, or Russian at any given time. But as Fichte’s words make clear—based on feeling and understanding—one is never simply “German”; one ceaselessly becomes German, for “Germanness” stands as a lofty ideal before the German. And with humility, the German looks up to this ideal and asks himself: How do I become a German?

[ 37 ] And so, in this process of becoming German—as the driving forces behind it—the impulses of becoming human are essentially intertwined. Part of the development of what characterizes the German character is—one might almost say, if the word were not absurd—the elevation of the German’s national sentiment to universal humanity in the sense of the phrase coined by Schiller for another purpose: “To which nation do you belong?” And the answer might be: “To none of the existing ones.” And why none? “Because of German nationality!” For that is the defining distinction of German nationality, and it emerges precisely from Fichte’s so-called “annoying” words: It is the essence of Germanness to strive toward the essence of universal humanity, to seek ceaselessly: How does one become human? How does one become human in the most universal sense of the word? There is an apparent contradiction in this; but contradiction lies in all that is alive; contradiction is the defining characteristic of the living. And this—what one might call a characteristic of German-ness, which lies in an eternal striving for [universal] humanity—becomes so beautifully clear to us once again in Fichte’s words.

[ 38 ] Fichte seeks to answer the question of who can actually be considered a German. And in his “Addresses to the German Nation”—which can be described as one of the most “German” of all German intellectual works—he says:

[.—.] Whatever believes in spirituality and the freedom of that spirituality, and desires the eternal development of that spirituality through freedom—wherever it may have been born, and whatever language it may speak—is of our kind; it belongs to us, and it will come to us.

[ 39 ] In this, we also find something of the universal striving that comes to expression when one considers German striving in its truly inner sense, or—to use Fichte’s term once more—at the “roots of the impulses of life.”

[ 40 ] And fundamentally, ladies and gentlemen, all the power that can arise from such a view of life lies in every word Fichte spoke—but especially in those words he spoke to express the consciousness that arose in him from this worldview, which was shaped precisely by his very nature. One might say: Just as the powers of the soul—which express themselves as spirit and at the same time as will, and which express themselves as eternal inner becoming—so it resounds within us when Fichte speaks of human immortality—not from a theoretical perspective, but from the context of all human spiritual powers—as he turns his gaze to the countless stars that stand in the cosmos, [and suns] and the planets that move, when he turns his gaze to high mountains, to the rocks, to the clouds that frame them, to the forests and rivers, when he turns his gaze to the three realms of nature, and then turns his gaze back to the human soul, and expresses what arises in his consciousness—as he did, for example, in a lecture he gave to his students at Jena:

[ 41 ] And you stars [and you clouds and you rocks], all you mountains, even if you were all to collapse at once, even if lightning were to flash through you, even if the elemental forces were to crush you so that not a speck of dust remained of you, you would still tell me nothing about the nature of my own soul. It defies your power; it is eternal, whereas you are not.

[ 42 ] Today, spiritual science must speak differently about these things because it draws its convictions from sources of knowledge. But in Fichte’s framework, a foundation for the human sciences arises from a knowledge that is at the same time a will, from a will that is at the same time knowledge—a willing knowledge that the eternal human soul, which passes through birth and death, is apprehended in its immediate becoming, and that, in living in communion with this eternal life of the human soul, the personality knows itself to be connected to eternity.

[ 43 ] And the tone that emerges from such a consciousness permeates, as a fundamental note, the speeches that Fichte delivered in order to make his people aware—in times of grave destiny—of what they must defend, what they hold as their richest treasure in the depths of their souls, and what they must and will defend against the whole world. It is the striving for universal humanity—arising from the very essence of his people.

[ 44 ] And, as if to reinforce what Johann Gottlieb Fichte, the philosopher, expresses, standing alongside Fichte—the philosopher—is Schiller, the great, powerful poet, stands—Schiller, who, drawing from the mystically profound essence of the South German, and in particular the Swabian, spirit, gave voice to his great poetry of freedom, and who, inspired also by Goethe’s views, had risen to that aspiration which seeks to give birth, out of the aspiration of a single people, to the most universal aspiration of humanity.

[ 45 ] Today, too little recognition is given to the way Schiller elevated his people to a [level of cultural refinement] when he created a work that is particularly great because of the height of its cultural refinement, the nobility of that refinement, and the intellectual atmosphere from which the work sprang. I am referring to the work that is most easily overlooked: *Letters on the Aesthetic Education of Man*. One could also say that, through this work, Schiller sought to answer the question for his people: How does a human being attain freedom? And he approaches the enigma of human freedom in the most sublime style. I would like to say: There is no intellectual height, no humane, sensitive depth, from which Schiller would not draw the means to answer the question: What is human freedom?

[ 46 ] Human freedom can be impaired in the most profound way in two ways, Schiller says. First, there is that to which a person must submit out of logical necessity when he must follow his reason, which links one conclusion to the next.

[ 47 ] A person may feel outwardly free in such logical activity, but inwardly he is not free, for he is a slave to logical necessity; and by submitting to it, he—the person—is not free. Nor is a person free when he must submit to the sensations that drive the senses, to the natural necessities of bodily needs.

[ 48 ] According to these two pages, a person can lose their freedom.

[ 49 ] But how does he become free? Oh, he becomes free in the style of Schiller when he succeeds in detaching from within that which lies hidden in his innermost depths as the core of his being—that which is not directly perceived between birth and death, that which can only be perceived when it is detached from its hidden existence and when the essence ascends, on the one hand, into the spiritual realm to develop there such inner impulses through which the soul becomes master in the world where it is otherwise a slave—if it can ascend into the realm of spirituality and act freely within it, just as a child acts freely in its play.

[ 50 ] Then the soul feels free in the spirit, and when it can descend again into the body—yet without losing the spirit, but rather descending with the spirit into what is sensually necessary—and handles sensuousness in such a way that, through what the eye sees, what the ear hears, and what the hand grasps, the spiritual is perceived within the sensuous, permeating all that is spiritual through the sensuous, and everything sensual is imbued with the spiritual—so that one experiences that higher self within the self toward which Schiller strove as he wrote these letters.

[ 51 ] One might ask: Does it not, after all, represent a high point in human development when, drawing on the strengths of a people, an answer to the highest questions of humanity is provided—not a philosophical-theoretical one, but an answer drawn from the full range of human feeling, as Schiller provided? It was also at that time that Schiller posed the significant question: What, then, are the aberrations of humanity and human nature?

[ 52 ] On the one hand, there is the “barbarian”—the “barbarian” who finds himself overwhelmed by his principles when it comes to his instincts and human impulses. Human beings cannot become such “barbarians,” for they must come to cherish their principles so that they are not enslaved, but rather so that they elevate their drives into the spiritual realm of their principles, so that they want to do what they must do because they love it. And a human being is a savage—[this is the other deviation]—when he allows his drives [his instincts] to overwhelm his principles.

[ 53 ] Thus there was a moment of profound German reflection in which the question was raised: How does a person find true humanity amidst the realms of the “wild” and the “barbarian”? In this way, that which constitutes—in the highest sense—the spiritual-idealistic conscience of the German people has sought the true human being.

[ 54 ] Can they call the people—who have sought the true human being caught between the precipice of “barbarism” and savagery—a “barbarian people”?! This question could emerge, like a refrain, from many sources and resound in our ears again and again: Why do they call this people [of Schiller and Fichte] a “barbarian people”? Does it matter, [my esteemed audience], what means this war must resort to today? [Everyone could have known that before it began!] It is childish to speak of what means the war must resort to; it is befitting of a true observer of human development to ask: What must be defended?

[ 55 ] And we sought, to some extent, what must be defended by holding before our minds the legacy—albeit only in broad strokes—of Schiller and Fichte. And truly, this is how our great figures felt about the connection between the German spirit and what they themselves sought in the sense of the most universal human aspirations. And what, long after Schiller’s death, has become known as words that can be regarded as a legacy shows how Schiller, through what has been briefly characterized here, places himself within the essence of his people. Let us bring to mind the words we have so often heard in this era—the words he spoke regarding what the Germans must do [to maintain their standing] against a world of adversaries.

He who shapes and masters the spirit,
must ultimately reign, for
at the end of time, if the
world has a plan, if human
life has any meaning at all, then ultimately
morality and reason must prevail,
the brute force of form must yield
and the slowest people will catch up to all
the swift and fleeting ones.

To him

[ 56 ] —the German —

is destined for the highest,
and just as it is situated in the midst of
the peoples of Europe,
so it is the core of humanity,
while they are the blossom and the leaf.

He has been chosen by the World Spirit, while
in the struggle of time
to work on the eternal edifice of human development
to preserve what time brings,
and so he has, until now, assimilated what is foreign
and preserved it within himself.
Everything of value that arose in other eras
and among other peoples—things that, over time
came into being and faded away—he has preserved;
it remains his own: the treasures of
centuries.
Not to shine for a moment and
play its part, but to win the great
process of time. Every people
has its day in history, yet
the day of the Germans is the harvest of

all of time.

[ 57 ] It was likely from a heart deeply moved—a heart that felt the pulse of his people—that Schiller spoke these words of legacy to his people.

[ 58 ] That, ladies and gentlemen, is what we perceive as the soul behind what must necessarily be as cruel as war—cruel in a way that truly does not stem from the German spirit, but rather stems largely from that which is not of the German spirit.

[ 59 ] The childish claim that Germans have a particular fondness for militarism need not be discussed at length here; perhaps, however—since we hear this refrain time and again: “Why do they call the people of Schiller and Fichte a ‘barbarian people’?”—perhaps this question may, in a sense, be rephrased as another. Could one really believe that, when a world in arms stands against the German spirit, advancing with a two-and-a-half-to-one advantage as if against a fortress, the Germans would fight by reciting Schiller’s poems or Fichte’s philosophy in the face of the cannons? Only those who expected this can speak of what is now so widely discussed throughout the world.

[ 60 ] But is what is said always true? Let us briefly allude to the way in which a great mind, an outstanding mind of modern times, conceived of the German spirit—how he conceived of that very essence which we are attempting to conjure up in our minds through certain characteristics of Fichte’s and Schiller’s modes of thought. After all, this way of thinking is connected to everything that has been brought before our eyes in the universal spirit, in Goethe—who is, for the time being, the center of German development. Now, what Fichte and Schiller have become is at the same time Goethe’s essence. I would say that what the American Emerson speaks of is not merely Goethe’s essence, but also that of Schiller and Fichte.

[ 61 ] And I truly cite a non-German evaluator of the German character—which emerged in the nineteenth century from the seeds sown by Schiller, Fichte, and Goethe—not merely because we find him appealing, but for other reasons, I cite the words of a thinker at the pinnacle of American intellectual life—[who spoke these words not in German], but in English—Emerson—to raise the question: How did this “barbarian people” and its culture [affect] the people of the nineteenth century who understood something of German culture?

[ 62 ] Emerson, the great American, says:

One quality in particular, which Goethe shares with his entire nation, makes him an exceptional figure in the eyes of both French and English audiences: that everything about him is based solely on inner truth.

[ 63 ] This is how the American views the German spirit, as represented by Goethe—concentrated in Goethe—namely, that the German spirit consists in everything being based on truth!

[ 64 ] Emerson goes on to say in English:

In England and America, talent is respected, but people are satisfied only when it works for or against a party they believe in. In France, people are delighted simply to see brilliant ideas, no matter where they lead. In all these countries, however, talented men write to the best of their ability. If what they present stimulates the discerning reader and contains nothing that offends good taste, it is considered sufficient. So many columns, so many hours spent pleasantly and usefully.

[ 65 ] As I said, not a single German says that!

The German mind possesses neither the French vivacity nor the English penchant for practicality, nor, finally, the American spirit of adventure; what it does possess, however, is a certain probity that never stops at the outward appearance of things, but always returns to the central question: “Where is this leading?” The German public demands that [a] writer rise above things and simply express his views on them. Intellectual agility is present—very well: What is it serving? What is this man’s opinion? Where does it come from?—Where does he get all these thoughts?

[ 66 ] I'm quoting an English speaker!

The English [...] see only the individual; they do not know how to view humanity as a whole in accordance with higher laws.

The Germans think on behalf of Europe.

[ 67 ] Written in English!

The English do not appreciate the depth of the German genius.

For this reason, the terms of distinction commonly used in sophisticated conversation are all of German origin. While the English and French, who are renowned for their acumen and erudition, approach their studies and their perspective with a certain superficiality

[ 68 ] — written in English! —

and their personal character is not all that closely connected to what they possess and to the way they express themselves, says Goethe

[ 69 ] — whom Emerson regards as the representative of the German nation —,

the heart and soul of the German nation, not because he has talent, but because truth concentrates its rays in his soul and shines forth from it. He is wise to the highest degree, even if his wisdom is often veiled by his talent. As excellent as what he says is, he has something even better in mind. [...] He possesses that awe-inspiring independence that springs from communion with the truth.

[ 70 ] Thus, ladies and gentlemen, one of the most enlightened minds of the nineteenth century was able to reflect on and speak about the German character throughout that century. Why do they call the people, about whom one must speak in this way, a “barbarian people”? It resounds in our ears again and again like a refrain [in defiance]. We do not, of course, need to answer the question; given the facts, we need only raise it.

[ 71 ] One more thing, ladies and gentlemen—very briefly: one might say that months before the war, lectures were given in one of the southern cities of Great Britain on the German spirit, lectures on the German spirit and intellectual life, in order to make this German intellectual life —the lectures have also been translated and are available as a book in German—in order to make this German intellectual life, as the book’s preface states, a little more accessible to people who, as the English author believes, knew far too little about it. He explicitly states which people he has in mind—he speaks of English journalists—but I do not know how much these journalists have learned from these lectures, judging by the examples we are now seeing in their assessments of the German character.

[ 72 ] But perhaps the words of a man who was English through and through—not American—spoken not long before the war [in university lectures intended to enlighten English journalists] and meant to enlighten the press about the German character—perhaps these words, too, deserve some consideration. What is conveyed here, then, was not said in America by Emerson, but in England, in the English language, about the German character and German intellectual life:

The spirit of science was undoubtedly familiar to the highly privileged elite among Descartes’ and Newton’s compatriots; but the passionate drive for knowledge was taught to modern Europe—if at all—primarily by thousands of German researchers.

[ 73 ] It's almost embarrassing, but it's spoken in English at first.

The imagination, emotion, and will asserted their right to be heard alongside reason—or even beyond it—and under their transformative pressure, the universe became deeper, broader, and more wondrous. The irrational was recognized as a source of enlightenment; wisdom was drawn from children and flowers; science, philosophy, and poetry drew closer together. Here in England, this revival of the imagination gave rise to noble poetry, yet left the sciences and philosophy almost untouched. One of the keys to understanding the entire period is the fact that, while in England and France the poetic, philosophical, and scientific movements flowed largely in separate channels, in Germany they touched one another or merged completely. Wordsworth sang and Bentham calculated; Hegel, however, ensnared the genius of poetry in the web of his logic; and the thought that discovers and explains, and the imagination that brings forth the new—these worked together in fruitful harmony in the genius of Goethe.

In *Faust*, at the end of his eventful life, we see a foreshadowing of today’s Germany—the Germany of restless, bold will and action—and we can all the better understand why the great cosmopolitan, in whose eyes the state and national identity were subordinate and sometimes harmful ideals, nevertheless asserted his unassailable position as the greatest poet of the German Empire alongside Bismarck, his creator.

[ 74 ] And in these lectures, which discuss the spirit—and, one might say, in such depth—as well as Hegel, who distills the German essence into crystal-clear mental images—Hegel, whose commemorative plaque we see on the building across the street—we also find these words.

[ 75 ] [Ladies and gentlemen], yes, I really say this only because I haven’t quite gotten past Goethe’s dictum, which he once stated: “People say that self-praise stinks; but they don’t like to talk about what smell others’ criticism has.” It is difficult to rise above such words, but, isn’t it true, if the words were spoken in English, that might perhaps serve as an excuse for repeating them in Germany. They were spoken months before the war at the same university in Manchester: “No German words are more deeply imbued with the essence of national ethics than those that denote these things: true, thorough, faithful.” “True, thorough, faithful”—one could almost be proud of this characterization from across the Channel, [distinguished guests]. But let us add, in the short time still available to us for today’s reflection, something else that relates to these words.

[ 76 ] I speak to you as a person who spent his youth in Austria, among a group of people who, coming from very different backgrounds, longed for the moment when Austrian culture and German culture might unite in a great endeavor or within some broader context — that is, within a group of people who sensed something of what is now so deeply moving our Central European souls, [sensed something of the pulse of the times]. And I recall a word—one that was much on the lips back then of those who sensed even a little of the pulse of the times—I recall a word: “autumn crocus.” And where did the word “autumn crocus” come from? I’ll hint at it very briefly.

[ 77 ] In Austria during the 1870s [after the Parliamentary Congress], there was a liberal party—a party composed entirely of prominent figures—whose leader was [Eduard] Herbst. He advocated a certain abstract liberalism, a liberalism modeled very much on that of English parliamentarians. At the Berlin Congress, under the predominant influence of the English statesmen of the time, Austria was given the mission to exert influence toward the southeast, which then found expression in the occupation and subsequent annexation of Bosnia and Herzegovina, and in everything else that Austria regarded as its mission.

[ 78 ] At that time, Austria—precisely because of England’s influence—had already incurred the wrath of the Russian Pan-Slavists; for England had sent Austria to counter Russian aspirations for influence on the Balkan Peninsula. Those in Austria who were followers of Herbst at the time opposed this mission. Bismarck, however, understood how this fit into the broader context of modern developments—how, under England’s influence, Russian resentment had been reignited. At that time, a certain impulse in Austrian policy toward the southeast emerged, and Bismarck knew that this was inevitable. He believed that those in Austria who failed to understand this—under the influence of [Eduard] Herbst—were the “Herbstzeitlosen.” And just as a witticism from a man of intellect who understands his time acts as a force capable of destruction, so too did the Herbst Party destroy the dictum of the “Herbstzeitlosen.” Words formed by personal power act like personal forces in the world.

[ 79 ] Well, what were the Central European people like? Back then, as “barbarians,” they accepted what is understood in England as the “southeastern mission.” They held fast to it until 1914. They did everything they could. [They were thorough], and they were faithful to what England’s statesmen had entrusted to the Central European peoples at that time: these Central European peoples were true, thorough, and faithful!

[ 80 ] We need only point this out, along with the fact, [distinguished guests], that England now stands on the side of the power whose animosity toward both Germany and Austria once set it against Germany and Austria. [And I must ask]: Is the fact that they have abandoned the ground on which they once stood—is that, too, true, thorough, and faithful? If today’s events are the consequence of what was thus predetermined—why do they call the people who carried out what once seemed right to them a “barbarian people”? This question echoes toward us again and again like a refrain from the events of our time!

[ 81 ] Well, ladies and gentlemen, I do not wish to present this as a statement, but perhaps to raise it as a question: Could it not be related to the very essence of the German worldview that, at times, what seems so terribly significant to others appears quite different when viewed in the light of the worldviews of Schiller, Fichte, and Goethe?

[ 82 ] One point should be noted—I know that this could be viewed as a rather questionable issue—but that is not the point; rather, the point is to remain “true, thorough, and faithful,” to adhere to what is “true, thorough, and faithful” to the worldview of Goethe, Fichte, and Schiller.

[ 83 ] Although the damage to Reims Cathedral is not as severe as one might think—I myself saw this cathedral in 1906 in a rather dilapidated state, and I am among those whose admiration for the cathedral is second to none— nevertheless, in view of what stands as a precious legacy to the people of Schiller, Goethe, and Fichte in the form of a worldview, the following may be said:

[ 84 ] In a certain sense, it is profoundly true for this people that beauty pulses through the entire structure of the world, that beauty lies in the very construction of the entire world. And one feels deeply moved by a statement made by Goethe and echoed in a similar vein by Novalis, [the great poet]—a statement that, in Goethe’s style, goes something like this:

[ 85 ] What would all those eons of stars shining down from the heavens, all those suns, all that beauty, amount to if they did not, ultimately, shine into a human eye, and gaze out from a human eye, spiritualized and imbued with soul!

[ 86 ] And according to Novalis: From such a worldview arises the idea of how everything that takes place in the cosmos is structured, combined, organized, and united in spirit and soul within what ultimately constitutes the human being. That is why Novalis calls this human structure—that which confronts us in human beings through its very structure—a sacred temple. And he describes contact with this sacred temple itself as something that cannot help but stir the most sacred feelings in the human soul. The highest temple is the human body.

[ 87 ] The human body is the highest physical expression of the spirit for a worldview such as that of Fichte, Goethe, and Schiller.

[ 88 ] And our fateful times, like any difficult time of war, make it necessary to ruthlessly destroy thousands upon thousands of works of art—works that must be the supreme works of art for the worldview of Goethe, Schiller, and Fichte: human bodies! The German worldview holds significance not merely for human works of art, but for the supreme—at least the highest earthly—divine work of art: for humanity itself. And the German worldview asks itself: Is it permissible—out of not sentimental, but the highest reverence—to protest when human works of art must be damaged in a time when the divine work of art is being mowed down a thousandfold?

[ 89 ] I know this is an idea that isn’t understood everywhere. [But I also know] that once all the fruits of Goethe’s, Schiller’s, and Fichte’s worldviews have come to full maturity, this idea will stand not as a product of a “barbaric culture,” but as an idea of a highly developed spiritual culture.

[ 90 ] There is so much in our day and age that pours in upon the German spirit in the form of hatred and [rejection] of that spirit! And when the question is raised: “Why do they call the people of Schiller and Fichte a ‘barbarian people’?”—if one looks closely at this German essence, one will not find the answer within it. Then this question transforms into another: Is it perhaps that what is hurled at the people—whom they besiege, like people in a fortress; what they hurl at the people they seek to starve out—is the slur of “barbarism” hurled at this people, precisely to conceal what one is ashamed to say about the true causes of the circumstances in which one finds oneself vis-à-vis the besieged people whom one seeks to starve?

[ 91 ] Certainly, ladies and gentlemen, even within this humanity, hemmed in on all sides, there stirs much of what one might call hatred or antipathy; yet, let it be said frankly and openly: I do not believe, in the long run, that this antipathy, these national animosities, are connected to the very roots of German vitality—not in a people capable of loving the English genius of Shakespeare more than the English people themselves, not in a people capable, in its prime, and one must recognize the poets as its prime, I do not believe this to be the case with a people who, in Goethe, were capable of turning to one of the English poets of recent times—Byron—and, drawing inspiration from him, of creating in the second part of *Faust* a character who had been inspired in Goethe as a result of his contemplation of Byron. Byron appears to him—[Goethe built upon] what Byron, the Englishman, was—in Euphorion, the child of Faust and Helena, who emerged from the union of the highest cultural blossoms, as Goethe saw it.

[ 92 ] But [isn’t there something that resonates from it and presents itself to us, in a thoroughly contemporary way], as a characteristic of this Euphorion—doesn’t it speak to us deeply? Don’t we sense, from what Byron’s Euphorion represents for Goethe, what the right word is at that time? [Goethe has Euphorion say]:

No, I did not appear as a child
The young man arrives in armor;
Joining the strong, the free, the bold,
He has already done so in spirit.

And do you hear the thunder on the sea?
There, valley upon valley, the thunder echoes,
In dust and waves, army upon army,
In wave upon wave, toward pain and torment.
And death
Is a command [...],
That is simply the way it is.
Should I watch from afar?
No! I share in sorrow and hardship.

[ 93 ] Whenever the German Goethe wanted to express something that was so close to his heart, his love led him to follow the example of foreign models!

[ 94 ] No, one cannot believe—and need not believe—that “Germanness” is anything other than the search for the noblest human spirit, and that it is precisely this search of the German soul [for the noblest human spirit]—which is often discussed in today’s style—that people do not understand; and because they do not understand it, that is why [they hate it].

[ 95 ] Schiller, too, was never under any illusions about this. He, too—who not only said but also did what he expressed in the words I quoted, who knew how to transform every human essence, wherever it might present itself to him, into a German essence—artistically and spiritually—he did not delude himself, this Schiller. How beautiful are his words, which show us how he was under no illusions as he looked toward France and England:

Two mighty nations struggle
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 in gold for them
And, like Brennus in those barbaric times,
The Frank lays his iron sword
On the scales of justice.

The Briton stretches out his merchant fleets
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.

[ 96 ] No, Schiller was under no illusions, but he saw in the German striving a universally human striving:

The world loves to cast a shadow over that which shines
And to drag the sublime into the dust.

[ 97 ] This is what he says, in particular, regarding the Maid of Orleans, who expressed the [heroic] spiritual in human beings in such an epoch-making way. And how did she rise up, this French national heroine, [the Maid of Orleans], who had to defend France against England’s claims? How did she stand—she whom Voltaire reviled with venom and bile, and who is still not treated kindly by Anatole France [even today]—how did she stand before Schiller’s spirit, and how did he embody her in German literature, which has become so dear to us?

[ 98 ] Being German does not mean rebelling against anything national in the world; but this German identity entails the duty to embody, by any means necessary, that which is the German soul within the German body.

[ 99 ] It has already been pointed out, [distinguished guests], that one does not, after all, really need to be German to express words that suggest how the German essence fits into the fabric of the entire world.

[ 100 ] Yes, I know a man who once tried to use three brilliant thinkers to illustrate the highest achievements that earthly culture can produce. The third of these brilliant thinkers, whom this man looks up to, was Novalis, the profound German poet. The man I am referring to contemplated Novalis, and he said to himself the following—he expressed some beautiful thoughts—he said to himself—one need not agree with what he said—he said: Yes, what Sophocles has his characters do is, after all, all human action. And if a spirit were to descend from another planet [and come to Earth], it might be that it would have no interest at all in these characters, [in what Sophocles’ characters do or] what Ophelia, Desdemona, or even Hamlet himself accomplishes; [for] these are earthly matters that do not interest a genius from another planet. But there is something—[so this man believed]—on Earth among humans that would certainly also interest the geniuses of other planets, [if they could descend]. The human soul has also risen to this level, the man believes. And he cites Novalis, the quintessentially German poet, as an example of such a soul that has produced something that would interest geniuses. These are beautiful words he spoke in reference to Novalis and to what Novalis can mean to humanity. Listen to the beautiful words he spoke about the quintessentially German poet Novalis:

But if he needed further proof, she would lead him to 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 subtle gestures of her body. Together they would ascend to the lonely highlands, where consciousness [rises to a higher level] and where all those [filled] with restlessness about themselves attentively survey the immense ring that links the phenomenal world with our higher worlds. She would go with him to the boundaries of humanity; for at the point where man seems to end, he probably only begins, and his most essential and inexhaustible parts lie only in the invisible, where he must be constantly 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 reigned for a moment, and these dimly lit peaks are perhaps the only lights that herald the Earth in the spiritual realm.

[ 101 ] So says the man. What Novalis says is one of the lights through which the Earth announces itself to the spirit realm.

Their reflection truly bears the color of our soul. We feel that the passions of the mind and body would resemble the tolling of bells in the eyes of a [foreign] reason; [but the people of whom I speak have, in their works] emerged from the small village of passions and have said things that are of value even to those who do not [belong to] the earthly community.

[ 102 ] So there once lived a German man who produced works of poetry that are of value not only to souls on Earth, but also to souls that are not of this Earth; in Novalis, the German, such a soul lived within the man. Who is the man who spoke such words about Novalis? Yes, I must say it: Maurice Maeterlinck!

[ 103 ] You know, distinguished guests, what he—[Maeterlinck]—has said since then about the German “barbarians”: Once again, the question echoes like a refrain: Why, then, if the matter is as they themselves say, do they call the people of Schiller and Fichte a “barbarian people”? For if we look at what is sacred to us, [if we consider] not only what Schiller and Fichte are to us, but also what they impose upon us as a duty—all that which we must defend both within their souls and from their souls as the German essence—then we arrive at a conviction [that is merely a rephrasing of what I have said]: One becomes more German ceaselessly, and Germanness stands before our soul as an ideal. Truly, we then sense something of the fact that it is ultimately the [innermost] “roots of the impulses of life” that lead to those highest fruits of the spirit, which find expression in Schiller’s courageous poetry and in Fichte’s courageous wisdom—which now stand upon the walls of Germany, which are now defended by cannons and swords [and other means] around German territory; thus we confidently feel the necessity of the life of the German spirit, feel with the times and within the times, and feel above all with the troops in the West and East who, with their fresh youth, defend the German spirit; and we feel this defense of the German spirit to be justified, for we sense that it was not merely something that once was, but that it contains the potential for what it is yet to become: an ever-rising quest for the spiritual and for what is ever more spiritual. And if “they” wish today to cut off the German spirit’s breath of life, and if they wish to take away its light of life, if they wish to oppress it down to its very physical [substance], the German knows that the German spirit has not yet reached its fulfillment, that what it has accomplished is only a beginning.

[ 104 ] And when we hear the term “barbarians,” [the term] “German culture that has grown old”—a culture that for a time had to find expression in that which today embodies the entire world, but which has a supreme spiritual heritage to defend—then let us once again ask ourselves this question: Why do they call the people of Schiller and Fichte a “barbarian people”? And then we answer—not by attempting to give a direct answer to this question; history will provide that answer, and we can calmly await history’s response. However, some things that need to be said regarding German aspirations and the humanities will be said tomorrow; [also in connection with our zeitgeist].

[ 105 ] But to the question that has been raised, we respond with the feeling that tells us: This German spirit has not yet reached its fulfillment. It still has work to do, and it must be allowed to retain the light and breath of life. We do not answer theoretically or abstractly; rather, I believe, esteemed audience, we answer from the depths of our hearts in response to all that is happening in this fateful, fate-laden time—we answer with the words:

The German spirit is not yet complete,
It lives in hopeful concern for the future,
It hopes for future deeds full of life; —
In the depths of its being, it feels powerfully
Something hidden that must still ripen and take effect.
How can the desire for its end, without understanding,
Come to life under the enemy’s power:
As long as life reveals itself to it,
Which sustains it creatively in the roots of its being?