The Rudolf Steiner Archive

1. The Feast of Pentecost, a Symbol of the Immortality of Our Self

[ 1 ] Just as in times past, holding a Pentecost reflection in the usual sense during this fateful time does not seem entirely appropriate to me; for we are living in an era of severe trials for humanity, and in such times it is not possible to always seek out merely uplifting feelings that warm our souls, since, after all, if we possess true and genuine feeling, we cannot for a single moment forget the great pain and suffering of our time; and in a certain sense, it is even selfish to want to forget this pain and suffering and to devote ourselves solely to reflections that are, so to speak, uplifting and warming to the soul. Therefore, it will be more appropriate today to speak about certain things that can serve our times—serve insofar as we have seen, precisely from the various reflections we have undertaken here recently, that many of the reasons for why we are now living in such a time of severe suffering are to be found in our spiritual condition, and how necessary it is to bear in mind that work must be done on the development of the human soul at the appropriate time, so that humanity may move toward better times. But I would like to begin, at least, with a few thoughts that can direct our senses toward the meaning of a festival such as Pentecost.

[ 2 ] There are, after all, three significant festivals in the course of the year: Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost. And if one has not, like most people of our time, become numb to the meaning of these festivals in the context of human and world development, then one must surely sense the profound difference between these three festivals. After all, these different feelings toward the three festivals are expressed in the outward symbolism of the festivities. We see Christmas celebrated above all as a festival of joy for the children, a festival in which—in our times, though not always—the Christmas tree plays a role, brought indoors from a world filled with snow and ice. And in doing so, we recall the Christmas plays that we have, in fact, staged several times within our own circle—plays that, over the centuries, have uplifted the simplest human spirit by directing that spirit toward the Great Event that occurred when, at one point in the course of Earth’s evolution, Jesus of Nazareth—that is, from Nazareth—was born in Bethlehem. The birth of Jesus of Nazareth is a festival to which, in a certain way, a world of feeling has naturally attached itself—a world born from the Gospel of Luke, from those parts of the Gospel of Luke that are, so to speak, the most folksy, the easiest to understand; thus, in a sense, a festival of what is most universally human, understandable, at least to a certain degree, for the child, understandable to the person who has retained a childlike spirit, and yet bringing into this childlike spirit something great, something immense, which we thereby take into our consciousness.

[ 3 ] We then see Easter celebrated—a festival that, even as it is celebrated against the backdrop of awakening nature, leads us to the gates of death; that Easter which, in contrast to Christmas, can be characterized above all by the following: While Christmas has much that is lovely, much that speaks to the human heart in the most universal way, Easter has something infinitely sublime. Something of immense magnitude must pass through the human soul that is able to celebrate Easter in the proper way. We are led to the immensely grand idea that the divine being descended, incarnated itself in a human body, and passed through death. The entire mystery of death and the preservation of the soul’s eternal life in death—all this sublimity—touches our souls through the Easter festival. One can only truly feel the depth of these festive times by recalling certain insights that spiritual science can bring to our attention. Just consider how closely this Christmas celebration, in the ideas it evokes, is connected to all the festivals that have ever been celebrated in connection with the births of saviors. It is linked to the Mithras festival, in which Mithras is born in a cave. All of this testifies to an intimate connection with nature. In a sense, it is a festival that does indeed draw close to nature—as symbolized by the Christmas tree—and the birth itself, in our imagination, brings us into direct contact with the natural world; yet because it is the birth of Jesus of Nazareth—to which so much is connected for us precisely through spiritual science—it in turn contains much that is spiritual. And if we recall, as we have often said, that the spirit of the earth actually awakens in winter, that it is most active at the very time when outer nature appears to be asleep and frozen, then we can say that it is precisely through the Christmas festival that we are led into the elemental nature, and that, as the Christmas candles are lit, they are meant to appear to us as a symbol precisely of how the spirit awakens in the darkness of the winter night—the spirit within nature. And if we wish to approach human beings and relate the Christmas festival to them, then we must say: We can do this above all by remembering that through which human beings remain connected to nature even when they have separated themselves spiritually from nature—as if in sleep—when they have ascended spiritually into the spiritual world through their ego and their astral body. His etheric body remains spiritually bound to the outer physical body, and his etheric body represents precisely that part of him which is of elemental nature—the elemental forces that come to life within the Earth when the Earth is shrouded in winter’s icy cold. It is more than a mere comparison; it is a profound truth when we say: Above all else, the Christmas festival is also a memorial to the fact that human beings have an etheric, elemental nature—an etheric body through which they are connected to the elemental forces of nature.

[ 4 ] And if you take into account everything that has been said over the course of many years about the gradual dulling and dampening of humanity’s forces, you will be able to grasp how closely all the forces that dwell in our astral body are, in essence, connected to the events that have a dampening, even deadly, effect on human beings. Because we must develop our astral body during our lifetime, and because we must take in the spiritual within it, we thereby carry the seeds of death within us. It is entirely incorrect to believe that death is connected to life only in an external way: as has often been said in our circle, it is connected to it in the most intimate way. And our life is only what it is because we can die the way we do. But for human beings, this is connected to the entire development of their astral body. And it is, in turn, more than a mere comparison when we say to ourselves: Easter is like a symbol of everything connected with the human astral nature—that nature through which, in every sleep, a person departs from their physical body and enters the spiritual world, the very world from which descended that spiritual-divine being who experienced death through Jesus of Nazareth himself. And if one were to speak in an age when the sense for the spiritual was more alive than in our own time, what I have just said would be taken more as a reality, whereas in our time it is perhaps taken more as mere symbolism. And people would realize that the very institution of Christmas and Easter is also intended to provide humanity with reminders of how it is connected to the elemental, spiritual, and physically death-bringing nature—or, in a sense, to remind us that human beings carry a spiritual element within their etheric and astral bodies. But these things have been forgotten in our time. They will come to the surface again when humanity resolves to acquire an understanding of such spiritual matters.

[ 5 ] In addition to the etheric body and the astral body, we carry within us, above all else, our “I” as a spiritual entity. We are aware of the complex nature of this “I.” But we also know how this “I” passes from one incarnation to the next, and how the inner forces of this “I” itself help to build and shape that which we, so to speak, take on with each new incarnation. In this “I,” we are reborn anew from every death in preparation for a new incarnation. This “I” is also what makes us an individual being. If we can say that our etheric body, in a certain sense, represents the birth-like aspect connected with the elemental forces of nature, and that our astral body symbolizes the death-bringing aspect connected with the higher spiritual realm, then we can say that the “I” represents our constant resurrection in the spiritual realm, our revival in the spiritual realm, in the entire spiritual world, which is neither nature nor the world of the stars, but rather that which permeates everything. And just as one can associate Christmas with the etheric body and Easter with the astral body, so too can we associate Pentecost with the “I” as the festival that represents the immortality of our “I,” which is a symbol of this immortal world of our “I,” and at the same time a symbol of the fact that we, as human beings, do not merely participate in general natural life, do not merely pass through death, but that we, as human beings, are immortal, ever-resurgent individual beings. And how beautifully this has, in fact, been expressed in the further development of the ideas of Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost! Just consider: Christmas is directly connected to earthly events, just as it is celebrated among us; it follows immediately after the winter solstice—that is, the time when the earth is shrouded in deepest darkness. In a sense, Christmas follows the natural rhythm of earthly existence: when the nights are longest and the days shortest, when the earth is frozen, we withdraw into ourselves and seek out the spiritual, insofar as it lives within the earth. Thus, it is a festival that is, so to speak, bound to the spirit of the earth. Through the Christmas festival, we are, in a sense, reminded again and again how we, as earthly human beings, belong to the Earth, how the Spirit had to descend from the heights of the world and take on an earthly form in order to be an Earth child himself among Earth children.

[ 6 ] It’s different with Easter! Easter, as you know, is linked to the relationship between the sun and the moon. It falls on the first Sunday after the spring full moon—the full moon that follows March 21. Thus, we see that the date of Easter is determined by the relative positions of the sun and the moon. We can thus see in what wonderful way Christmas is linked to the earthly realm, and Easter to the cosmic realm. At Christmas, we are reminded, as it were, of the holiest aspect of the earth; at Easter, of the holiest aspect of heaven. In a most beautiful way, the idea of something that—one might say—is even beyond the stars has become associated with the Christian feast of Pentecost. The universal spiritual fire of the worlds, which individualizes itself and descends upon the apostles in fiery tongues—the fire that is neither merely heavenly nor merely earthly, neither cosmic nor merely terrestrial—the fire that permeates everything, and the fire that at the same time individualizes itself and reaches out to every single human being! The Feast of Pentecost is connected to the whole world. Just as Christmas is connected to the earth, and Easter to the world of the stars, so is the Feast of Pentecost directly connected to human beings, insofar as they receive the spark of spiritual life from all worlds. We see, as it were, that which is given to humanity in general when the God-man descends to earth, prepared for each individual human being in the fiery tongues of the Feast of Pentecost. We see represented in the fiery tongues that which is present in human beings, in the world, and in the stars. And so, especially for those who seek the spiritual, this Feast of Pentecost takes on a particularly profound meaning, one that repeatedly calls us to seek the spiritual anew. I would like to say that in our time it is necessary to take these thoughts—including these festive thoughts—a little more deeply than they are taken in other times. For much will depend on how deeply one can take such thoughts, and on the way in which we will emerge from the painfully devastating events of our time. Souls will have to work their way out of this; one can already sense this in certain circles today. And I would like to say that precisely those who have drawn near to spiritual science should feel this necessity of our time with heightened sensitivity—a necessity that can be expressed as the need to revive spiritual life itself and to rise above materialism. We will only transcend materialism if there is the good will to kindle the spiritual world within ourselves—to, so to speak, truly celebrate the Feast of Pentecost inwardly and take it seriously within ourselves.

[ 7 ] In the reflections we have been making here over the past few hours, we have seen just how difficult it is for humanity today—precisely because of the circumstances of our times—to find the right path in this area. On the one hand, we are witnessing today a development of forces that cannot be admired enough, for which no feelings can be found that are sufficient to meet them. But once feelings become so necessary for the spiritual, then it will become clear just how essential it is that this inner Pentecost be celebrated by the human soul—that the human soul not forget this inner Pentecost. Not you, who have participated in these reflections for years, but others might easily think that there is something hypochondriacal, something critical, in some of what has been presented here in the most recent reflections. It does not seem to me that this is the case; on the contrary, it seems to me to be absolutely necessary to consider such matters as have just been raised in the recent meditations, so that we may know where to focus our spiritual efforts in the course of human development. And I would like to say: There are indeed others who also see what is essential in our present time.

[ 8 ] A lovely brochure has been published by Schiller’s great-grandson, Alexander von Gleichen-Rußwurm: Kultur-Aberglaube (Cultural Superstition), by Forum-Verlag in Munich. While reading this booklet, I was reminded of many things I felt compelled to speak to you about here. I was indeed compelled to speak of this—namely, how spiritual science should not merely remain lifeless, should not remain merely a theory, but should flow into the soul so that it enlivens our thinking, so that this thinking becomes truly discerning and flexible, enabling it to penetrate the challenges of the present. Following on from this statement about the necessity of enlivening thought, let me quote a few sentences from the pamphlet Cultural Superstition by Alexander von Gleichen-Rußwurm. He says:

[ 9 ] “For if we are all burdened by a share of the tragic guilt in this terrible tragedy, it is because, throughout Europe, despite our culture, schools, and educational opportunities, we have increasingly lost our ability to think for ourselves.

[ 10 ] Freedom of thought—it was not for nothing that the greatest poets had demanded you in the name of humanity. You grew weak, you withered away, you sank into oblivion and were as good as dead! Unfree, we parroted others; our power of thought was bound, crippled and weary.

[ 11 ] We had time, enthusiasm, and ambition for everything except actual thinking. “Even here”—mind you, it’s not me saying this: Schiller’s grandson, Gleichen-Rußwurm, says it!—“in the former land of thinkers, thought was the sublime stranger, a rare guest viewed only with unease.

[ 12 ] Reading and writing are of no use to us—indeed, they are only harmful—if we do not know how to think.

[ 13 ] Lately, everything has been geared toward weaning us off thinking: our education, art, leisure, work, social life, travel, and time at home.

[ 14 ] True culture, however, should above all teach people to think, for mere feelings and instincts are not enough to enable people and nations to live together in a tolerable manner.

[ 15 ] “This requires a sound, carefully cultivated political mind.”

[ 16 ] And going back a long way, in essence, GleichenRußwurm—Schiller’s great-grandson—argues that we have forgotten how to think. He says:

[ 17 ] “Since the Congress of Vienna—in 1815—the nations have made a certain effort to settle down together on this planet. Countless treaties and attempts of all kinds bear witness to this. People believed that by securing constitutions and suffrage, they could gain a real share in government and determine their own destiny”—and so on.

[ 18 ] But then he says: It won’t work without thinking. — He says this by painting a strange picture of the present—that present we must always think about, the one we can’t really forget for even a moment.

[ 19 ] “No! We hadn’t come very far indeed if all that could become reality—things that otherwise only outlandish poets would dream up, such a nameless, crazy jumble, more fantastical than ever even during the Migration Period. Senegalese murderers killed our poets, art historians groomed horses, and professors herded sheep.” — It’s truly no laughing matter! — “Theater directors issued death orders over the phone, and devout Indians tried to die properly on our battlefields according to their ancient rites. Architectural masterpieces crumbled into ruins, and shelters sprang up, worthy of cave dwellers. The millionaire starved and battled vermin, while the beggar sat down to abandoned banquets in the old castle. Doubtful characters were rehabilitated, and the most harmless people languished as civilian prisoners in jail and died there.”

[ 20 ] In a sense, this is what inspired Schiller’s grandson to entertain the idea of the need to revitalize thought. However, I cannot find any indication in his pamphlet or in his other writings that he set out to seek the proper sources for revitalizing thought.

[ 21 ] Yes, but it’s not at all easy these days to celebrate Pentecost in one’s soul. Here I have a book by a man who has actually made a sincere effort in recent years to understand even Goethe, to the extent that he was able to, and who has even made a sincere effort to gain some insight into our spiritual science. And this very man—who, as I said, has made a sincere effort in recent years to understand Goethe, and who is now immensely happy that he is beginning to understand Goethe—this very man—and this is very, very characteristic of the difficulties people face in entering into a spiritual life today—had, before doing what I have just told you, written 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 9 novels, 1, 2, 3—14 plays, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 books of essays. And now, in his latest book—which is thus his tenth book of essays—he says that he is now glad to have finally come to terms with Goethe and to be able to try to understand him. And one can indeed see from this tenth book of essays that he is making every sincere effort to understand Goethe. But just consider what all this means: that a man who has written so many novels and so many plays today—a man who is quite well-known—now, at about fifty or fifty-one years of age, admits that he is only now beginning to understand Goethe to some extent. That is a significant fact. Well, this latest book is titled Expressionism. The man who wrote it is named Hermann Bahr. And Hermann Bahr is also the man I’m telling you about—the one who is making every sincere effort to now get a little deeper into reading Goethe. Not even all of the plays are listed there, for he has written even more; he simply disowns the earlier ones. It’s not difficult for me to speak about this man, for the simple reason that I’ve known him since his student days, and because I used to know him quite well. You see, this is a man who has actually written about everything and produced many excellent works, and who says of himself: He was, in fact, an Impressionist his whole life, simply because he was born during the Impressionist era. Let’s now clarify in a few words what Impressionism actually is. We don’t want to argue about questions of art right now, but let’s make it clear what people like Hermann Bahr think about Impressionism. If we think back to Goethe’s art—and indeed to that of Schiller, Shakespeare, Corneille, Racine, Dante, or whoever you like—the greatness of their art lies in the fact that they perceive the external world and then process it spiritually. In art, what is perceived externally unites with what lives in the spiritual realm. Goethe did not consider works of art that strive less toward this union of the spirit with nature to be works of art at all. But in more recent times, something has emerged that has been called Impressionism, and Hermann Bahr grew up with Impressionism and was himself, as he is well aware, an Impressionist in every respect. When he judged paintings—he did, after all, write many essays on painting—he did so from the standpoint of Impressionism. When he wrote about it himself, he wanted to be an Impressionist, and he was one in his own way; he is one in his own way. Now, what does such a person understand by Impressionism in art? Well, by Impressionism he means that one actually has a hopeless fear of adding anything from the soul itself to what the external impression of nature provides. Yes, adding nothing from the soul itself! Music, then, could not actually come into being at all; but he excludes music. Architecture cannot come into being either. Architecture and music can therefore never be purely Impressionist. But in painting and poetry, it is possible. So, exclude as much as possible what the soul itself provides! That is why Impressionist painting attempted, in a sense, to depict an image of something at the very moment when one has not yet really looked at it, when one has not yet processed the impression internally in any way. As I said: looking—but now, if possible, before one has contributed anything of one’s own to the image that evokes the impression, capturing it immediately: Impressionism! This Impressionism has, of course, been interpreted in a wide variety of ways; but that is the essence.

[ 22 ] Hermann Bahr is a man who, as I once said in a public lecture in Berlin, always advocates with the greatest enthusiasm for whatever he currently considers to be right. When Hermann Bahr first arrived at the university in Vienna, he was very, very taken with socialism; he raved about socialism and was one of the most ardent social democrats one could imagine. One of his rejected plays, Die neuen Menschen (The New People), was written from a socialist perspective. I don’t think you can still get it today; it contains speeches—Social Democratic speeches—delivered by men and women that span many, many pages; it’s simply impossible to stage. Then the German nationalist movement began to gain more traction in Vienna. Hermann Bahr became a fervent nationalist and wrote his The Great Sin. Of course, that’s not included in the collection; it, too, is now disavowed. Then Hermann Bahr, after having been a socialist and a nationalist, reached the age at which one is conscripted in Austria—he became a soldier at the age of nineteen. He had left socialism and nationalism behind him; he now became a soldier—and a “fervent” one at that—adopting a thoroughly military worldview. He served for one year as a one-year volunteer. Then he went to Berlin for a short time. In Berlin, he became—not a fervent Berliner! That was the very thing he could least stand! So he never became a fervent Berliner. But then he went to Paris. And there he became a fervent follower of Maurice Barr&s and similar figures, and also—Boulanger was playing a major role at the time—a fervent Boulangist. I don’t want to stir up old matters, so I won’t tell you about the fervent Boulangist letters that the enthusiastic Hermann Bahr wrote from Paris back then. Then he went to Spain and became so passionate about Spanish culture that he wrote articles against the Sultan of Morocco and the meanness he displayed toward Spanish politics. Then he returned to Berlin and briefly edited the Freie Bühne there, though he never became a fervent Berliner. Then he went back and discovered Austria, bit by bit, in various stages! He is, after all, from Linz. Oh, pardon me—he also went to St. Petersburg and wrote his book on Russia, becoming a fervent Russian. That happened in between. Then he went back and discovered Austria in its most diverse aspects, in all its cultural histories, and so on. Always very witty, sometimes insightful. Bahr has truly always strived to present what he saw in such a way that he didn’t process it further intellectually, but merely conveyed the first impression. Now just imagine—that works very well, too, if you simply convey the first impression. Socialist: nothing more than the first impression; German nationalist: nothing more than the first impression; Boulangist: nothing more than the first impression; Russian, Spaniard, and so on. And now he has sought out the various spheres of Austrian identity. An extraordinarily interesting phenomenon in our intellectual life—there’s no doubt about that! —Now just think: he had reached the age of fifty, and suddenly Expressionism emerged—the opposite of Impressionism.

[ 23 ] Hermann Bahr has been speaking in Danzig for a number of years now—or rather, he used to speak there for a number of years. He always passes through Berlin on his way there! He is, in fact, very fond of the people of Danzig. He claims that when he speaks before the people of Danzig, they always inspire him with particularly witty thoughts—something that is actually not the case in any other German city, but only in Danzig. So he was asked—now by the people of Danzig as well—to speak about Expressionism. But he had been an Impressionist his whole life! Well, don’t you think so? Just imagine what that meant for Hermann Bahr. He’s been an Impressionist his whole life. Now Expressionism is just emerging. When he was very young and starting out as an Impressionist, people were by no means enchanted by Impressionist paintings; rather, the whole philistine crowd—and others, of course—regarded Impressionist paintings as nothing but daubing. That may well be true in some respects; as I said, we won’t argue about that now. But Hermann Bahr was “on fire,” and if you said even the slightest thing against an Impressionist painting, you were, of course, a philistine, a truly dreadful blockhead who clings to nothing but what has been handed down since time immemorial, someone incapable of rising to the level of humanity’s progress. Yes, one could hear plenty of such talk from Hermann Bahr. There were quite a few “sheep’s heads” out there!

[ 24 ] There was a coffeehouse in Vienna called Café Griensteidl, where these questions were always settled. It no longer exists; it was across from the old Kleines Burgtheater, on Michaeler Platz. Karl Kraus—known in Vienna as the “cheeky Kraus,” who published small pamphlets—later wrote a little book about the Café Griensteidl, which had already welcomed Lenau and Anastasius Grün as guests as early as 1848. When it was demolished, he wrote a little book titled “The Demolished Literature.” — By then, there was already much talk of the rise of Impressionism. Hermann Bahr, for years, had spoken at length about Impressionism, which ran like a common thread through his other transformations. But now he himself was getting older. Along came the Expressionists, Cubists, and Futurists, who in turn claimed that Impressionists of Hermann Bahr’s ilk were nothing but dull-witted fools who were merely rehashing the past. And now Hermann Bahr found that, when it came down to it, this didn’t really bother the other world all that much: the same old story! But it annoyed him, for he said to himself: I did the very same thing in my youth; I called all the others sheep’s heads, and now I’m supposed to be a sheep’s head myself. And why should those who now call me a sheep’s head be any less justified in calling me that than I was when I called the others sheep’s heads back then? — Isn’t that a terrible story! Of course, there was no other option—especially since Hermann Bahr had also been asked by the people of Danzig, whom he loved so dearly, to speak about Expressionism—than to take a closer look at Expressionism. And now the task is to find the right formula for Expressionism. Really, I’m not making fun of Hermann Bahr; I like him very much and would like to defend him in every way—I mean: I like him very much as an intellectual figure.

[ 25 ] But now the challenge for him was to come to terms with Expressionism. After all, isn’t it true that reaching the age of fifty only to be a fool in the eyes of the next generation is simply not enough for a mentally active person—especially when one has to discuss Expressionism in front of the people of Danzig, who inspire such good thoughts? Well, perhaps you’ve already seen Expressionist, Cubist, and Futurist paintings. Most people say when they see them: “Yes, we’ve put up with a lot, but we just can’t go along with this anymore!”—Isn’t that right: canvas, strokes, white ones running from top to bottom, red strokes crisscrossing them, then somehow something else in there that doesn’t resemble a leaf or a house or a tree or a bird, but rather all of them together and yet none of them at all.—But of course Hermann Bahr couldn’t put it that way. Yes, what is that? Now it dawned on him what it actually was, for he is truly a brooder and has become more and more of a brooder through his various metamorphoses. Now he said to himself—under the influence of the Danziger’s inspiration, of course—: The Impressionists took nature, captured it quickly, yes, without processing it internally; the Expressionists do the opposite. — That’s exactly what they do! Hermann Bahr has already understood them: They don’t look at nature at all! I mean that quite seriously: They don’t look at anything in nature at all, but they only see inwardly. That means, whatever is out there in nature—whether houses, rivers, elephants, or lions—doesn’t interest the Expressionist, because he sees inwardly. Now Hermann Bahr said to himself: If one wants to see inwardly, then inward seeing must be possible. — And what does he do? He turns to Goethe, reading all sorts of things in Goethe, such as the following. Goethe recounts:

[ 26 ] “I had the gift that whenever I closed my eyes and, with my head bowed, imagined a flower in the center of my vision, it did not remain in its original form for even a moment, but rather spread apart, and from its center new flowers unfolded from colorful—and perhaps even green—leaves; they were not natural flowers, but fantastical ones, yet as regular as the rosettes of a sculptor.”

[ 27 ] Goethe could do that: He closed his eyes, imagined a flower—and there it was, already appearing as a spiritual form; and then it transformed itself!

[ 28 ] “It was impossible to capture the surging creation; yet it lasted as long as I wished, neither waning nor intensifying. I could produce the same effect when I imagined the ornamentation of a colorfully painted disc, which likewise changed continuously from the center toward the periphery, just like the kaleidoscopes that have only recently been invented in our time ..

[ 29 ] Here, the phenomenon of the afterimage, memory, productive imagination, concept, and idea are all at play at once and manifest themselves in the organ’s own vitality with complete freedom, without intention or guidance.»

[ 30 ] Well, isn’t it true that if one is not familiar with Goethe and with the worldview of modern idealism and spiritualism, one cannot simply tie something to it right away—that, of course, is not possible. So Hermann Bahr turned his attention to the literature and came across the Englishman Galton, who had collected all sorts of statistical data—as is customary there—about people who see inwardly, just as Goethe also saw inwardly, as was evident from his description. In particular, he focused on a certain reverend. This reverend could conjure up an image in his imagination; then the image would transform on its own, and he could then, through his will, return it to its original form. This reverend describes this very beautifully. Hermann Bahr investigates these matters and gradually comes to the conclusion that there is such a thing as inner vision. You know, what Goethe describes there—Goethe knew other things as well—is only the very first beginning of an inner stirring of the etheric body. Hermann Bahr began to engage with such most elementary matters in order to understand Expressionism, because he came to the conclusion that Expressionism is based on such inner seeing of the most elementary kind. And now he went further. He then read the work of the early physiologist Johannes Müller, who so beautifully described this elementary inner vision at a time when natural science had not yet dismissed all these things as nonsense. And so Hermann Bahr gradually worked his way through Goethe’s writings and found it extraordinarily stimulating to read Goethe, to begin to understand him, and thereby to realize that inner vision exists. This is how he came to understand Expressionism: There, one does not need nature; rather, one captures on the canvas what one perceives in this elemental way of seeing. It will develop into something else later on—I have spoken about this here before. If one does not immediately see this as a stroke of genius, but rather as the very first beginning of what is to come, then perhaps one will do these people more justice than they do themselves in their own overestimation. But Hermann Bahr understands it this way and is led, in particular, to say to himself with tremendous enthusiasm: “Yes, there is not only external seeing, as one sees with the eye; there is also inner seeing!”—This chapter on inner seeing is very beautiful, and he is utterly delighted when he discovers the term “spiritual eye” in Goethe. Just think how many years we have been using this term! As I said, he has also tried to familiarize himself with what our spiritual science is. The book reveals that he has so far read Eugene Levy’s book, in which Levy describes my worldview. He does not seem to have gotten around to my books yet; but what is not yet may yet come to be. In any case, one can see that a person is working his way through the difficulties of the present, and that he is coming to take a stand on the most fundamental things, the very most fundamental. I must mention this because it shows how true what I have often said is: People today have an immensely difficult time emerging from the spirit of our times to reach the spiritual. Now imagine: a person who has written ten novels, fourteen plays, and just as many books of essays finally gets around to reading Goethe and working his way through his works; and in this somewhat belated encounter with this book—which is written with tremendous freshness—you can see the joy he experiences in finally understanding Goethe. Truly, I often sat with Hermann Bahr; it was impossible to talk to him about Goethe, for back then Goethe was, of course, a blockhead in his eyes, since he, too, was of the old, pre-Impressionist sort of people.

[ 31 ] I believe we need to consider just how difficult it is for people coming from today’s educational system to work their way through even the most basic elements that lead into the spiritual sciences. Yet these are the very people who, in a sense, hold the power of public opinion in their hands. For when Hermann Bahr came to Vienna, he edited a highly influential weekly magazine, Die Zeit. If someone were to claim today that numerous people in the Western world—whose judgment is highly valued—understand nothing of Goethe and therefore have no way of approaching spiritual science from their educational background—one can, of course, approach spiritual science even without a formal education —one would not believe it. But in Hermann Bahr we have living proof, because he himself, at the age of fifty, admits how happy he is to finally understand Goethe. It is, of course, something immensely sad to see how the man who has worked his way up to Goethe is now glad to find what he had sought in his very immediate surroundings when he was a young man; but at the same time, there is something immensely instructive, something immensely significant for our understanding of the times. It teaches us how today’s so-called intellectual elite lives in a world of ideas that are entirely removed from anything spiritual; how a man like Hermann Bahr first needed Expressionism to see that someone who ignores nature can still imagine something—and even paint it. Through this, he comes to realize that there is an inner vision, an inner spiritual eye. This is immensely significant. But it is intimately connected with the way in which such writers, such artists, and such art critics are coming of age today. The latest novel written by Hermann Bahr is characteristic of this trend.

[ 32 ] The novel is titled Himmelfahrt. From the novel’s conclusion, one can see that he is already beginning to display, almost in passing—while everything else runs through it like a common thread—a kind of fervent enthusiasm for Catholicism. He certainly didn’t have that before. But anyone familiar with Hermann Bahr will have no doubt that there is something of him in the character of Franz, whom he describes in this new novel. It is not exactly an autobiography or a biographical novel, but there is much of Hermann Bahr in this Franz. But how does such a man of letters develop today—not one who becomes a newspaperman; we won’t talk about how that sort develops, because the word “develops” should retain its original meaning—but someone who takes it really seriously and is an honest seeker, like Hermann Bahr: something of that rubs off on this Franz. And he describes how Franz gradually developed, how he searched. How, then, does he portray this Franz, onto whom he himself has rubbed off? This Franz actually tries to experience everything that the times have to offer, to get to know everything, to search for the truth everywhere. So he explored the sciences, first as a botanist under Wiesner—Wiesner was a very famous botanist in Vienna—then became a chemist under Ostwald, then an economist, and so on. So he goes through everything that the times have to offer. He could just as easily have become a Greek scholar under Wilamowitz, or studied philosophy under Eucken or Kohler. Then he was introduced to economics in Schmoller’s seminar; it could just as easily have been with Brentano or in some other seminar. Then he learned how to attempt to uncover the mysteries of the soul with Richet; it could just as easily have been with someone else. He sought to learn about psychoanalysis in a different way with Freud. And when none of this satisfies him, he goes to the Theosophists in London. So he is always searching for truth. And then, on one occasion, he even allows himself to be taught esoteric exercises by someone who was more reserved. Yet he does not pursue them for long; they do not bring him much joy for long. But he feels he must continue searching.

[ 33 ] In the end, Franz fell for it, because after searching high and low, he came across a medium. For years, this medium produced the most extraordinary manifestations—all sorts of things. Then the medium was exposed, after Franz—the hero of this novel—had long since fallen in love with her. But he leaves; he has to leave quickly, just as he always has to leave quickly. Well, he leaves quickly in this instance too, abandoning the medium to her fate. The woman is, of course—everyone pays some tribute to the times these days—exposed as a spy. Naturally, the novel was written only very recently.

[ 34 ] But there are many such people, especially among those who pass judgment on intellectual life today. And when it comes down to it: this is how one must imagine those who feel qualified to pass judgment today before they have even grasped the very first elements—unlike Hermann Bahr, who, in Expressionism, does discover something of the existence of inner vision, whereas the others who pass judgment do not. Hermann Bahr will, of course, realize today that he will judge many things differently than he did in the past. In the past, if he had, say, come across my Theosophy, he would naturally have judged it—well, I don’t know, there’s no need to quote Hermann Bahr’s exact words here—. Today he would say: Yes, there is an inner eye, there is inner vision; that, too, is a kind of Expressionism.” — That’s because he has arrived precisely at that inner vision which today finds its expression through Expressionism. But that doesn’t matter; those are the ideas. Inspired by the Danzigers, Hermann Bahr came to this conclusion and turned it into this book.

[ 35 ] I wanted to cite this merely as an example of how difficult it is today to work one’s way through this material, and how it is the responsibility of those who have a clear understanding and concept of what spiritual science aims to achieve to do everything possible, wherever feasible and necessary, to dispel these prejudices. When we know the underlying causes of these prejudices, and how even the “best” among us today—those who have written countless essays and plays—if they are sincere seekers, come to grasp the most elementary things only after they have passed the age of fifty, then one must surely say: One understands how difficult it is to make inroads with spiritual science today; for even the simplest mind would naturally embrace spiritual science, but it is held back by those people who judge from such underlying motives as I have described to you. |

[ 36 ] But after all, we experience all sorts of things in our time, and I have often pointed out how—I would say—materialistic thinking has already become second nature to our age, so that people really have no idea that they are actually conjuring up fantastical nonsense when they construct lofty theories. I have often entertained you with what is taught today as the Kant-Laplace theory, what is shown to children in school. It is taught to them so nicely—how the Earth was once a solar nebula, how it rotated, and how the planets then broke away. And what could be more convincing than this illustration with a drop: All you need is a tiny drop of oil, a piece of paper, cut it in half—along the equatorial plane—insert a needle, then spin it; the little “planets” split off so neatly, and then you say: “Now you see, that’s how it was out there on a grand scale, just as it happens here on a small scale.”—How could anyone possibly resist this line of reasoning? Of course, there would have to be a great Teacher out there in the cosmos who set it spinning, wouldn’t there? People usually forget that. But we mustn’t forget anything; all factors must be taken into account. But what if there isn’t a great Teacher or a great Professor standing in the cosmos, setting it in motion? People usually forget that because it’s too obvious. One might say it is already a great achievement if enough thinking people, drawing on what remains of idealism and spiritualism, come together to characterize this matter in its full significance. And that is why I must again and again point to the beautiful sentence in Herman Grimm’s book on Goethe. I also quoted it in the book of mine that will be published shortly. Herman Grimm says:

[ 37 ] “Long ago, even in his [Goethe’s] youth, the great Laplace-Kantian imagination”—see, Grimm calls it his imagination!—“regarding the formation and eventual demise of the globe had already taken hold. From the self-rotating cosmic nebula—children already learn this in school—the central protoplanet forms, which later becomes the Earth, and, as a solidifying sphere over inconceivable periods of time, undergoes all phases—including the episode of human habitation—only to finally plunge back into the sun as burnt-out slag; a long process, yet one entirely comprehensible to today’s audience, the continuation of which now requires no external intervention other than the effort of some external force to maintain the Sun at a constant temperature. — No more fruitless prospect for the future can be imagined than the one that is being imposed on us today as scientifically necessary in this expectation. A carrion bone that a hungry dog went out of its way to find would be a refreshing, appetizing morsel compared to this final excrement of creation, as which our Earth would ultimately fall back to the Sun, and the thirst for knowledge with which our generation accepts such ideas and presumes to believe them is a sign of a sick imagination—one that scholars of future epochs will one day devote much ingenuity to explaining as a historical phenomenon of our time.”

[ 38 ] In fact, people will wonder in the future: How on earth did humanity ever come to regard such nonsense as the truth—something that is, of course, already taught as truth in all schools today!

[ 39 ] “Never,” Herman Grimm continues, “did Goethe give credence to such desolate ideas … Goethe would surely have been careful not to draw the conclusions of the Darwinian school from what he himself had first observed in nature and articulated in this regard …”

[ 40 ] As you know, a more spiritual interpretation of Darwinism would lead to a different conclusion. What Herman Grimm meant—and what I have to say—is not directed against Darwinism as such, but against the materialistic interpretation, which has indeed arrived at what Herman Grimm, in an oral lecture, called a notion that violates human dignity: that humans evolved in a linear progression from lower animals, through apes, up to humans. — We know, of course, how much applause Huxley once received when—albeit from a bishop—he was met with every possible objection to the idea that humans are descended from apes. Huxley received much applause when he remarked at the time: He would much rather descend from the ape and have gradually worked his way up from an ape-like existence to his own worldview than to assert the lineage to which the bishop subscribed and then have worked his way down to that bishop’s worldview. — Such remarks are often very witty, but they always remind me of the anecdote about that little boy who comes home from school and tells his father: “Father, I’ve just learned at school that we all descend from apes.” — “What on earth are you thinking, you silly boy!” — “Yes, yes, Father,” says the boy, “we’re all descended from monkeys.” — “That may be true for you,” says the father, “but not for me!” — I have, after all, often drawn your attention to all sorts of logical blunders that run counter to genuine thinking and lead to such a materialistic interpretation of the Darwinian view.

[ 41 ] But in our time, everything really is taken to new extremes. Nothing is yet at the point where people say, “We’ve already come a wonderfully long way with this”—instead, they go even further, taking it even further! I could tell you about a man who is terribly furious that philosophy exists, and that there have been so many philosophers in the world who have always been devising philosophies. He rants and raves against all philosophy in the most dreadful way. And now, in recent times, this man has once again had quite a lot of his rants against philosophy printed, and he wants to find a particularly pithy sentence through which he can vent all his fury on philosophy. So he has found the following sentence, which I’d like to read to you so that you can hear it verbatim, for it is, after all, good to know what is currently being thought about philosophy—the very discipline through which people seek to arrive at the truth, and through which much has indeed been accomplished, as you will also see from the book I am set to publish in the near future. This man says: “We have no more philosophy than an animal.” He thus not only claims that we are descended from animals, but he even proves that with the highest thing humanity has sought so far—philosophy—one truly does not go beyond the animal, because one cannot know anything more than an animal can know. He is entirely serious when he says that we cannot know more than an animal: “We have no more philosophy than an animal, and only our frantic attempts to arrive at a philosophy—and our ultimate resignation to ignorance—distinguish us from the animal.” — So the only thing that distinguishes us from animals is that we understand we know nothing, just like an animal; and this man dismisses the entire history of philosophy by attempting to prove that all of it consists of frantic attempts by philosophers to move beyond this simple truth: that we know no more about the world than an animal does. You will ask me: Who on earth could put forward such a convoluted view of philosophy? I think you might be interested to know who could hold such an unbelievable view of philosophy. You see, the person who holds this view of philosophy is a professor of philosophy at the University of Czernowitz! This man wrote a book many years ago titled The End of Philosophy, wrote another titled The End of Thought, and has now written a book titled The Tragicomedy of Wisdom, which contains statements like these! — So this man fulfills his duty as a professor of philosophy at a university by convincing his attentive audience that humans know no more than animals! He is Professor Dr. Richard Wahle, full professor of philosophy at the University of Chernivtsi.

[ 42 ] It’s actually quite good to take a closer look at such things, because they show us just how “wonderfully far” we’ve come. And it is indeed necessary, as I said, to take a closer look at these necessities of life, which consist in the fact that the time has truly come when people must resolve to take this inner Pentecost seriously, to kindle the light in their souls, and to take in the spiritual within themselves. Much will depend on there being at least a few people in the world who understand how, in our time, the inner Pentecost of the soul can—and indeed must—be celebrated.

[ 43 ] I don't know how much longer it will take to finish my book; I'll have to stay there until then. So maybe we'll be able to talk again in eight days, perhaps even today.