Goethe's Secret Revelation
GA 57
22 October 1908, Berlin
Translator Unknown
I. Goethe's Secret Revelation: Exoteric
Whoever follows the history of human development, not only in the usual documents and traditions, but goes rather deeper into things which though at first appearing only symptomatic of that development, really point the way to the inner and therefore true forces of evolution, will find renewed significance in a memorable scene at the end of the eighteenth century. An address based on the highest contemporary Science was given to the Natural Science Society at Jena by a very important Botanist of the day called Batsch. Two men, one some ten years older than the other, listened to this address, and it happened that they left the place together and fell into conversation. The younger said to the elder: ‘When one considers such an address, it shows once again how the scientific method of observation picks things to pieces, sets one by the side of another, and scarcely takes into consideration the homogeneous spiritual bond existing in all the different units.’ In other words it seemed wrong to the younger man that plant should be put side by side with plant without any reference to a higher something, which must also exist in the world, uniting the various plants.
The elder man replied: ‘It might perhaps be possible to find a method of studying nature, which goes to work differently, and which in spite of being a study which must lead to knowledge, has, as its aim, the unifying element, namely that which is absent in external observation by the various senses.’ The man took a pencil and a piece of paper from his pocket and at once drew a remarkable shape, a shape that resembled a plant, but no existing plant, to be seen or perceived by the outward physical senses, a shape which, as it were, exists nowhere and of which he said that it existed indeed in no individual plant, but was the ‘plant-hood,’ the proto-plant type which existed in all plants and represented the unifying element. The younger man looked at it and said: ‘Yes, but what you have drawn there is not an experience, not observation, that is an idea’—having in mind that only the human spirit could form such ideas, and that such an idea had no significance for external, so-called objective nature.
The elder man was unable to understand this objection at all, for he replied: ‘If that is an idea, then I see my ideas with my eyes!’ He meant that just as an individual plant is visible to the external sense of sight, and is an experience, so his proto-plant, although invisible by means of an external sense, was objective, existent in the outer world, living in all plants, the archetype in all individual plants. You know that the younger of these two men was Schiller, the elder Goethe.
This conversation is a symptomatic, significant indication of modern spiritual science.
What really prompted that reply of Goethe's to Schiller? There spoke in him the consciousness that one does not only grasp an external objective truth with that representation given by the external sense, and furnished by a limited understanding from external sense-perceptions, but that the human being, when he sets in motion higher spiritual forces, which are not applied to separate sense-observations, arrives at truth and reality just as one does by means of external sense perceptions.
We may well say that Schiller, who at that moment was incapable of realizing what lay behind, when he believed that Goethe had made his drawing in terms of subjectivity, has left us the finest testimony of man's capacity to scale the heights as revealed to him by Goethe. From that moment we see Schiller's ever increasing comprehension of Goethe's ideas. A letter of his provides a psychological document of the first importance, where he says: ‘For a long time, although from a distance, I have watched the progress of your spirit with ever renewed admiration, and noticed the path you have set yourself. You seek the necessity of nature, but on the most difficult road, from which indeed any weaker power would draw back. You take all nature as one in order to obtain light on each separate part, and you seek the explanation of the individual in the “all” of its phenomena. You ascend from the simple organism, step by step to the more complex, in order finally to erect genetically from the materials of all nature's structure the most complex of all, the human being. You seek to penetrate into his hidden technique, by re-creating him in the manner of nature. A great and truly heroic idea which sufficiently shows to what extent your spirit holds together the rich totality of its conceptions in a beautiful unity.’
Thus we may regard as a testimony to the objectivity of Goethe's idea-world that which in his consciousness brought forth such a reply, and which Schiller later confirmed in this letter.
It is remarkable that Heinroth, a psychologist who lived in the twenties of the nineteenth century and is to-day forgotten, uttered a very significant phrase about Goethe in his Anthropology, which is really a psychology—one of those phrases which are significant through their application, and throw great light on what they are meant to illumine. He used the phrase, speaking of Goethe's whole method of approach, ‘objective thinking’ and he enlarged upon the phrase by saying: Goethe's thinking is a quite peculiar thinking, really inseparable from the objectivity of things, resting quietly in objects, in which it is raised to ideas.
Now whoever is able to look into Goethe's whole spiritual organism—as we shall to-day and the day after tomorrow, when we shall try to penetrate still deeper into this question, when we shall consider more inwardly what we are to have presented to us to-day outwardly—will see that in this thought he adheres to facts without stopping merely at the surface of things and the experience of the senses, and finds within these facts the spiritual, the world of ideas. We see that for this reason Goethe's thought has become so important for a large part of our modern human development. We may say that there is something exceedingly remarkable in this effect of Goethe's spirit on the most diverse types of people, on the most varied views even on the different successive epochs.
Let us consider for a moment the point at issue and we shall see what unique results Goethe's spiritual standard has in fact produced. If we take three philosophers of German spiritual life, who are quite different from each other in their points of view, Fichte, Hegel and Schopenhauer, we find from a study of their mutual relationships and of their relationships to Goethe something quite remarkable about Goethe's influence on history. Fichte reveals himself as a thinker, wandering on remote heights, especially when he had finished his Foundation of Science at Jena in 1792. It is difficult to rise to an understanding of Fichte's peculiarity, it is difficult to penetrate to him, although everyone who has succeeded must admit that he has gained food for spiritual discipline from him to an extraordinary degree. But it is not for every man to ascend to such spheres of the purest concept. Fichte, who wandered on these heights of abstraction, particularly at that moment, sent his work to Goethe with the following significant words: ‘I see and have always seen in you the purest representative at the present stage of humanity of the spirituality of feeling. To your feeling therefore, philosophy rightly turns. The spirituality of your feeling is the normal standard for philosophy.’ Thus Fichte to Goethe.
Let us look now at another philosopher, at Schopenhauer, and let us see first how Schopenhauer stood to Fichte. They were, in truth, a hostile pair—at least Schopenhauer was very hostile to Fichte. Schopenhauer never wearied of abusing Fichte. To him he is a windbag, thinking and writing empty ideas. He repeatedly emphasizes how unreal and meaningless Fichte's philosophy is. In fact there could not be a greater contrast than these two. And Schopenhauer indeed went to Goethe to be taught. For a time he experimented together with Goethe in order to learn the fundamental physical concepts, and a good deal in his first work, and even in his chief work is derived from the impression Goethe made on him. If you know Schopenhauer, you know also with what homage he spoke of Goethe. Schopenhauer and Fichte—two great contrasts unite in Goethe, and he seems like the unifying force of each.
Let us take finally Hegel and Schopenhauer. Hegel is also difficult to reach with the understanding. He tries to create a fact-world of concepts in a comprehensive, systematic frame, and demands that man should lift himself to a stage where he grasps concept as fact, where he is capable of experiencing it directly. Schopenhauer finds in this something entirely worthless, merely a playing with abstract words. If we wish to know Hegel's relation to Goethe, we need mention only one instance and we shall see how they stand. There is a beautiful letter in which Hegel writes: ‘Goethe seeks behind the sense-revelations the actual spiritual phenomena, which he calls the proto-phenomena, as he calls the proto-plant the proto-phenomenon of the vegetable world. While he speaks from the heights of the spiritual world as philosopher and shows us what we can think and comprehend, he works himself on the other hand up to the point where he comes into touch with spirit-created thoughts. Thus Goethe's proto-phenomenon is united with what the pure, thinking philosophy derives from above.’
Here also we see a harmony between Hegel and Goethe, as between Goethe and Schopenhauer. In Goethe they find themselves united. And when we proceed from these older times to our own, what do we find?
In Goethe's lifetime research in Natural Science was different. More than then the only right method of strict Science to-day is considered to be a research relying on external sense-observations and the formal working out by the mind of what is limited by the obscuration of the results thus obtained. But a Haeckel, as he shows in every book, is determined to stand on the firm ground of Goethean world-conception, and so we see a more materialistically coloured philosophy emphasizing the importance of relying on Goetheanistic world-conception. You can find books to-day written on a basis for which the spirit is an absolute reality in the highest sense of the word, and in them you can trace the debt to Goethe. Spiritualistic and materialistic students can fight from opposite camps, but both believe they may look up to Goethe in the same way. He thus provides something which bridges the gulf between opponents.
These facts testify to the force of Goethe's world-conception, a force which has such an influence on others that though they do not understand each other, they find something in Goethe which they have themselves. Perhaps some of you know how widely apart Virchow and Haeckel stood from each other. But Virchow also, who saw eye to eye with Haeckel in so few things, has in an important address on Goethe equally found support in him. So in Goethe we see a power, which, in face of all the contradictions and struggles of world-conceptions, is able to show, that things are not what these representatives of science consider, and for which they so stubbornly fight.
It is just when you consider the relation of these important people to Goethe, that you realize that it is the same towards what is called knowledge as it is with different painters, sitting round a mountain, and painting it from different points of view. The resultant pictures must also of course be different, though it is the same mountain they paint. You will get a comprehensive idea of the mountain only by comparing the various representations with each other and compounding them into a whole. If you put yourself in the same position with regard to knowledge, you will see that Goethe does not select a single point of view, but rather scales the mountain and shows that it is possible to take up a position on the summit and there to find a comprehensive panorama, in which all views are revealed in their deeper consistency or interconnection.
It is this which makes Goethe's spirit so eminently modern, and if in plunging deep into Goethe we get the feeling that he appears to us a modern, it will be a sufficient justification if in our frequent studies here of spiritual science and a world-conception based on the spiritual, we consider what he did and wanted to do as a kind of invitation to penetrate deeper into his nature. If he is a stimulating spirit in so many respects, why should he not also be a stimulant for that spiritual tendency (Spiritual Stream) one of whose highest and most beautiful aims is a tolerant investigation into the different standpoints of world-conceptions, and which makes it a principle not to stand still on one fixed point, but, in order to find truth, to climb ever higher and higher by means of methods applied to inner development and growth of inner organs of perception, because thus alone can one see the deeper spiritual foundations? We shall now consider how far Goethe coincides with the deepest feelings of modern mankind on a narrowly limited subject. As an example we shall choose a feeling many of you know, which can be described by saying that there are many people to-day who strive to throw overboard old traditions, and create feelings, thoughts and ideas which lead direct to the present time. You will see at once what I mean when I remind you of a picture which many to-day cherish. You can take what attitude you like to the picture, but it is an expression of the contemporary age. I refer to the picture: ‘Komm, Herr Jesus, sei unser Gast’—‘Lord Jesus, come and be our Guest.’ The picture lives not only in its creator, but also in those who would enjoy it; they feel the longing to see the figure of Jesus in their immediate presence, as is represented near the table. One might say that the picture has not only value for this age, but for all ages, that it is there eternally and cannot pass away and that every age has the right to put this figure into its own epoch. These few words alone will indicate the feeling which many have towards this picture.
Now one might believe that in these things Goethe belonged still to the ancients—a conclusion one would draw from his preference for the old art, with its old, sound, artistic traditions, and his preference for the Greeks; one might believe Goethe had no understanding of the emotion expressed in this picture—‘Lord Jesus, come and be our Guest.’ In order to get a glance into Goethe's soul let us refer to a book by Bossi on Leonardo da Vinci's ‘Last Supper.’ Goethe wrote a criticism of this book, and in it there are significant words. Of this picture which is in the refectory of the Santa Maria delle Grazie cloister at Milan and in spite of recent restoration looks as if it would soon disappear, Goethe relates how he stood in front of it at a time when it still had a certain freshness. He describes the impression which he once got from this picture in his youth: ‘Opposite the entrance in the narrower wall, in the body of the hall stood the Prior's table, on each side the monks' tables, all raised from the floor on a dais, and now when you had come in and turned round, you saw the fourth table painted on the fourth wall, above the fairly low doors; and at it Christ and His Disciples, just as if they belonged to the company.’—He, summoned by the Dominicans in their sense and in their place, with the emotional thought ‘Lord Jesus, come and be our Guest.’ The whole, says Goethe, made a unified picture. And not to leave any doubt as to his meaning he adds: ‘It must have been a significant sight at meal-times, when the tables of the Prior and of Christ looked across at each other like two opposite pictures and the monks found themselves in between. And therefore the painter in his wisdom had to take the monks' tables as his model. And it is certain the table-cloth with its creases, its striped pattern and its open corners, was taken from the linen-room of the Cloister, and the dishes, plates, mugs and other utensils were copied from those the monks used. There was thus no question of approximation to an uncertain, old-fashioned costume. It would have been extremely clumsy to have made the Holy Company lie on cushions. No, it had to resemble the present; Christ was to take his Evening Meal with the Dominicans of Milan.’
And now let us ask whether Goethe had this understanding which we must call a modern understanding. He had it in that comprehensive manner which is another proof of how universal his powers are as against the sometimes one-sided powers which mutually exclude and fight each other.
We must put ourselves into Goethe's soul in this way and then we shall understand why Goethe stands so close to us and why we look up to him whenever the current attitude to deeper spiritual questions is under discussion. It was his deep consciousness that it is possible for man to awake in himself spiritual organs in order to ascend to higher conceptions, and thereby to gain something which not merely lives in the human spirit, but at the same time lies deeper.
Were it possible to enter upon Goethe's scientific studies, as you will find them discussed in detail in my book, Goethe's World-Conception, we should be able to show the working of his whole method. But to-day we want to approach him from another side. Goethe has expressed things here and there which indicate the deep foundation of his philosophy. We shall have to speak of this in the last two addresses of this winter's cycle on ‘Faust.’ [See note on publications at end of book. {There is none! - e.Ed}] He once said to Eckermann concerning Faust, that he had drawn him in such a way that the reader who is content only with externals has some satisfaction in the colourful scenes, but that he can also find behind the words the secrets which lie there. Here Goethe is pointing out in Part II that we have to differentiate between the external and the inner essential secret meaning. In accordance with ancient custom we describe the external as the exoteric and the other as the esoteric.
Now we shall approach Goethe by considering to-day in an external, exoteric way a work in which he expressed his whole ‘methodical thinking and willing;’ and the day after tomorrow we shall consider it esoterically.
It is a comparatively unknown little work of Goethe's to which we must go if we want to look into his deepest secrets of knowledge—we merely describe them as such. It is the little piece at the end of the ‘Conversations of German Emigrants,’ under the title, ‘Legends,’ from which the reader, if he strives to get Goethe's world-conception, will get the feeling that Goethe wishes to say more in it than appears from the scenes. For the thoughtful student this ‘Legend of the Green Snake and the Beautiful Lily’ will provide riddle after riddle.
And now allow me to explain the chief features of this story, for I cannot talk about it unless we recall the important points, if we are to look more deeply into Goethe's philosophy. We shall therefore have to give a moment to the content of this little work; and after that we shall understand each other better in what we shall have to say. I have often had it said to me when I have lectured on this story, ‘I never knew there was a “legend” in Goethe's works;’ and so I repeat that it is contained in every edition of Goethe and constitutes the ending of the ‘Conversations of German Emigrants.’
Now to the scenes. A Ferryman lives by a River and to him come remarkable forms—Will-o'-the-Wisps. They want to be put across to the other side by the Ferryman in his boat. The Ferryman agrees to take them across. On the way they behave in a curious manner; they are restless and fidgety, so that he is afraid they will upset the boat. But they arrive safely and then they propose to pay him in an odd way. They shake themselves and golden pieces fall from them, and they are the reward for his trouble in taking them over. The Ferryman is not enthusiastic about the golden pieces and says: ‘It is a good thing that nothing has fallen into the river, for it would have surged up wildly. I cannot take this payment; I can be paid only with the fruits of nature.’ And he demands three Onions, three Artichokes and three Cabbages. They had to pay with fruits of the earth. We shall soon see what deep significance every point and every fact has.
The Ferryman continues: ‘Now you give me the extra trouble of taking down the river the golden pieces you've thrown about and I must bury them.’ Wherefore he takes them actually a short way downstream and buries them in the crevices of the earth. When they have been thus buried, another remarkable being comes along to them—the Green Snake, who crawls in and on and about the earth and through its crevices. Suddenly she sees the pieces of gold falling down through the cracks of the earth and thinks at first they are falling from Heaven. She therefore devours them and becomes, by thus taking the golden pieces into her own body, more and more luminous. As she comes to the surface she notices that she gives off a peculiar light in a marvellous manner and gleams like emerald and precious stones.
Now the Snake and the Will-o'-the-Wisps come together, the latter still shaking themselves and throwing away what they shake out, the Snake, having acquired a taste for gold, taking up and swallowing what the others throw about. The conversation between them is significant. The Snake calls herself a relative of the Will-o'-the-Wisps in a horizontal line, the Will-o'-the-Wisps call themselves relations of the Snake in a vertical line. They ask the Snake moreover if she could not inform them how to come to the Beautiful Lily. ‘Oh,’ says the Snake, ‘the Beautiful Lily is on the other side of the River.’ ‘Well, then we've done a fine thing,’ answer the Will-o'-the-Wisps, ‘we've just had a lift across because we wanted to come to the Beautiful Lily. If we could only find a Ferryman who would ferry us back again!’ And now follow very important words. ‘You will not find the Ferryman again, and if you did, be certain that he may indeed take you across, but not back again. If you want to get to the other side of the River, there are only two ways. Either you try at noon, when the sun is at its highest, to find a bridge over my own body, in order to cross’—The Will-o'-the-Wisps say, ‘We do not like journeying at midday’—‘Or you use the second way; for there is another possibility. At dusk you will find the huge Giant at a certain place. He has no strength in him, but when he stretches out his hand and its shadow falls across the river, you can cross over on the shadow. The shadow gives enough support to walk over on it. So if at midday you will not cross over me, you must find the Giant.’
The Will-o'-the-Wisps let themselves be told this, but the Snake has returned into the crevices, rejoicing in her increasing light-giving power through swallowing the gold.
And now the Snake notices something extremely odd. On descending again into the earth, she notices that where she had formerly found metals and so on, she now sees remarkable forms. Before, she had perceived them only through the sense of touch; now, being luminous, she can also see the things. She was able to feel pillars and also shapes like human beings, but till then she never really knew what there was in the underground caves. Now she enters again and her radiating light serves to illuminate everything.
On entering this large cavern under the earth, the Snake can at once perceive that there are four kingly figures standing in the four corners: a Golden King, a Silver King, a Brazen King, and in the fourth corner a Mixed King, put together in the gayest manner of all kinds of other metals.
The moment the Snake enters the cavern and lights up the figures, the Golden King puts the very significant question: ‘Whence comest thou?’
‘From the crevices, where the gold lives,’ answers the Snake.
‘What is more splendid than gold?’ asks the Golden King.
‘Light,’ is the Snake's reply.
The King asks further: ‘What is more comforting than Light?’
‘Speech.’
No one will doubt that these words are not meant to give just pictures, but that they also have a significant content.
As the Snake enters the cavern a crack opens in the Temple where the four Kings live and there enters the Old Man with the Lamp. He is asked why he comes at that moment, whereupon he says the remarkable words: ‘Do you not know that my lamp may illumine only what is already illumined? that I may not lighten the Darkness?’ After the Snake has lit up the objects in the room he may also come in with his wonderworking Lamp.
Now a conversation takes place between the Kings and the Old Man with the Lamp. He is asked:
‘How many secrets do you know?’
‘Three,’ he answers.
‘Which is the most important?’ asks the Silver King.
‘The open one,’ replies the Old Man.
‘Will you open it also to us?’ asks the Brazen King.
‘As soon as I know the Fourth.’
And now come the most significant words of the whole story:
‘I know the Fourth,’ said the Snake, and whispers something into his ear; whereupon the Old Man with a great voice cries out:
‘The time is at hand!’
There are a great number of attempts to solve the riddles of this story, and many people have tried to explain in one way or another what was felt to be a riddle even in Goethe's and Schiller's time. It is characteristic that Goethe and Schiller agreed about it and pronounced it explicitly in the words: the word that solves the story is in the story itself. So the solution has to be sought in the story itself, and in the course of my address it will be found to be so, though in a remarkable way. The Snake whispers something into the Old Man's ear, and what is whispered, but not spoken, is the solution of the riddle. The Old Man then says: ‘The time is at hand!’ So what we have to find out is what the Snake whispered to the Old Man in the subterranean Temple.
The Old Man now proceeds to the dwelling-place of his Wife. Through the power of the Lamp's light the most diverse materials are metamorphosed: stones into Gold, wood into Silver, dead animals into Precious Stones, but Metals are destroyed. He finds his Wife in an almost unconscious state. When he asks what has happened, she says: ‘There were quite extraordinary people here. One might have taken them for Will-o'-the-Wisps. They behaved pretty badly.’ ‘Well,’ says the Old Man: ‘considering your age, no doubt they were decently polite.’ Then she relates how the Will-o'-the-Wisps went for the Gold and licked it, so that they could shake it out again. ‘If it had been no worse than that—but just look at the Pug-dog. He ate of the golden pieces, was changed into precious stone, and died. Now he's dead,’ the Old Woman continues: ‘Had I known this before, I should not have promised them to pay their debt to the Ferryman, namely, three Cabbages, three Onions and three Artichokes.’
‘Well,’ says the Old Man, ‘take the Pug-dog and carry him to the Beautiful Lily, who has the quality of being able to change precious stone into life by touching it.’ So she takes the three times three fruits, to pay off the debt she has undertaken to the Ferryman, and takes the Pug-dog as well.
Now we come to a very significant point in the story. As she carries the basket, it seems unusually heavy, although anything dead has no weight for her; the basket with the dead dog alone would be no heavier than if it were empty; the living things, the Cabbages, Onions and Artichokes alone weigh down the basket. On the road to the Ferryman, another singular thing happens to her. The Giant holds his arm so that its shadow falls across the River, seizes one Cabbage, one Artichoke and one Onion out of the basket and devours them, so that she has now only two of each kind left. She proposes therefore to pay off only a part of the debt to the Ferryman. But he says that it is absolutely necessary to bring the whole of it at one time.
After considerable argument the Ferryman says there is a possible way out, namely, if she goes bail for the production of the three missing fruits. She must therefore put her hand into the river, as security that she will keep her promise. This she does, but notices that her hand as far as it is immersed in the River has become black and smaller. ‘Now it only looks like it,’ said the Old Ferryman, ‘but if you do not keep your word, it might become a fact. The hand will gradually dwindle and finally disappear, but without your losing the use of it. You will be able to do everything with it, but no one will see it.’ She prefers, however, to have a visible hand, even if it is useless. If she brings the tribute at the agreed time, the Ferryman says everything will be all right.
On the way to the Beautiful Lily, she meets a handsome Youth, who, however, as he says, has lost all his former power and strength, and we learn from their conversation how this has happened. The Youth had conceived the active desire to reach the Beautiful Lily. She had become his Ideal. But her lovely eyes had such a baneful effect that they deprived him of all his strength, and still he was ever attracted to her.
At length the two come to the Beautiful Lily. Everything, indeed, that surrounds her is highly indicative, but we can now select only a few points. The Beautiful Lily is the image of most perfect Beauty, but her touch possesses the power of killing everything that lives, and restoring to life everything that has gone through life and died.
The Old Woman now presents her requests. The Youth has come to satisfy his longing for the Beautiful Lily, but we see that she also feels a longing: she feels herself cut off from all living fruitfulness; in her garden flourish flowers, but only to the point of bloom, not to that of fruit; beautiful she is, but far from all life. The Old Woman then says something significant: she repeats what the Man in the subterranean Temple had said and that gives the Lily new hope. It was indeed the last moment in which she could receive any hope, for she had lost the last living thing, which had been a sort of link between her and the living. She had had a Canary in her neighbourhood, and had taken great care not to disturb it, since that would have killed it. But a Hawk had come near, the Canary fled from it and flew up against the Lily and was killed. And so the Beautiful Lily was reduced to complete spiritual loneliness and isolation from all that human beings have.
The Old Woman now gives the Pug to the Lily. The Lily touches him and thereby restores him to life. The Youth tries to calm his longing by embracing the Lily and thereby he is killed. Life is completely annihilated in him.
The Snake next forms a Magic Circle; and the Youth and the Canary are put inside it. By this means—and the Snake points this out significantly—what is hopeless is to be quickly altered, and in fact it is so. We learn that the Old Man with the Lamp now approaches and that through him a solution of the whole situation can be actually attempted. For there is still just time when he arrives; the bodies of the Canary and the Youth have not yet begun to decay.
The Old Man leads them towards the subterranean Temple, which the Snake had already reconnoitred. He says to the Will-o'-the-Wisps: ‘You are also there to help us. When we come to the Gates of the Temple, you will have to be the ones to unlock them.’ The Snake makes a bridge over the River and the whole company proceeds over it. Then we see, when they have arrived on the other side, that through the contact with the Snake, who now decides to sacrifice herself, the Youth becomes alive again, though not yet in possession of his spirit. And because the Snake is prepared to sacrifice herself, the Youth is translated into a remarkable state. He can see, but cannot understand what he sees. The Snake divides up into numerous wonderful precious stones, which the Old Man sinks in the River and thereby a bridge is formed over it. The procession moves on under the guidance of the Old Man into the subterranean Temple. As they enter we see that questions full of meaning are exchanged between the newcomers and the Kings. For instance: ‘Whence come ye?’ ‘From the World.’ ‘Whither are ye going?’ ‘Into the World.’ ‘What do ye want with us?’ ‘You to accompany!’ (i.e. the Kings.)
Now the group, with the Temple, begins to move. They go under the River and rise again, with the whole Temple, on the other side, and as when they have risen something that looks like woodwork falls into the Temple. It is the Ferryman's Hut. It changes and becomes a small Temple inside the large one. And now takes place a scene which is important for the Youth, who, you remember was until now alive, but not spiritualized.
We have seen that the first, the Golden King, represents Wisdom; the second or Silver one, Illusion, Semblance or Beauty; the third Brazen one, Strength or the Will. We now see a symbolic act taking place. The Youth is presented with three different gifts by the three Kings; the Brazen King with the Sword, accompanied by the significant words: ‘The Sword on the left hand, the right free,’—Will-power. From the Silver King he receives the Sceptre, with the words,—‘Tend the Sheep.’ We shall see that the Youth is filled with the feeling of the soul, which expresses itself in Beauty. The Golden King sets the Crown on his head, saying: ‘Recognize, Realize the Highest.’ And the power of imaginative thought enters the Youth. At this instant he is spiritualized, he gains his spirit and may be united with the Beautiful Lily. We are then also told that everything is made young.
What is still specially significant is the part played by the Giant, who has no strength in himself, but in his shadow. He staggers clumsily over the bridge and the King is indignant about it. But it turns out that the Giant's coming has a good meaning. Like the pointer of a great Sun-dial, he is held fast in the middle of the Temple Court. We see what strength we find in the Sun-dial, in the Giant pointing to and harmonizing Time, and we see how the bridge leading to the Temple across the River is made out of the Snake's body. We see also that not only pedestrians, but carts, horsemen and herds can cross to and fro. We are shown how the Youth, on being united with the Beautiful Lily, regains the strength of which her touch had deprived him, how he may now come near to her and embrace her and how happy and blessed they both are.
Who would not say, when he studies the scenes of the fairy tale: ‘These are riddles!’ For the moment we can get only a slight idea of what there is in this legend. But if we proceed historically, if we consider that it arose in the middle of the year 1800 at the beginning of his friendship with Schiller and what took place between Goethe and Schiller, we shall understand what Goethe set out to do in this story.
To this period belongs the production of a work, the fruit of a study of Goethe's world-conception, which became deeply important for the education and cultivation of German spiritual life; Schiller's letters on ‘The Æsthetic Education of Man.’ We can only outline Schiller's intentions in these letters.
He asks himself the question how man can succeed in developing his powers higher and higher, so that he can, in a free and perfectly human manner, penetrate the secrets of the world. This work is written in letter-form to the Duke of Augustenburg, and Schiller wrote this significant sentence in it: ‘Every individual human being, one may say, carries in him according to inclination and his destiny, a pure, ideal person, to find agreement with whose unchangeable unity in all its variations is the great task of his existence.’ And then Schiller tries to examine the means whereby man has to develop himself upwards to the higher stages of human existence.
There are two things that chain man and prevent a free view of the secrets of existence. One is the control by the senses, and the other is the insufficient development of the Reason. And Schiller explains these things thus: Take a person who is unaware of the compelling, logical part of concepts, or even the concept of duty, and follows only his inclinations and instincts. He cannot freely develop the powers of his nature, he is caught in the slavery of impulses, desires and instincts; he is unfree. But he also is not free who struggles with his desires, impulses and instincts, and follows only a purely conceptual and logical necessity of reason. Such a person becomes the slave either of the necessity of nature or the necessity of reason.
By what means can a man develop his inner powers? Schiller answers that he must develop his inner, divine states, strive to cleanse and purify them and make them correspond with what we call logic. When his impulses and instincts are purified so that he does willingly what he considers his duty, when the necessity of reason is no longer felt as compelling, then a man will act reasonably from force of habit, for then reason has led him down to the senses and the senses led him up again to reason.
Consider a man looking at a work of art. He sees something of the senses: but through every sense organ there is revealed to him something spiritual, for in the physical is expressed the spiritual which the artist has put into his work. Spirit and physical senses in the contemplation of beauty—these become the intermediaries. So art, life in beauty, becomes for Schiller a great means of education, a means of aesthetic education, a freeing of nature, so that it can unfold its own powers.
How, therefore, does a man develop himself in Schiller's sense? He must guide his nature down so that it proves true in physical nature, and train the sense up, so that it prove true in rational nature. Goethe uttered wonderful words concerning these letters: ‘Their effect on me is to show what I always lived or wished to live.’
It can be proved that Goethe was stimulated to write his fairy tale by Schiller's words in his aesthetic letters. Goethe expresses the same thing in it, in his own way. He did not wish to express the riddles of the soul in abstract ideas. For him they were too rich and too important to be grasped by natural necessity and in logic. Hence the need grew up in him to personify the different powers of the soul in the figures of his story. Goethe answers Schiller's question in this story and we shall see how wonderfully his psychology is revealed in it. We see in the presentation of the Will-o'-the-Wisps how the soul is always taking in and giving out, how certain powers are personified in the Snake, which works only on the ground like human research, human reason, and experience, which remain in the horizontal plane, while the idealist climbs to the heights. The power of the religious mood is characterized in the Old Man with the Lamp, and finally we see by means of the narrative events how Goethe shows the way in which each soul-power must work.
We shall see the day after tomorrow that Goethe shows how each soul-power must work together with the others, in order to formulate a complete picture of the soul, so that it can develop itself to human perfection, embracing all things. When man tries to grasp knowledge, but is immature, he is killed, like the Youth. There is such a thing as maturing towards knowledge. In the ‘Fairy Tale’ Goethe presents the evolution of the soul in a correct and pictorial way, by creating a parallel work to Schiller's ‘Æsthetic Letters.’ Goethe was aware that there is a goal for the development of the human soul, which in ancient times was called the ‘initiation into higher secrets.’ He knew such a thing is possible and that there are societies which develop the soul in secret places, in the Temples of Initiation. He shows also that humanity in the newer age must make it more and more possible to attain this Initiation, to develop the soul, and in larger spheres. He shows in the events that take place between the separate people, the progress of initiation up to the highest stages, to the point where the soul is capable of grasping the highest secrets. This is viewed exoterically, and purely historically.
By living with Goethe, Schiller experienced what Goethe had done in one of the most important periods of his life. And if Schiller had some difficulty in understanding Goethe, we must admit that what one said in an abstract answer in the Æsthetic Letters, and what the other had to say in a much more comprehensive way, in a way which is attained only by expressing oneself in scenes and persons, is one and the same thing. The Fairy Tale is Goethe-psychology in the deepest sense. We see that Goethe has become so fruitful through this method of his aspiration, that we still gladly take him as guide to-day. He still seems to us a man of the present. We read him as a writer of our time. He is so fruitful, because he has so much that belongs to all time in his work and his whole method. Thus his influence is consistent with that truth which he himself considered the real one, and he once uttered significant words when he said: ‘That which is fruitful alone is true.’
The meaning is that man must acquire such truths that when he enters upon life, they find confirmation by proving themselves fruitful. That was his criterion of truth: ‘That which is fruitful alone is true.’
These addresses, which are meant to bring Goethe nearer, ought to show us that he tested this saying himself, and those who go deeper into him will feel this. You will feel that there is something of genuine truth in Goethe, for he is fruitful, and what is fruitful is true.
Goethes Geheime Offenbarung Exoterisch
Wer die geistige Entwickelungsgeschichte der Menschheit nicht nur nach den gewöhnlich üblichen Dokumenten und Traditionen verfolgt, sondern ein wenig tiefer geht, indem er sich auf manches einläßt, was vielleicht zunächst nur symptomatisch erscheinen könnte für die Menschheitsentwickelung, was aber doch intensiv hineinweist in die inneren und daher wahren Entwickelungskräfte, der wird eine denkwürdige Szene in der neueren Geistesgeschichte immer wieder und wieder bedeutungsvoll finden, eine Szene, die sich in den neunziger Jahren des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts in Jena zugetragen hat.
Dazumal wurde in der Naturforschenden Gesellschaft in Jena von einem damals sehr bedeutenden Botaniker, namens Batsch, ein Vortrag gehalten, der durchaus auf der Höhe der damaligen Wissenschaftlichkeit stand. Zwei Männer, ein jüngerer und ein um zehn Jahre älterer, hörten sich diesen Vortrag an, und es trug sich zu, daß sie gleichzeitig aus dem Vortrag hinweggingen und miteinander ins Gespräch kamen. Der jüngere der beiden Männer sagte dabei zu dem älteren: Wenn man einen solchen Vortrag auf sich wirken läßt, so zeigt es sich doch immer wieder, wie die wissenschaftliche Betrachtungsweise die Dinge zerpflückt, wie sie das eine neben das andere hinstellt und das einheitliche geistige Band, das in all den verschiedenen Einzelheiten lebt, so wenig berücksichtigt. - Es widerstrebte sozusagen dem jüngeren Mann, daß da Pflanze an Pflanze hingestellt wurde, ohne Hinweis auf das, was als ein Höheres, die verschiedenen Pflanzen Verbindendes, doch auch in der Welt leben muß. Der ältere der beiden Männer sagte darauf, es könne sich vielleicht doch auch eine Betrachtungsweise der Natur finden, die nicht so zu Werke geht, und die, trotzdem sie eine Erkenntnis ist, eine Betrachtung, die zur Erkenntnis führen muß, sehr wohl auf das Einheitliche geht, auf das, was getrennt ist in den für die verschiedenen Sinne äußerlichen Betrachtungen. — Der Mann nahm einen Bleistift und ein Stück Papier aus seiner Tasche und zeichnete sogleich ein merkwürdiges Gebilde, ein Gebilde, welches einer Pflanze ähnlich sah, aber keiner der lebenden Pflanzen, die man mit den äußeren physischen Sinnen sehen oder wahrnehmen kann, ein Gebilde, das sozusagen nirgends einzeln verwirklicht ist, und von dem er sagte, daß es zwar in keiner einzelnen Pflanze lebe, aber die Pflanzenheit, die Urpflanze in allen Pflanzen sei und das Verbindende ausmache. — Der jüngere Mann sah sich das an und sagte darauf: «Ja, was Sie da aufzeichnen, ist aber keine Erfahrung, das ist keine Beobachtung, das ist eine Idee» — und er hatte dabei im Sinne, daß solche Ideen nur der menschliche Geist ausbilden könne, und daß eine solche Idee keine Bedeutung habe für das, was draußen in der sogenannten objektiven Natur lebt. Der ältere der beiden Männer konnte diesen Einwand gar nicht recht verstehen, denn er erwiderte: Wenn das eine Idee ist, dann sehe ich meine Ideen mit Augen! Er meinte, daß in genau demselben Sinne, wie die einzelne Pflanze für den äußeren Sinn des Auges sichtbar ist, eine Erfahrung ist, so sei seine Urpflanze, obgleich sie nicht durch einen äußeren Sinn gesehen werden kann, ein Objektives, ein in der äußeren Welt Bestehendes, eben das, was in allen Pflanzen lebt, die Urpflanze in allen einzelnen Pflanzen. — Sie wissen, daß der jüngere der beiden Männer Schiller, der ältere Goethe war.
Dieses Gespräch ist eine symptomatische, bedeutungsvolle Kundgebung der neueren Geisteswissenschaft. Was sprach dazumal eigentlich in Goethe bei seiner Erwiderung gegenüber Schiller? In Goethe sprach das Bewußtsein, daß man nicht nur mit jener Vorstellung, die der äußere Sinn gibt, und die der beschränkte Verstand aus den äußeren Sinneswahrnehmungen gewahrt, ein äußeres Objektives, ein äußeres Wahres erfaßt, sondern daß der Mensch dann, wenn er höhere Geisteskräfte in Bewegung setzt, welche sich nicht an einzelne Sinnesbeobachtungen wenden, ebenso zu einem Wahren, zu einem Wirklichen gelangt, wie man zu einem Wahren, Wirklichen durch die äußere Sinneswahrnehmung kommt.
Man darf wohl sagen, daß Schiller, der in jenem Augenblicke noch nicht einsehen konnte, was dahinter war, und der glaubte, es seien Subjektivitäten, die ihm Goethe vorgezeichnet hatte, das schönste Dokument gelieferthat dafür, wie sich der Mensch bis zu der Höhe hinaufranken kann, die ihm von Goethe gezeigt wurde. Von jenem Zeitpunkte an sehen wir Schiller den Goetheschen Ideen immer mehr Verständnis entgegenbringen. Ein psychologisches Dokument allerersten Ranges ist ein Brief Schillers, der da sagt: «Lange schon habe ich, obgleich aus ziemlicher Ferne, dem Gang Ihres Geistes zugesehen und den Weg, den Sie sich vorgezeichnet haben, mit immer erneuerter Bewunderung bemerkt. Sie suchen das Notwendige der Natur, aber Sie suchen es auf dem schweresten Wege, vor welchem jede schwächere Kraft sich wohl hüten wird. Sie nehmen die ganze Natur zusammen, um über das einzelne Licht zu bekommen; in der Allheit ihrer Erscheinungsarten suchen Sie den Erklärungsgrund für das Individuum auf. Von der einfachen Organisation steigen Sie, Schritt vor Schritt, zu den mehr verwickelten hinauf, um endlich die verwickeltste von allen, den Menschen, genetisch aus den Materialien des ganzen Naturgebäudes zu erbauen. Dadurch, daß Sie ihn der Natur gleichsam nacherschaffen, suchen Sie in seine verborgene Technik einzudringen. Eine große und wahrhaft heldenmäßige Idee, die zur Genüge zeigt, wie sehr Ihr Geist das reiche Ganze seiner Vorstellungen in einer schönen Einheit zusammenhält!»
So dürfen wir, als ein Dokument für die Objektivität der Ideenwelt Goethes, das ansehen, was in Goethes Bewußtsein zu solcher Antwort führte, und was Schiller später durch diesen Brief bestätigte.
Sehr merkwürdig: Ein Psychologe, der in den zwanziger Jahren des neunzehnten Jahrhunderts lebte und heute vergessen ist, Heinroth, hat in seiner «Anthropologie», die eigentlich eine Psychologie ist, ein sehr bedeutsames Wort über Goethe gesprochen, ein Wort, das zu jenen gehört, die durch ihre Wendung gerade methodisch bedeutsam sind und tief hineinleuchten in das, was sie beleuchten sollen. Er gebrauchte für Goethes ganze Anschauungsweise das Wort «Gegenständliches Denken», und er erläuterte dieses Wort, indem er sagte: Goethes Denken ist ein ganz eigenartiges Denken, das sich eigentlich nicht von dem Objektiven der Gegenstände trennt, das ruhig in den Gegenständen lebt, in denen es sich bis zu den Ideen erhebt.
Wer nun tiefer in Goethes ganze Geistesorganisation hineinzublicken vermag, wie wir es heute und übermorgen tun werden, wo wir versuchen wollen, noch tiefer in dieses Thema hineinzudringen, wo wir mehr innerlich betrachten werden, was heute äußerlich vor uns hingestellt werden soll, der wird sehen, daß er in diesem Denken in einer gewissen Weise, ohne auf der Oberfläche der Dinge und an der Sinneserfahrung haften zu bleiben, doch bei den Tatsachen bleibt, und innerhalb derselben das Geistige, die Ideenwelt findet. Wir sehen, daß Goethes Denken gerade in dieser Art für einen großen Teil unserer modernen Menschheitsentwickelung so bedeutsam geworden ist. Wir dürfen sagen, es ist etwas höchst Eigenartiges mit dieser Wirkung des Goetheschen Geistes auf die verschiedensten Menschen, auf die verschiedensten Anschauungen, ja, auf die verschiedenen aufeinander folgenden Epochen.
Betrachten wir einmal, um was es sich hier eigentlich handelt, und wir werden sehen, wie eigenartig Goethes Geistesart tatsächlich gewirkt hat. Wenn wir zum Beispiel die drei Philosophen des deutschen Geisteslebens vor unsere Seele treten lassen, die im Grunde genommen, ihrer ganzen Anschauungsweise nach, sehr verschieden sind: Fichte, Hegel, Schopenhauer, so ergibt sich uns aus der Betrachtung ihres gegenseitigen Verhältnisses, aus der Betrachtung des Zusammenhanges in ihren Verhältnissen zu Goethe etwas ganz Eigenartiges über die welthistorische Wirkung der Goetheschen Geistesart.
Fichte erweist sich als ein in abgezogenen Höhen schwebender Denker, und ganz besonders war er in abgezogenen Höhen schwebend, als er im Jahre 1794 seine Grundzüge der Wissenschaftslehre in Jena beendet hatte. Es ist schwer, sich zum Verständnis der Fichteschen Eigenart zu erheben, es ist schwer, ihn zu durchdringen, obwohl niemand, der in ihn eindringt, sich nicht sagen müßte, daß er ungeheure Früchte für seine Geistesdisziplin aus ihm schöpfte. Aber es ist nicht jedermanns Sache, in solche Sphären des reinsten Begriffes hinaufzuwandern. Dieser Fichte, der in solch abstrakten Höhen wandelte, besonders damals, schickte seine «Wissenschaftslehre» mit folgenden bedeutungsvollen Worten an Goethe: «Ich betrachte Sie, und habe Sie immer betrachtet als den Repräsentanten der reinsten Geistigkeit des Gefühls auf der gegenwärtig errungenen Stufe der Humanität. An Sie wendet mit Recht sich die Philosophie. Ihr Gefühl ist derselben Probierstein.» So Fichte zu Goethe.
Sehen wir jetzt auf einen anderen Philosophen, auf Schopenhauer, und sehen wir zuerst, wie Schopenhauer zu Fichte stand. Wahrhaft feindliche Brüder waren sie, wenigstens war Schopenhauer ein recht feindlicher Bruder zu Fichte. Schopenhauer wird nicht müde, in geradezu Schimpfworten sich über Fichte zu ergehen. Ein Windbeutel ist er ihm, der in leeren Begriffen gesonnen und geschrieben hat. Immer wieder kommt er darauf zurück, die Wesenlosigkeit, Bedeutungslosigkeit und Unrealität der Fichteschen Philosophie zu betonen. Wahrlich, es kann keine größeren Gegensätze geben, als Schopenhauer und Fichte. Und Schopenhauer ging wahrhaftig zu Goethe in die Lehre. Eine Zeitlang hindurch hat er zusammen mit Goethe experimentiert, um sich die physikalischen Grundbegriffe klarzumachen, und manches, was in Schopenhauers erstem Werke und auch in seinem Hauptwerke steht, ist hervorgegangen aus dem Eindrucke, den Goethe auf ihn gemacht hat. Wer Schopenhauer kennt, weiß aber auch, wie hingebungsvoll er von Goethe sprach. Schopenhauer und Fichte, zwei große Gegensätze, in Goethe vereinigen sie sich und er erscheint wie die vereinigende Kraft der beiden.
Nehmen wir endlich Hegel und Schopenhauer! Auch Hegel ist schwierig mit dem Verständnis zu erreichen. Er, der versucht, sich eine Tatsachenwelt der Begriffe in einer umfassenden, systematischen Organik zu verschaffen, verlangt, daß der Mensch sich auf eine Stufe erhebt, wo er den Begriff als Tatsache erfaßt, wo er fähig wird, ihn erleben zu können. Schopenhauer findet auch in dieser Begriffstechnik etwas völlig Wertloses; alles sei ein Spiel mit abstrakten Worten. Und wenn wir uns nun wieder das Verhältnis von Hegel zu Goethe vergegenwärtigen wollen, so brauchen wir nur eines zu nennen und wir werden sehen, wie Hegel zu Goethe steht. Einen schönen Brief gibt es, worin Hegel schreibt: Goethe sucht nach den tatsächlichen, geistigen Phänomenen, die hinter den sinnlichen stehen, die Goethe die Urphänomene nennt, wie er die Urpflanze das Urphänomen der Pflanzenwelt nennt. — Während Hegel als Philosoph aus der Höhe der geistigen Welt spricht und uns zeigt, was wir denken und begreifen können, arbeitet er sich auf der anderen Seite hinauf bis zu dem Punkte, wo er mit den aus dem Geiste geschöpften Begriffen in Berührung kommt. So vereinigt sich Goethes Urphänomen mit dem, was die reine, denkende Philosophie von oben erfaßt. Auch hier sehen wir eine Harmonie zwischen Hegel und Goethe wie zwischen Goethe und Schopenhauer. In Goethe finden sie sich zusammen. Und wenn wir von diesen älteren Zeiten in unsere Zeiten heraufgehen, was finden wir da?
In jener Zeit, in der Goethe selber gelebt hat, hat sozusagen das naturwissenschaftliche Forschen noch eine ganz andere Physiognomie gehabt. Noch mehr, als es zu Goethes Zeiten der Fall war, betrachtet man heute als die einzig richtige Methode der strengen Wissenschaft die Forschung, die sich auf die äußere Sinnesbeobachtung stützt, und das reinliche Herausarbeiten dessen, was der Verstand, der sich auf die Beobachtung beschränkt, aus den so gewonnenen Resultaten machen kann. Aber auch ein Haeckel will, wie er in jedem Buche wieder betont, auf dem festen Boden gerade Goethescher Weltanschauung stehen, und so sehen wir eine mehr materialistisch gefärbte Weltanschauung geradezu Wert darauf legen, an Goethe sich anzulehnen. Sie können aber auch heute noch Schriften finden, die auf einem Boden stehen, für den der Geist eine absolute Realität im eminentesten Sinne des Wortes ist, und auch bei ihnen können Sie die Berufung auf Goethe bemerken. Feindlich können sich spiritualistische und materialistische Forscher gegenüberstehen, beide glauben sie aber in gleicher Art zu Goethe aufschauen zu können. So bietet er auch da etwas, was Gegensätze überbrückt.
Diese Tatsachen bezeugen die Kraft der Goetheschen Weltanschauung, die Kraft, die so auf die andern wirkt, daß das, was sich gegenseitig nicht versteht, bei Goethe etwas findet, was es selbst besitzt. Vielleicht wissen einige von Ihnen, in welchem Gegensatze Virchow und Haeckel sich befanden. Aber auch Virchow, der in so wenig Dingen mit Haeckel übereinstimmt, hat sich in einem bedeutungsvollen Vortrag über Goethe ebenfalls an Goethe angelehnt. Wir haben also in Goethe eine Kraft, die gegenüber den Gegensätzen, dem Kampfe der Weltanschauungen, das in ihnen Gemeinsame bei sich anklingen zu lassen vermag, eine Kraft, die in der Lage ist, zu zeigen, daß es im Grunde genommen bei den Weltanschauungen nicht so ist, wie diese Vertreter der Wissenschaft behaupten und so beharrlich verfechten.
Gerade wenn man das Verhältnis dieser bedeutenden Menschen zu Goethe betrachtet, wird man zu der Erkenntnis kommen, daß mit dem, was die Menschen Erkenntnis nennen, es sich verhält wie mit den verschiedenen Malern, die um einen Berg herumsitzen, ihn anblicken und von den verschiedensten Standpunkten aus ihn malen. Die Bilder, die sie da bekommen, müssen natürlich sehr verschieden sein, und doch war es derselbe Berg, den sie malten. Eine umfassende Vorstellung von dem Berge wird man nur bekommen können, wenn man die verschiedenen Darstellungen miteinander vergleicht und sie zu einem Ganzen zusammenfügt. Wenn man sich so zu den Erkenntnissen stellt, dann wird man sehen, daß Goethe sich nicht einen einzelnen Gesichtspunkt wählt, sondern den Berg hinansteigt und zeigt, daß es eine Möglichkeit gibt, den Standpunkt auf dem Bergesgipfel einzunehmen und dort ein umfassendes Panorama zu finden, wo alle Anschauungen in ihrer tieferen Verträglichkeit sich zeigen.
Das ist es aber auch, was Goethe zu einem so eminent "modernen Geiste macht, und wenn wir bei einem rückhaltlosen Eingehen auf Goethe das Gefühl erhalten, daß er uns als ein moderner Geist erscheint, dann wird es von selbst schon eine Rechtfertigung sein, wenn wir in den hier oft angestellten Betrachtungen über die Geisteswissenschaft und “ eine vom Geistigen ausgehende Weltanschauung das, was er machte und wollte, als eine Art von Anleitung betrachten, tiefer in sein Wesen einzudringen. Wenn er in so vielen Beziehungen ein anregender Geist ist, warum sollte er da nicht auch ein anregender Geist sein für diejenige Geistesströmung, die als eines ihrer höchsten und schönsten Ziele das tolerante Eindringen in die verschiedenen Standpunkte der Weltanschauungen hat, und die sich zum Prinzip macht, nicht auf einem einmal fixierten Standpunkte stehen zu bleiben, sondern, um Wahrheit zu finden, immer höher und höher zu steigen durch Methoden, die man auf seine innere Entwickelung, auf die Heranbildung innerer Wahrnehmungsorgane anzuwenden hat, weil man dadurch, daß man sich seine inneren Organe heranzüchtet, erst dazu kommt, die tieferen geistigen Grundlagen zu sehen.
Inwiefern Goethe auf einem eng begrenzten Gebiete die tiefsten Gefühle auch der heutigen Menschheit trifft, wollen wir jetzt noch betrachten. Beispielsweise sei ein Gefühl gewählt, das viele von Ihnen kennen, ein Gefühl, das man mit den Worten charakterisieren könnte, daß es in unserer Zeit Menschen gibt, die danach streben, manche alte Tradition über Bord zu werfen und sich Gefühle, Gedanken und Vorstellungen zu schaffen, die in die unmittelbare Gegenwart hineinführen. Sie werden sogleich sehen, was ich meine, wenn ich Sie an ein Bild erinnere, das vielen in unserer Zeit wert geworden ist. Man mag zu dem Bilde stehen, wie man will, aber es ist ein Ausdruck der modernen Zeit. Ich meine das Bild: «Komm, Herr Jesus, sei unser Gast.» Das Bild lebt nicht nur bei dem, der es geschaffen hat, sondern auch in denen, die es genießen wollen; es lebt in ihnen die Sehnsucht, die Gestalt des Jesus in der unmittelbaren Gegenwart zu sehen, wie sie sich hinstellt an den Tisch. Man könnte sagen, daß das Bild nicht nur Wert für diese Zeit hat, sondern für alle Zeiten, daß es ein ewiges, unvergängliches Dasein hat, und daß jede Zeit das Recht hat, diese Gestalt in ihre eigene Epoche hineinzustellen. Nur mit diesen wenigen Worten sei das Gefühl angedeutet, das viele gegenüber diesem Bilde haben.
Nun könnte man glauben, Goethe gehöre in dieser Beziehung noch zu den Alten. Man leitet das ja her aus seiner Vorliebe zu der alten Kunst, die an den alten, guten, künstlerischen Traditionen festhalten wollte, aus seiner Vorliebe zu den Griechen. Man könnte glauben, Goethe hätte vielleicht kein tieferes Verständnis für eine Empfindung, wie sie in dem Bilde charakterisiert ist: «Komm, Herr Jesus, sei unser Gast.» Um da einmal einen Blick in Goethes Seele zu tun, wollen wir uns an ein Buch anlehnen, an Bossis Buch über Leonardo da Vincis Abendmahl. Goethe schrieb eine Rezension über dieses Buch. Darin stehen bedeutungsvolle Worte. Von diesem Bilde, das sich im Speisesaale des Klosters Santa Maria delle Grazie in Mailand befindet, und das trotz der in letzter Zeit vorgenommenen Restauration den Eindruck macht, als wenn es dem Verfall entgegenginge, von diesem Bilde erzählt Goethe, wie er selbst einmal demselben gegenübergestanden habe zu einer Zeit, als es noch in einer gewissen Frische erhalten war. Und er schildert den Eindruck, den er einst von diesem Bilde in seiner Jugend bekommen habe: «Dem Eingang an der schmalen Seite gegenüber, im Grunde des Saals, stand die Tafel des Priors, zu beiden Seiten die Mönchstische, sämtlich auf einer Stufe vom Boden erhöht; und nun, wenn der Hereintretende sich umkehrte, sah er an der vierten Wand über den nicht allzuhohen Türen den vierten Tisch gemalt, an demselben Christus und seine Jünger, eben als wenn sie zur Gesellschaft gehörten» — Ihn, der von den Dominikanern in ihrem Sinne, ihrer Stellung mit der Empfindung aufgerufen worden ist: «Komm, Herr Jesus, sei unser Gast». Es schließe sich, sagt Goethe, das Ganze zu einem einheitlichen Bilde zusammen. Und um gar keinen Zweifel daran zu lassen, was er eigentlich meinte, sagte er noch: «Es muß zur Speisestunde ein bedeutender Anblick gewesen sein, wenn die Tische des Priors und Christi, als zwei Gegenbilder, aufeinanderblickten und die Mönche an ihren Tafeln sich dazwischen eingeschlossen fanden. Und eben deshalb mußte die Weisheit des Malers die vorhandenen Mönchstische zum Vorbilde nehmen. Auch ist gewiß das Tischtuch mit seinen gequetschten Falten, gemusterten Streifen und aufgeknüpften Zipfeln aus der Waschkammer des Klosters genommen, Schüsseln, Teller, Becher und sonstiges Geräte gleichfalls denjenigen nachgeahmt, der sich die Mönche bedienten. Hier war also keineswegs die Rede von Annäherung an ein unsicheres, veraltetes Kostüm. Höchst ungeschickt wäre es gewesen, an diesem Orte die heilige Gesellschaft auf Polster auszustrecken. Nein, sie sollte der Gegenwart angenähert werden, Christus sollte sein Abendmahl bei den Dominikanern zu Mailand einnehmen.»
Und nun fragen wir: Hatte Goethe gerade dieses Verständnis, das man ein modernes Verständnis nennen muß? Er hatte es in jenem umfassenden Stile, der uns wieder ein Beweis dafür sein kann, wie universell seine Kraft ist gegenüber den manchmal einseitigen Kräften, die sich gegenseitig ausschließen und bekämpfen. So müssen wir uns hineinversetzen in Goethes Seele und wir werden dann begreifen, warum Goethe uns ein so Nahstehender sein kann, und warum wir zu ihm hinaufschauen dürfen, wenn es sich um die vorläufige Orientierung über tiefere Geistesfragen handelt. Das war Goethes tiefes Bewußtsein, daß es möglich ist für den Menschen, in sich geistige Organe zu erwecken, um hinaufzusteigen zu höheren Anschauungen und dadurch etwas zu gewinnen, was nicht bloß im Geiste des Menschen lebt, sondern was zu gleicher Zeit tiefer liegt.
Wenn hier die Möglichkeit wäre, auf Goethes naturwissenschaftliche Studien einzugehen, wie Sie dieselben in meinem Buche «Goethes Weltanschauung» ausführlich besprochen finden, so könnten wir zeigen, wie diese ganze Goethesche Methode wirkt. Aber wir wollen uns heute Goethe von einer anderen Richtung her nähern. Goethe hatte mancherlei zum Ausdrucke gebracht, was uns auf die tiefe Grundlage seiner Weltanschauung hinweisen kann. Wir werden darüber in den zwei Vorträgen dieses Winterzyklus über Goethes «Faust» zu sprechen haben. Über ihn sagte er einmal zu Eckermann, daß er ihn so gestaltet habe, daß der Leser, wenn er sich nur an äußere Belehrungen halten will, schon in den bunten Bildern etwas hat; daß er aber auch hinter den Worten die Geheimnisse finden kann, die sich darin befinden. Da weist Goethe in dem zweiten Teil darauf hin, daß zu unterscheiden ist das, was das Äußere, und das, was das Innere, das Wesen ist, das, was er hineingeheimnißt hat. Nach alter Weise bezeichnet man das Äußere als das Exoterische, das Innere als das Esoterische.
Nun wollen wir uns Goethe dadurch nähern, daß wir das Werk, in dem er sein ganzes methodisches Denken und Wollen zum Ausdruck gebracht hat, heute in einer äußerlichen, exoterischen Weise, und übermorgen dann in einer innerlichen, esoterischen Weise betrachten. Ein verhältnismäßig unbekanntes Werkchen von Goethe ist es, an das man sich halten muß, wenn man Goethes tiefste Erkenntnisgeheimnisse — so darf das, um was es sich hier handelt, wohl genannt werden — durchschauen will. Es ist das Werkchen, das am Ende der «Unterhaltungen deutscher Ausgewanderter» unter der Überschrift: «Märchen» steht, und bei dessen Lektüre der, welcher danach strebt, in Goethes Weltanschauung tiefer einzudringen, von Anfang an die Empfindung haben wird, daß Goethe damit mehr sagen will, als was die Bilder zunächst darbieten. Rätsel über Rätsel wird dem sinnenden Betrachter dieses «Märchen» von der grünen Schlange und der schönen Lilie vorlegen.
Und nun gestatten Sie mir, daß ich die hauptsächlichsten Züge dieses Märchens zunächst hier auseinandersetze, denn es ist nicht möglich, über das Märchen zu sprechen, ohne daß wir uns wenigstens diejenigen Züge vor die Seele führen, welche von Wichtigkeit sind, wenn wir einen tieferen Blick in Goethes Weltanschauung werfen wollen. Es wird also notwendig sein, daß wir einige Zeit dem Inhalte dieses Werkchens widmen; aber dafür werden wir uns auch dann in bezug auf das, was wir zu sagen haben, um so besser verstehen. Es ist mir immer wieder passiert, wenn ich einen Vortrag über dieses Märchen gehalten habe, daß man mir sagte: «Ich weiß nichts davon, daß in Goethes Werken ein Märchen steht.» Ich wiederhole deshalb: es ist in jeder Goetheausgabe enthalten und bildet den Schluß der «Unterhaltungen deutscher Ausgewanderter». Nun zu den Bildern! An einem Flusse wohnt ein Fährmann. Zu diesem Fährmann kommen merkwürdige Gestalten: Irrlichter. Sie wollen von dem Fährmann in dem Kahne an das andere Ufer des Flusses hinübergesetzt werden. Der Fährmann geht darauf ein und setzt sie über den Fluß hinüber. Sie betragen sich dabei sonderbar, sind unruhig und zappelig, so daß er Angst bekommt, sie könnten ihm den Kahn umwerfen. Er führt sie aber glücklich hinüber, und als sie angelangt sind, wollen sie ihn in eigenartiger Art bezahlen. Sie schütteln sich und es fallen Goldstücke von ihnen ab; das soll der Lohn sein für die Mühe des Übersetzens. Der Fährmann ist wenig erbaut von den Goldstücken und sagt: Es ist gut, daß nichts in den Fluß gefallen ist, denn er würde wild aufwallen. Ich kann diese Bezahlung aber nicht annehmen, ich kann nur mit Früchten der Natur bezahlt werden. — Und er verlangt drei Zwiebeln, drei Artischocken, drei Kohlköpfe. Mit Früchten sollten sie also bezahlen. Wir werden gleich sehen, welche tiefe Bedeutung jeder Zug und jede einzelne Tatsache hat.
Nun sagt der Fährmann weiter: So macht ihr mir noch die Mühe, daß ich das, was ihr als Goldstücke herumgeworfen habt, den Fluß hinunterführen und begraben muß. — Darauf führt er die Goldstücke tatsächlich ein Stück den Fluß hinunter und vergräbt sie in den Klüften der Erde. Als sie da hinein vergraben worden sind, kommt ein merkwürdiges anderes Wesen an diese Goldstücke heran: die grüne Schlange, die in und auf der Erde herum und durch die Klüfte der Erde hindurchkriecht. Plötzlich sieht sie durch die Spalten der Erde die Goldstücke hereinfallen. Zunächst glaubt sie, daß sie vom Himmel hereinfallen. Sie verzehrt sie aber dann und wird durch die Aufnahme dieser Goldstücke in den eigenen Leib immer leuchtender. Als sie aber an die Oberfläche geht, merkt sie, daß sie in wunderbarer Weise ein eigenartiges Licht ausstrahlt, leuchtend wie Smaragd und Edelstein.
Nun treffen die Schlange und die Irrlichter zusammen, die Irrlichter immer noch sich schüttelnd und wegwerfend, was sie in sich haben. Die Schlange, die jetzt Geschmack an dem Golde bekommen hat, nimmt in ihren eigenen Leib auf und verarbeitet, was die Irrlichter um sich werfen. Bedeutsames sagen sich die Schlange und die Irrlichter über ihr gegenseitiges Verhältnis. Die Schlange nennt sich Verwandte der Irrlichter von der horizontalen Linie und die Irrlichter sich Verwandte der Schlange von der vertikalen Linie. Die Irrlichter fragen noch die Schlange, ob diese nicht Auskunft geben könne, wie sie zur schönen Lilie kommen könnten. Da sagt die Schlange: Die schöne Lilie ist jenseits des Flusses. - Nun, dann haben wir uns etwas Schönes eingebrockt! antworten die Irrlichter. Wir haben uns herüberfahren lassen, weil wir zur schönen Lilie kommen wollten. Könnten wir nur einen Fährmann erreichen, der uns wieder zurückführt! Und nun kommen bedeutungsvolle Worte: Ihr werdet den Fährmann nicht wiederfinden, und wenn ihr ihn fändet, seid euch klar darüber, daß er euch wohl herüber, aber nicht mehr zurückführen darf. Wenn ihr wieder auf die andere Seite des Flusses zurück wollt, so könnt ihr es nur auf zweierlei Weise. Entweder ihr versucht am Mittag, wo die Sonne am höchsten steht, eine Brücke zu finden über meinen eigenen Leib, um hinüber zu kommen. — Die Irrlichter sagen: Die Mittagsstunde ist eine Zeit, in der wir nicht gerne reisen. - Oder ihr benützt den zweiten Weg. Es gibt nämlich noch eine andere Möglichkeit. In der Dämmerstunde findet ihr an einer bestimmten Stelle den großen Riesen. Er hat gar keine Kraft in sich, aber wenn er seine Hand ausstreckt und der Schatten dieser Hand über den Fluß hinüberfällt, so kann man über den Schatten hinweg den Fluß überschreiten. Der Schatten hat die Tragkraft, daß man hinübergehen kann. Wenn ihr also nicht über mich selber gehen wollt zur Mittagsstunde, so suchet den Riesen auf. — Die Irrlichter lassen sich das gesagt sein. Die Schlange aber ist wieder in die Klüfte der Erde zurückgegangen und freut sich des innerlichen Leuchtend-Werdens durch Aufnahme des Goldes.
Nun bemerkt die Schlange etwas höchst Merkwürdiges. Als sie die Klüfte wieder absucht, bemerkt sie, daß sie da, wo sie früher unregelmäßige Naturprodukte gefunden hatte, jetzt an einer Stelle merkwürdige Gebilde sieht. Früher hat sie sie nur durch den Tastsinn wahrgenommen, jetzt, wo sie leuchtend ist, merkt sie, daß sie die Dinge auch sehen kann. Sie konnte Säulen und auch menschenähnliche Gebilde abtasten, aber es war ihr bis dahin nie klargeworden, was da in den unterirdischen Klüften eigentlich ist. Jetzt bewegt sie sich wieder hinein und das von ihr ausstrahlende Licht dient ihr zur Beleuchtung der Dinge.
Als sie hineindringt in diese große Höhle unter der Erde, kann sie sogleich wahrnehmen, wie in den vier Ecken vier königliche Gestalten stehen: ein goldener König, ein silberner König, ein eherner König und in der vierten Ecke ein gemischter König, eine Gestalt, welche aus den anderen Metallen in der buntesten Weise zusammengefügt ist, so daß in ihm alle möglichen Metalle chaotisch ineinandergefügt sind.
In dem Augenblicke, wo die Schlange in die Höhle hineinkommt und ihr die Beleuchtung der Gestalten gelingt, stellt der goldene König die sehr bedeutungsvolle Frage:
«Wo kommst du her?»
«Aus den Klüften», versetzte die Schlange, «in denen das Gold wohnt.» «Was ist herrlicher als Gold?» fragte der König.
Die Schlange antwortet: «Das Licht!»
Und der König fragt weiter: «Was ist erquicklicher als Licht?»
«Das Gespräch.»
Niemand wird bezweifeln, daß in diesen Worten nicht bloß Bilder gegeben werden sollen, sondern daß sie auch einen bedeutungsvollen Inhalt haben.
Als die Schlange hineinkommt in die Höhle, öffnet sich ein Spalt an dem Tempel, in dem die vier Könige wohnen. Es kommt der Alte mit der Lampe in den Raum, und er wird gefragt, warum er gerade jetzt komme? Da sagt er das merkwürdige Wort: Wißt Ihr nicht, daß mein Licht nur erleuchten darf, was schon erleuchtet ist? daß ich das Dunkle nicht erleuchten darf? — Nachdem die Schlange die Dinge im Raume erleuchtet hat, darf nun auch er mit seiner wunderwirkenden Lampe kommen.
Jetzt entspinnt sich aufs neue ein Gespräch zwischen den Königen und dem Alten mit der Lampe. Der Alte wird gefragt:
«Wie viele Geheimnisse weißt Du?»
«Drei», antwortet er.
«Welches ist das wichtigste?» fragt der silberne König.
«Das offenbare», versetzt der Alte.
«Willst du es auch uns eröffnen?» fragt der eherne König.
«Sobald ich das vierte weiß.»
Und nun kommen die allerbedeutsamsten Worte des Märchens: «Ich weiß das vierte», sagt die Schlange und zischelt ihm etwas in das Ohr, worauf der Alte mit gewaltiger Stimme ruft: «Es ist an der Zeit!»
Es gibt eine große Anzahl von Versuchen, die Rätsel dieses Märchens zu lösen. Viele haben auch versucht, das, was man schon zu Schillers und Goethes Zeiten als Rätsel empfand, so oder so zu deuten. Es ist eigenartig, daß Goethe und Schiller sich darüber einig waren und es ausdrücklich mit den Worten aussprachen: Es liegt das Wort der Lösung für das Märchen im Märchen selber. Also darf man nach des Märchens Lösung nur im Märchen selber suchen, und es wird sich im weiteren Verlauf des Vortrages auch finden, daß das Wort des Rätsels, wenn auch in eigenartiger Weise, in dem Märchen drinnen ist. Die Schlange zischelt dem Alten etwas ins Ohr, und das, was sie ihm ins Ohr zischelt, was aber nicht gesagt wird, das ist die Lösung des Rätsels. Dann sagt der Alte: «Es ist an der Zeit!» Was also ergründet werden muß, das ist, was die Schlange im unterirdischen Tempel dem Alten ins Ohr geraunt hat.
Der Alte geht nun mit seiner Lampe dahin, wo seine Gattin wohnt. Durch die Kraft des Lichtes der Lampe werden die verschiedensten Materien verwandelt: Steine in Gold, Holz in Silber, tote Tiere in Edelsteine, Metalle aber werden vernichtet. Er trifft seine Gattin in geradezu fassungslosem Zustande. Als er fragt, was passiert sei, sagt sie: Es waren ganz merkwürdige Persönlichkeiten da. Man hätte sie für Irrlichter halten können. Die sind sehr wenig in den Grenzen des Anstandes geblieben. - Nun, meint der Alte, bei deinem Alter wird es wohl bei der allgemeinen Höflichkeit geblieben sein. — Und nun erzählt sie, wie die Irrlichter sich an das Gold herangemacht und es abgeleckt haben, damit sie es wieder abschütteln könnten. Wenn es nur noch das wäre, aber sieh dir mal den Mops an. Der hat von den Goldstücken gefressen, wurde in Edelstein verwandelt und starb. Jetzt ist er tot. — Und die Alte sagt weiter: Wenn ich das vorher gewußt hätte, so würde ich ihnen nicht versprochen haben, daß ich ihre Schuld bei dem Fährmann abzahlen werde. Das sind: drei Kohlhäupter, drei Zwiebeln und drei Artischocken.
Nun, sagte der Alte, nimm doch den Mops mit, trage ihn zur schönen Lilie hin, die hat die Eigenschaft, daß sie alles, was Edelstein ist, durch ihre Berührung in Lebendiges verwandeln kann. — Sie nimmt also die drei mal drei Früchte, um die übernommene Schuld bei dem Fährmann abzutragen, und legt den Mops dazu.
Nun kommt ein sehr bedeutungsvoller Zug des Märchens: Als sie den Korb trägt, erscheint er ihr außerordentlich schwer, obgleich das Tote für sie gar kein Gewicht hat, der Korb mit dem toten Mops allein würde so leicht sein, als wenn er leer wäre; nur durch das Lebendige, durch die Kohlköpfe, Zwiebeln und Artischocken wird der Korb schwer. Auf dem Wege zu dem Fährmann passiert ihr aber noch etwas Eigentümliches. Der Riese legt seinen Arm gerade so, daß der Schatten über den Fluß hinüberfällt, greift ihr ein Kohlhaupt, eine Artischocke und eine Zwiebel aus dem Korbe heraus und verzehrt sie, so daß sie jetzt nur noch zwei von jeder Gattung hat. Sie will daher dem Fährmann nur einen Teil der Schuld abtragen, Er aber sagt, daß es unbedingt notwendig sei, das Ganze gleich mitzubringen.
Nach vielem Hin- und Herreden sagte der Fährmann: es gäbe noch einen Ausweg, der wäre, wenn sie Bürgschaft für die Beibringung der drei fehlenden Früchte leiste. Sie muß daher die Hand in den Fluß stecken, als Sicherheit dafür, daß sie ihr Versprechen halten werde. Das tut sie, bemerkt aber dann, daß, soweit die Hand in den Fluß hineingesteckt war, sie schwarz und kleiner geworden ist. « Jetzt scheint es nur so», sagte der Alte. «Wenn ihr aber nicht Wort haltet, kann es wahr werden. Die Hand wird nach und nach schwinden und endlich ganz verschwinden, ohne daß ihr den Gebrauch derselben entbehrt. Ihr werdet alles damit verrichten können, nur daß sie niemand sehen wird.» Sie will aber lieber, daß man sie sehe, auch wenn sie nichts mit der Hand tun könne. Wenn sie zu entsprechender Zeit den Tribut bringt, sagt der Fährmann, wird alles wieder gut werden.
Auf dem Wege zur schönen Lilie trifft sie nun einen herrlich-schönen Jüngling, dem aber, wie er sagt, alle seine einstige Kraft und Stärke geschwunden ist; und aus dem Gespräche, das sie miteinander führen, erfahren wir, wie das gekommen ist. Der Jüngling hatte die lebhafte Begierde gefaßt, zur schönen Lilie zu gelangen. Sie war sein Ideal geworden. Aber ihre schönen Augen wirkten so unselig, daß sie ihm alle seine Kraft genommen hatten und dennoch zieht es ihn immer wieder zu ihr hin.
Endlich kommen die beiden zur schönen Lilie hin. Es ist nun zwar alles, was die schöne Lilie umgibt, im höchsten Grade bezeichnend; aber wir können hier nur einzelne Züge herausnehmen. Die schöne Lilie ist das Bild vollkommenster Schönheit; aber sie hat die Eigenschaft, daß sie alles Lebendige durch ihre Berührung zunächst tötet, und alles, was durch das Leben hindurchgegangen und dem Tode verfallen ist, wieder lebendig macht.
Die Alte bringt nun ihr Anliegen vor. Der Jüngling ist gekommen, seine Sehnsucht nach der schönen Lilie zu befriedigen; wir sehen aber auch, daß die schöne Lilie ebenfalls Sehnsucht fühlt. Sie fühlt sich fern von allem fruchtbar Lebendigen; in ihrem Garten gedeihen Pflanzen, aber nur bis zur Blüte, nicht bis zur Frucht; schön ist sie, aber fern von allem Lebendigen. Die Alte sagt dann ein bedeutungsvolles Wort. Sie wiederholt, was der Mann im unterirdischen Tempel gesagt hat, und das gibt der Lilie neue Hoftnung. Das war aber auch der letzte Augenblick, in dem sie Hoffnung fassen konnte; denn das letzte Lebendige, das eine Art Verbindungsband zwischen ihr und dem Lebendigen gebildet hatte, war ihr auch noch verlorengegangen. Sie hatte einen Kanarienvogel in ihrer Umgebung, und hatte sich sehr gehütet, ihn zu berühren, weil ihn das getötet haben würde. Nun aber war ein Habicht in die Nähe gekommen, der Kanarienvogel floh vor ihm, flog auf die Lilie zu und wurde getötet. Und damit war die schöne Lilie nun in völliger geistiger Einsamkeit und Abgesondertheit von dem, was die Menschen haben.
Nun gibt die Alte der Lilie den Mops. Die Lilie berührt ihn und macht ihn dadurch wieder lebendig. Der Jüngling sucht seine Sehnsucht dadurch zu stillen, daß er die Lilie umfaßt. Dadurch wird er vollends getötet. Das Leben in ihm wird ganz vernichtet.
Die Schlange bildet nun einen magischen Kreis. In diesen Kreis werden der Jüngling und der Kanarienvogel hineingelegt. Dadurch soll sich — und die Schlange deutet bedeutungsvoll darauf hin — das, was trostlos ist, in allernächster Zeit ändern. Und es ändert sich in der Tat. Wir erfahren, daß nun auch der Alte mit seiner Lampe herankommt, und daß durch ihn tatsächlich eine Lösung der ganzen Situation in Angriff genommen werden kann. Denn es ist gerade Zeit, als der Alte herankommt: die Körper von dem Kanarienvogel und dem Jüngling sind noch nicht in Verwesung übergegangen.
Der Alte führt sie nach dem unterirdischen Tempel hin, den die Schlange ja schon ausgekundschaftet hatte. Er sagt zu den Irrlichtern: Ihr seid auch dazu geeignet, uns zu dienen. Wenn wir an die Pforte des Tempels gelangen, werdet Ihr es sein müssen, die uns die Pforte aufschließen. - Nun bilder die Schlange eine Brücke über den Fluß. Der ganze Zug geht über die Schlangenbrücke. Da sehen wir, als sie drüben angekommen sind, daß durch die Berührung mit der Schlange, die jetzt sich zu opfern beschließt, der Jüngling zwar noch nicht durchgeistigt, aber doch lebendig wird. Er geht dadurch, daß die Schlange bereit ist, sich hinzuopfern, in einen merkwürdigen Zustand über. Er kann wohl sehen, aber das Gesehene noch nicht fassen.
Die Schlange teilt sich in lauter wunderbare Edelsteine, die der Alte in den Fluß senkt und wodurch eine Brücke über den Fluß entsteht. Der Zug bewegt sich unter der Anführung des Alten in den unterirdischen Tempel. Als sie da hineinkommen, sehen wir, daß zwischen den Ankömmlingen und den Königen bedeutungsvolle Fragen gestellt werden, die darauf hindeuten, daß da ein großes Rätsel verborgen ist. Zum Beispiel: «Woher kommt ihr?» «Aus der Welt.» «Wohin geht ihr?» «In die Welt.» «Was wollt ihr bei uns?» «Euch begleiten!», nämlich die Könige.
Nun bewegt sich die Gruppe mit dem Tempel. Sie gehen unter den Fluß und erheben sich dann wieder mit dem ganzen Tempel. Als sie sich über den Fluß erhoben haben, fällt von oben etwas wie Bretterwerk in den Tempel hinein: es ist die Hütte des Fährmanns. Sie verwandelt sich und wird ein kleines Tempelchen im großen Tempel. Und jetzt spielt sich eine Szene ab, die von Wichtigkeit ist für den Jüngling, der ja bis jetzt belebt, aber noch nicht durchgeistigt war.
Wir haben gesehen: der erste, der goldene König, stellt die Weisheit dar; der zweite, der silberne, den Schein oder die Schönheit; der dritte, der eherne, die Stärke oder den Willen. Wir sehen nun einen symbolischen Akt sich vollziehen. Der Jüngling wird durch die drei Könige mit drei verschiedenen Gaben begabt. Durch den ehernen König mit dem Schwert, und indem ihm das Schwert überreicht wird, werden die bedeutungsvollen Worte gesprochen: «Das Schwert an der Linken, die Rechte frei.» — Kraft des Willens. —- Durch den silbernen König bekommt er das Zepter mit den Worten: «Weide die Schafe.» Wir werden sehen, daß der Jüngling durch die Gefühlskraft der Seele erfüllt wird, die sich in der Schönheit ausdrückt. Der goldene König setzt ihm die Krone auf das Haupt, mit den Worten: «Erkenne das Höchste.» Und die Kraft der Vorstellung erfaßt den Jüngling. In diesem Moment ist er durchgeistigt und darf sich mit der schönen Lilie vereinigen. Wir werden sodann noch darauf aufmerksam gemacht, daß sich alles verJüngt.
Besonders bedeutsam ist noch die eigentümliche Rolle, die der Riese spielt, der keine Kraft in sich selber, wohl aber in seinem Schatten hat. Er stolpert höchst ungeschickt über die Brücke, und der König ist ungehalten darüber. Es stellt sich aber heraus, daß das Kommen des Riesen seinen guten Sinn hat. Wie der Uhrzeiger einer großen Sonnenuhr dasteht, so wird er in der Mitte des Tempelhofes festgehalten. Wir sehen, welche Kraft wir in der Sonnenuhr, in dem die Zeit anzeigenden und harmonisierenden Riesen finden, und wir sehen, wie aus dem Leib der Schlange die Brücke, welche über den Fluß zu dem Tempel hinüberführt, gebildet wird. Wir sehen dann, daß nicht mehr bloß Fußgänger, sondern jetzt Wagen, Reiter, Herden hinüber- und herübergehen können. Es wird uns dargestellt, wie in der Vereinigung mit der schönen Lilie der Jüngling die frühere Kraft, die er durch die Berührung mit ihr verloren, wiedergewinnt, wie er sich jetzt der Lilie nähern, sie umfassen darf, und wie sie beglückt und beseligt beide sind.
Wer möchte nicht, wenn er die Bilder des Märchens auf sich wirken läßt, sagen: Rätsel sind es! Zunächst können wir nur wenig spüren von dem, was in diesem Märchen lebt. Wenn wir aber historisch vorgehen, wenn wir betrachten, wie es in der Mitte des Jahres 1795 entsteht, im Beginn der Freundschaft mit Schiller, aus dem, was sich zwischen Goethe und Schiller zugetragen hat, dann werden wir begreifen, was Goethe sich in dem Märchen für eine Aufgabe gestellt hat. In diese Zeit fällt die Abfassung eines Werkes, eine Frucht des Studiums Goethescher Weltanschauung, das tief bedeutsam wurde für die Erziehung und Kultivierung des deutschen Geisteslebens: die Briefe Schillers über die ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen. Nur skizzenhaft können wir darauf hinweisen, was Schiller mit diesen Briefen wollte.
Er fragt sich, wie gelangt der Mensch dahin, seine Kräfte immer höher und höher zu entwickeln, damit er in einer freien und vollkommenen menschlichen Art in die Geheimnisse der Welt eindringen kann. Dieses Werk ist in Briefform an den Herzog von Augustenburg geschrieben, und Schiller schrieb darin den bedeutungsvollen Satz: «Jeder individuelle Mensch, kann man sagen, trägt, der Anlage und Bestimmung nach, einen reinen idealischen Menschen in sich, mit dessen unveränderlicher Einheit in allen seinen Abwechselungen übereinzustimmen die große Aufgabe seines Daseins ist.» Und nun sucht Schiller auseinanderzusetzen, wie sich der Mensch zu den höheren Stufen des Menschendaseins hinaufzuentwickeln hat.
Zweaerlei ist es, was den Menschen unfrei macht, ihm keinen freien Blick in die Geheimnisse des Daseins gibt. Auf der einen Seite ist es das Beherrschtsein von der Sinnlichkeit, auf der anderen Seite die ungenügende Entwickelung der Vernunft. Und nun setzt Schiller diese Dinge so auseinander: Nehmen wir einen Menschen, der in sich nicht das Zwingende, Logische der Begriffe, auch nicht den Pflichtbegriff verspürt, sondern seinen Neigungen und Instinkten folgt - er kann dieKräfte seiner Natur nicht frei entwickeln, er steckt in der Sklaverei der Triebe, Begierden und Instinkte, er ist unfrei. Aber auch derjenige ist nicht frei, der seine Begierden, Triebe und Instinkte zunächst bekämpft und einzig nur einer rein begrifflichen und logischen Vernunftnotwendigkeit folgt. Ein solcher Mensch wird entweder ein Sklave der Naturnotwendigkeit oder ein Sklave der Vernunftnotwendigkeit.
Wodurch kann der Mensch seine inneren Kräfte entwickeln?Schiller antwortet: Er muß seine inneren göttlichen Zustände entwickeln, sich bemühen, daß sie gereinigt und geläutert werden und zusammentreffen mit dem, was wir Logik nennen. Wenn seine Triebe und Instinkte dann geläutert sind, so daß er gern tut, was er als Pflicht empfindet, wenn die Vernunftnotwendigkeit nicht als zwingend empfunden wird, dann wird der Mensch gern tun schon aus dem gewöhnlichen Trieb heraus, was vernünftig ist, dann hat Vernunft den Menschen hinunter zur Sinnlichkeit geführt, und Sinnlichkeit führt ihn wieder hinauf zur Vernunft.
Sehen wir einen Menschen an, der einem Kunstwerke gegenübersteht. Er sieht sich etwas Sinnliches an. Aber durch jedes Glied des Sinnlichen offenbart sich ihm etwas Geistiges, denn in dem Sinnlichen kommt dasjenige zum Ausdruck, was der Künstler als Geistiges in das Kunstwerk hineingelegt hat. Geist und Sinnlichkeit in der Anschauung der Schönheit, das wird zum Mittlerzustand. So wird die Kunst, das Leben in Schönheit, für Schiller ein großes Erziehungsmittel, ein Mittel zur ästhetischen Erziehung, eine Befreiung der Natur, so daß sie ihre eigenen Kräfte entfalten kann. Wie entwickelt sich also der Mensch im Sinne Schillers. Er muß seine Natur hinunterführen, daß sie sich bewährt in sinnlicher Natur, und die Sinne hinaufentwikkeln, daß sie sich bewähren in der vernünftigen Natur.
Ein wunderbar schönes Wort spricht Goethe über diese Briefe aus: Sie wirken auf mich so, daß sie mir darstellen, was ich lebte oder zu leben wünschte immerdar. — Man kann nachweisen, daß Goethe angeregt worden ist, sein Märchen zu schreiben, durch das, wasSchiller ausgesprochen hat in seinen Briefen über die ästhetische Erziehung des Menschen. Goethe spricht darin dasselbe in seiner Art aus. Goethe wollte nicht in abstrakten Begriffen die Rätsel der Seele aussprechen. Für Goethe waren die einzelnen Seelenrätsel zu reich und zu gewaltig, als daß er sie in Naturnotwendigkeit und Logik hätte fassen können. So bildete sich in Goethe das Bedürfnis, des Menschen einzelne Seelenkräfte in den Gestalten seines Märchens zu personifizieren. Goethe antwortete auf die Schillersche Frage in seinem Märchen, und wir werden sehen, wie dieGoethesche Psychologie in wunderbarer Weise in dem Märchen charakterisiert wird. Wir sehen, wie die Seele immer aufnimmt und von sich gibt in der Darstellung der Irrlichter, wie gewisse Kräfte personifiziert sind in derSchlange, die nur auf der Erde arbeitet gleich der menschlichen Forschung, dem menschlichen Verstand, der Erfahrung, die in der horizontalen Linie bleiben, während der Idealist in die Höhe steigt. Die Kraft des religiösen Gemütes ist charakterisiert in dem Alten mit der Lampe, und wir sehen endlich, wie durch die Vorgänge, die uns erzählt werden, Goethe darstellt, in welcher Weise eine jede Seelenkraft wirken muß.
Wir werden übermorgen sehen, wie Goethe in der Darstellung zeigt, wie jede Seelenkraft maßvoll wirken muß zusammen mit den anderen Seelenkräften, um die Seele zu einem Gesamtbilde zu gestalten, auf daß sie sich hinaufentwickeln könne zu menschlicher Vollkommenheit, zu einem Umfassen der Dinge. Wenn der Mensch unreif die Erkenntnisse erfassen will, so wird er getötet, wie der Jüngling. Es gibt ein Heranreifen der Erkenntnis. In dem Märchen stellt uns Goethe die Evolution der Seele in richtiger und bildhafter Weise dar, indem er darin das Parallelwerk zu Schillers «Briefen über die ästhetische Erziehung» schuf. Goethe wußte, daß es ein Ziel der menschlichen Seelenentwickelung gibt, das man in alten Zeiten die Einweihung in höhere Geheimnisse genannt hat. Er wußte, daß es eine solche Möglichkeit gibt, und er wußte auch, daß es Gesellschaften gibt, die an verborgenen Orten, in den Tempeln der Einweihung, die Kräfte der Seele entwickeln. Er zeigt auch, wie die neuere Zeit immer mehr dahin kommen muß, daß es der Menschheit möglich wird, im größeren Umfange diese Einweihung zu erlangen, die Seele zu entwickeln. Er zeigt in den Vorgängen, die sich zwischen den einzelnen Menschen abspielen, den Vorgang derEinweihung bis zu den höchsten Stufen, bis dahin, wo die Seele fähig wird, die höchsten Geheimnisse zu erfassen. Das ist exoterisch, rein historisch angesehen.
Durch das Zusammenleben Goethes mit Schiller erlebte Schiller dasjenige, was Goethe erlebt hat, in einer der wichtigsten Perioden seines Lebens. Und wenn es Schiller auch schwer wurde, Goethe zu verstehen, so müssen wir doch sagen: Das, was Schiller in abstrakter Weise in den ästhetischen Briefen sagt, und was Goethe in viel umfassenderer Weise zu sagen hatte, in einer Weise, die nur erreicht wird, wenn man sich ausdrückt in Bildern und Persönlichkeiten, das ist ein und dasselbe. Das Märchen ist Goethe-Psychologie im tiefsten Sinne. Wir sehen, daß Goethe durch die Art seines Strebens so fruchtbar geworden ist, daß wir uns heute . noch gern bei ihm orientieren. Goethe erscheint uns noch heute als einGegenwärtiger. Wir lesen ihn wie einen Schriftsteller unserer Zeit. Er ist so fruchtbar, weil er so viel von Ewigkeitsgehalt in seinem Schaffen und seiner ganzen Art und Weise hat. So wirkt er im Sinne jener Wahrheit, die er selbst als die richtige angesehen hat, und ein bedeutungsvolles Wort hat er einst gesprochen: «Was fruchtbar ist, allein ist wahr.»
Das heißt, daß der Mensch sich in den Besitz von Wahrheiten setzen muß, die so wirken, daß, wenn er ins Leben hineintritt, sie ihre Bestätigung finden dadurch, daß sie sich fruchtbar erweisen. Das war für ihn das Kriterium der Wahrheit: Was fruchtbar ist, allein ist wahr!
Gerade diese Vorträge, die Ihnen Goethe veranschaulichen wollen, sollen uns zeigen, daß Goethe diesen Ausspruch selber erprobt hat. Das werden alle diejenigen fühlen, die sich tiefer in ihn hineinleben. Sie werden fühlen, daß in Goethe etwas von echter Wahrheit lebt, denn Goethe ist fruchtbar, und was fruchtbar ist, ist wahr.
Goethe's Secret Revelation Exoterically
Those who follow the spiritual development of humanity not only according to the usual documents and traditions, but go a little deeper, by engaging with things that might at first appear to be merely symptomatic of human development, but which nevertheless point intensely to the inner and therefore true forces of development, will find a memorable scene in recent intellectual history meaningful again and again, a scene that took place in Jena in the 1890s.
At that time, a lecture was given at the Natural History Society in Jena by a botanist named Batsch, who was very important at the time, and which was certainly at the height of scientific knowledge at that time. Two men, one younger and one ten years older, listened to this lecture, and it happened that they left the lecture at the same time and struck up a conversation. The younger of the two men said to the older one: "When you listen to a lecture like this, it becomes clear time and again how the scientific approach picks things apart, how it places one thing next to another and pays so little attention to the unified spiritual bond that lives in all the different details. The younger man was, so to speak, repelled by the fact that plants were placed next to plants without any reference to what must also exist in the world as a higher entity connecting the various plants. The older of the two men replied that it might be possible to find a way of looking at nature that does not work in this way and which, although it is a form of knowledge, a form of observation that must lead to knowledge, focuses very much on the unified, on that which is separate in the observations that are external to the various senses. The man took a pencil and a piece of paper out of his pocket and immediately drew a strange structure, a structure that resembled a plant, but not like any of the living plants that can be seen or perceived with the external physical senses, a structure that is, so to speak, nowhere realized individually, and of which he said that although it does not live in any single plant, it is the plant nature, the original plant in all plants, and constitutes the connecting element. — The younger man looked at it and said: “Yes, but what you are recording there is not experience, it is not observation, it is an idea” — and he meant that such ideas could only be formed by the human mind, and that such an idea had no meaning for what lives outside in so-called objective nature. The older of the two men could not quite understand this objection, for he replied: If that is an idea, then I see my ideas with my eyes! He meant that in exactly the same sense that the individual plant is visible to the external sense of sight, an experience, his archetypal plant, although it cannot be seen by an external sense, is an objective, something that exists in the external world, precisely that which lives in all plants, the archetypal plant in all individual plants. You know that the younger of the two men was Schiller, the older was Goethe.
This conversation is a symptomatic, meaningful manifestation of modern Spiritual Science. What was Goethe actually saying in his reply to Schiller at that time? Goethe was speaking from the awareness that we do not only perceive an external objective, an external truth through the mental images provided by the external senses and preserved by the limited intellect from external sensory perceptions, but that when human beings set higher spiritual powers in motion, which do not address individual sensory observations, can arrive at a truth, a reality, just as one arrives at a truth, a reality, through external sensory perception.
It is fair to say that Schiller, who at that moment could not yet understand what lay behind it and believed that Goethe had presented him with subjectivities, provided the most beautiful document of how man can climb to the heights shown to him by Goethe. From that point on, we see Schiller showing more and more understanding for Goethe's ideas. A psychological document of the highest order is a letter from Schiller, which says: "For a long time now, although from a considerable distance, I have been observing the course of your mind and noting the path you have charted for yourself with ever-renewed admiration. You seek the necessity of nature, but you seek it by the most difficult path, which any weaker force would be wary of. You take nature as a whole in order to gain insight into the individual; in the totality of its manifestations, you seek the explanatory reason for the individual. From simple organization, you ascend, step by step, to the more complex, in order to finally construct the most complex of all, the human being, genetically from the materials of the entire structure of nature. By recreating him, as it were, from nature, you seek to penetrate his hidden technology. A great and truly heroic idea, which shows sufficiently how much your mind holds together the rich whole of its mental images in a beautiful unity!"
Thus, as a document of the objectivity of Goethe's world of ideas, we may regard what led to such a response in Goethe's consciousness and what Schiller later confirmed in this letter.
Very strange: a psychologist who lived in the 1820s and is forgotten today, Heinroth, said something very significant about Goethe in his “Anthropology,” which is actually a work of psychology, something that belongs to those words that are methodologically significant precisely because of their phrasing and shine deeply into what they are meant to illuminate. He used the term “objective thinking” to describe Goethe's entire way of thinking, and he explained this term by saying: Goethe's thinking is a very peculiar kind of thinking that is not actually separate from the objectivity of objects, which lives quietly in objects, in which it rises to the level of ideas.
Those who are able to look more deeply into Goethe's entire mental organization, as we will do today and the day after tomorrow, when we will try to delve even deeper into this topic and look more inwardly, what is to be presented to us externally today, will see that in this way of thinking, without remaining on the surface of things and stuck in sensory experience, he nevertheless remains with the facts and finds within them the spiritual, the world of ideas. We see that Goethe's thinking, precisely in this way, has become so significant for a large part of our modern human development. We may say that there is something highly peculiar about this effect of Goethe's spirit on the most diverse people, on the most diverse views, indeed, on the various successive epochs.
Let us consider what this is actually about, and we will see how peculiar Goethe's spirit has actually been. If, for example, we allow the three philosophers of German intellectual life to enter our souls, who are, in essence, very different in their entire way of thinking: Fichte, Hegel, and Schopenhauer, we can see something very peculiar about the world-historical impact of Goethe's spirit when we consider their mutual relationship and the connection between their relationships with Goethe.
Fichte proves to be a thinker floating in abstract heights, and he was particularly so when he completed his Outlines of the Science of Knowledge in Jena in 1794. It is difficult to rise to an understanding of Fichte's idiosyncrasy; it is difficult to penetrate him, although no one who penetrates him can fail to say that he drew tremendous fruit from him for his intellectual discipline. But it is not everyone's business to ascend to such spheres of the purest concept. This Fichte, who walked in such abstract heights, especially at that time, sent his “Wissenschaftslehre” to Goethe with the following meaningful words: “I regard you, and have always regarded you, as the representative of the purest spirituality of feeling at the present stage of humanity. Philosophy rightly turns to you. Your feeling is its touchstone.” So said Fichte to Goethe.
Let us now turn to another philosopher, Schopenhauer, and first see how Schopenhauer viewed Fichte. They were truly hostile brothers, or at least Schopenhauer was quite hostile toward Fichte. Schopenhauer never tires of using outright insults when referring to Fichte. He considers him a windbag who thought and wrote in empty concepts. He repeatedly returns to emphasizing the insubstantiality, insignificance, and unreality of Fichte's philosophy. Truly, there can be no greater opposites than Schopenhauer and Fichte. And Schopenhauer truly apprenticed himself to Goethe. For a time, he experimented together with Goethe in order to clarify the basic concepts of physics, and much of what is found in Schopenhauer's first work and also in his magnum opus emerged from the impression Goethe made on him. But anyone familiar with Schopenhauer also knows how devotedly he spoke of Goethe. Schopenhauer and Fichte, two great opposites, are united in Goethe, and he appears as the unifying force between the two.
Let us finally take Hegel and Schopenhauer! Hegel is also difficult to understand. He, who attempts to create a factual world of concepts in a comprehensive, systematic organic whole, demands that man rise to a level where he grasps the concept as fact, where he becomes capable of experiencing it. Schopenhauer also finds this conceptual technique completely worthless; everything is a game with abstract words. And if we now want to recall Hegel's relationship to Goethe, we need only mention one thing and we will see how Hegel stands in relation to Goethe. There is a beautiful letter in which Hegel writes: Goethe searches for the actual, spiritual phenomena that lie behind the sensual ones, which Goethe calls the primordial phenomena, just as he calls the primordial plant the primordial phenomenon of the plant world. — While Hegel, as a philosopher, speaks from the heights of the spiritual world and shows us what we can think and comprehend, he works his way up to the point where he comes into contact with the concepts created from the spirit. Thus Goethe's primordial phenomenon is united with what pure, thinking philosophy grasps from above. Here, too, we see a harmony between Hegel and Goethe, as between Goethe and Schopenhauer. They come together in Goethe. And when we move up from these older times to our own, what do we find?
In the time when Goethe himself lived, scientific research had, so to speak, a completely different physiognomy. Even more than was the case in Goethe's time, today the only correct method of rigorous science is considered to be research based on external sensory observation and the clean elaboration of what the intellect, limited to observation, can make of the results thus obtained. But even Haeckel, as he emphasizes in every book, wants to stand on the firm ground of Goethe's worldview, and so we see a more materialistic worldview placing great value on leaning on Goethe. Even today, however, you can still find writings that are based on a foundation for which the spirit is an absolute reality in the most eminent sense of the word, and in these, too, you can see references to Goethe. Spiritualist and materialist researchers may be hostile toward each other, but both believe they can look up to Goethe in the same way. In this way, too, he offers something that bridges opposites.
These facts testify to the power of Goethe's worldview, the power that affects others in such a way that those who do not understand each other find something in Goethe that they themselves possess. Perhaps some of you are aware of the opposition between Virchow and Haeckel. But even Virchow, who agreed with Haeckel on so few things, also drew on Goethe in a significant lecture about him. So in Goethe we have a force that, in the face of opposites, the struggle of worldviews, is able to bring out what they have in common, a force that is able to show that, when it comes down to it, worldviews are not what these representatives of science claim and so persistently defend.When we consider the relationship of these important people to Goethe, we come to the realization that what people call knowledge is like different painters sitting around a mountain, looking at it and painting it from different perspectives. The pictures they produce are naturally very different, and yet it was the same mountain they were painting. A comprehensive mental image of the mountain can only be obtained by comparing the different representations and combining them into a whole. If one approaches knowledge in this way, one will see that Goethe does not choose a single point of view, but climbs the mountain and shows that it is possible to take the viewpoint at the summit of the mountain and find a comprehensive panorama there, where all views reveal their deeper compatibility.
But this is also what makes Goethe such an eminently “modern spirit,” and if, in our unreserved engagement with Goethe, we get the feeling that he appears to us as a modern spirit, then it will be a justification in itself if, in the considerations often made here about Spiritual Science and “a worldview emanating from the spiritual,” we regard what he did and wanted as a kind of guide to penetrate more deeply into his essence. If he is a stimulating spirit in so many respects, why should he not also be a stimulating spirit for that intellectual movement which has as one of its highest and most beautiful goals the tolerant penetration into the various points of view of worldviews, and which makes it a principle not to remain fixed in one position, but to climb higher and higher in order to find truth, using methods that must be applied to one's inner development, to the cultivation of inner organs of perception, because it is only by cultivating one's inner organs that one can see the deeper spiritual foundations.
Let us now consider the extent to which Goethe, in a narrowly defined field, touches the deepest feelings of even today's humanity. Let us take, for example, a feeling that many of you are familiar with, a feeling that could be characterized by the words that there are people in our time who strive to throw some old traditions overboard and to create feelings, thoughts, and mental images that lead into the immediate present. You will immediately see what I mean when I remind you of an image that has become valuable to many in our time. Whatever one may think of the image, it is an expression of modern times. I am referring to the image: “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest.” The image lives not only in the person who created it, but also in those who want to enjoy it; it lives in them the longing to see the figure of Jesus in the immediate present, as she stands at the table. One could say that the image has value not only for this time, but for all times, that it has an eternal, imperishable existence, and that every age has the right to place this figure in its own epoch. These few words suffice to convey the feeling that many have towards this image.
Now one might think that Goethe still belongs to the old school in this respect. This conclusion can be drawn from his preference for ancient art, which sought to preserve the good old artistic traditions, and from his fondness for the Greeks. One might believe that Goethe perhaps did not have a deeper understanding of a sentiment such as that characterized in the painting: “Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest.” To take a look into Goethe's soul, let us refer to a book, Bossi's book on Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper. Goethe wrote a review of this book. It contains meaningful words. Goethe describes this painting, which is located in the dining hall of the Santa Maria delle Grazie monastery in Milan and which, despite recent restoration work, gives the impression of being in a state of decay. He recounts how he himself once stood in front of it at a time when it was still preserved in a certain freshness. And he describes the impression this painting made on him in his youth: "Opposite the entrance on the narrow side, at the back of the hall, stood the prior's table, with the monks' tables on either side, all raised one step above the floor; and now, when the person entering turned around, he saw the fourth table painted on the fourth wall above the not too high doors, with Christ and his disciples at it, as if they belonged to the company“ — He who had been called upon by the Dominicans in their spirit, their position, with the sentiment: ”Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest." Goethe says that the whole thing comes together to form a unified picture. And to leave no doubt as to what he actually meant, he added: "It must have been a remarkable sight at mealtime when the tables of the prior and Christ, as two contrasting images, looked at each other and the monks found themselves enclosed between them at their tables. And that is precisely why the painter's wisdom had to take the existing monks' tables as a model. The tablecloth with its crushed folds, patterned stripes, and unknotted corners was certainly taken from the monastery's laundry room, and the bowls, plates, cups, and other utensils were likewise modeled after those used by the monks. So there was no question here of approximating an uncertain, outdated costume. It would have been extremely awkward to stretch out the holy company on cushions in this place. No, it should be brought closer to the present; Christ should take his Last Supper with the Dominicans in Milan.
And now we ask: Did Goethe have precisely this understanding, which must be called a modern understanding? He had it in that comprehensive style, which can once again prove to us how universal his power is in contrast to the sometimes one-sided forces that exclude and fight each other. So we must put ourselves in Goethe's soul and then we will understand why Goethe can be so close to us and why we can look up to him when it comes to preliminary orientation on deeper spiritual questions. It was Goethe's deep awareness that it is possible for human beings to awaken spiritual organs within themselves in order to ascend to higher insights and thereby gain something that not only lives in the human spirit, but also lies deeper at the same time.
If it were possible here to go into Goethe's scientific studies, as you will find them discussed in detail in my book Goethe's Worldview, we could show how this whole Goethean method works. But today we want to approach Goethe from a different angle. Goethe expressed many things that can point us to the deep foundation of his worldview. We will discuss this in the two lectures of this winter cycle on Goethe's “Faust.” He once said to Eckermann that he had designed it in such a way that the reader, if he wants to stick to external teachings, already has something in the colorful images; but that he can also find the secrets behind the words. In the second part, Goethe points out that a distinction must be made between what is external and what is internal, the essence, what he has imbued it with. In the old way, the external is referred to as the exoteric, the internal as the esoteric.
Now let us approach Goethe by looking at the work in which he expressed his entire methodical thinking and will, today in an external, exoteric way, and the day after tomorrow in an internal, esoteric way. It is a relatively unknown little work by Goethe that one must refer to if one wants to understand Goethe's deepest secrets of knowledge — for that is what we are dealing with here. It is the little work that appears at the end of “Conversations of German Emigrants” under the heading: “Fairy Tales,” and when reading it, those who strive to delve deeper into Goethe's worldview will have the feeling from the outset that Goethe wants to say more than what the images initially present. Riddle upon riddle will be presented to the contemplative observer of this “fairy tale” of the green snake and the beautiful lily.
And now allow me to first discuss the main features of this fairy tale, for it is not possible to talk about the fairy tale without at least considering those features that are important if we want to take a deeper look into Goethe's worldview. It will therefore be necessary for us to devote some time to the content of this little work; but in return we will then have a better understanding of what we have to say. Whenever I have given a lecture on this fairy tale, I have repeatedly been told: “I don't know of any fairy tales in Goethe's works.” I therefore repeat: it is included in every edition of Goethe's works and forms the conclusion of the “Conversations of German Emigrants.” Now to the images! A ferryman lives by a river. Strange figures come to this ferryman: will-o'-the-wisps. They want the ferryman to take them across the river in his boat. The ferryman agrees and takes them across the river. They behave strangely, are restless and fidgety, so that he becomes afraid they might capsize his boat. But he ferries them across safely, and when they arrive, they want to pay him in a peculiar way. They shake themselves and pieces of gold fall from them; this is to be the reward for the effort of ferrying them across. The ferryman is not very impressed by the pieces of gold and says: It is good that nothing fell into the river, for it would have swelled wildly. But I cannot accept this payment, I can only be paid with the fruits of nature. — And he demands three onions, three artichokes, three cabbages. So they should pay with fruits. We will soon see the deep meaning of each move and each individual fact.
Now the ferryman continues: "So you are still causing me the trouble of having to carry what you have thrown away as gold coins down the river and bury them. — Then he actually takes the gold pieces a little way down the river and buries them in the crevices of the earth. Once they have been buried there, a strange other creature approaches these gold pieces: the green snake that crawls around in and on the earth and through the crevices of the earth. Suddenly, it sees the gold pieces falling through the cracks in the earth. At first, it believes that they are falling from the sky. But then it consumes them and becomes increasingly luminous as it absorbs these gold pieces into its own body. When it comes to the surface, however, it notices that it is radiating a strange light in a wonderful way, shining like emeralds and precious stones.
Now the snake and the will-o'-the-wisps meet, the will-o'-the-wisps still shaking and throwing away what they have inside them. The snake, which has now acquired a taste for gold, absorbs into its own body and processes what the will-o'-the-wisps throw around them. The snake and the will-o'-the-wisps say meaningful things to each other about their mutual relationship. The snake calls itself a relative of the will-o'-the-wisps from the horizontal line, and the will-o'-the-wisps call themselves relatives of the snake from the vertical line. The will-o'-the-wisps ask the snake if it can tell them how to get to the beautiful lily. The snake says: The beautiful lily is beyond the river. “Well, then we've got ourselves into a fine mess!” reply the will-o'-the-wisps. “We came here because we wanted to get to the beautiful lily. If only we could find a ferryman to take us back!” And now come the meaningful words: “You will not find the ferryman again, and even if you did, be aware that he can take you across, but he is not allowed to take you back.” If you want to return to the other side of the river, there are only two ways to do so. Either you try at noon, when the sun is at its highest, to find a bridge over my own body to get across. — The will-o'-the-wisps say: Noon is a time when we do not like to travel. Or you can use the second way. There is another possibility. At dusk, you will find the great giant at a certain place. He has no strength in himself, but when he stretches out his hand and the shadow of his hand falls across the river, you can cross the river over the shadow. The shadow has the carrying power to allow you to cross. So if you do not want to cross over me at midday, seek out the giant. — The will-o'-the-wisps accept this. But the snake has returned to the crevices of the earth and rejoices in its inner glow from absorbing the gold.
Now the snake notices something very strange. As it searches the crevices again, it notices that where it had previously found irregular natural products, it now sees strange structures in one place. Previously, it had only perceived them through its sense of touch, but now that it is glowing, it realizes that it can also see things. It could feel columns and human-like structures, but until then it had never realized what was actually in the underground crevices. Now it moves back inside, using the light it emits to illuminate the objects.
As she enters this large cave underground, she immediately notices four royal figures standing in the four corners: a golden king, a silver king, a bronze king, and in the fourth corner a mixed king, a figure composed of the other metals in the most colorful way, so that all possible metals are chaotically interwoven in him.
The moment the snake enters the cave and succeeds in illuminating the figures, the golden king asks the very significant question:
“Where do you come from?”
“From the crevices,” replied the snake, “where the gold dwells.” “What is more glorious than gold?” asked the king.
The snake replies: “Light!”
And the king asks further: “What is more refreshing than light?”
“Conversation.”
No one will doubt that these words are not merely meant to be images, but that they also have a meaningful content.
When the snake enters the cave, a crack opens in the temple where the four kings live. The old man enters the room with the lamp and is asked why he has come at this particular moment. He then utters the strange words: “Do you not know that my light may only illuminate what is already illuminated? That I may not illuminate the darkness?” After the snake has illuminated the objects in the room, he too is allowed to enter with his miraculous lamp.
Now a new conversation unfolds between the kings and the old man with the lamp. The old man is asked:
“How many secrets do you know?”
“Three,” he replies.
“Which is the most important?” asks the silver king.
“The obvious one,” replies the old man.
“Will you reveal it to us too?” asks the bronze king.
“As soon as I know the fourth.”
And now come the most significant words of the fairy tale: “I know the fourth,” says the snake and hisses something in his ear, whereupon the old man cries out in a mighty voice: “The time has come!”
There have been numerous attempts to solve the riddles of this fairy tale. Many have also tried to interpret what was already considered a riddle in Schiller and Goethe's time in one way or another. It is strange that Goethe and Schiller agreed on this and expressly stated it in words: The word that solves the fairy tale lies in the fairy tale itself. So the solution to the fairy tale can only be found in the fairy tale itself, and in the course of this lecture it will also become apparent that the answer to the riddle, albeit in a peculiar way, is contained within the fairy tale. The snake hisses something into the old man's ear, and what it hisses into his ear, but which is not said, is the solution to the riddle. Then the old man says, “It is time!” So what must be fathomed is what the snake whispered in the old man's ear in the underground temple.
The old man now goes with his lamp to where his wife lives. The light from the lamp transforms all kinds of materials: stones into gold, wood into silver, dead animals into precious stones, but metals are destroyed. He finds his wife in a state of utter bewilderment. When he asks what happened, she says: There were some very strange people there. They could have been mistaken for will-o'-the-wisps. They showed very little restraint. “Well,” says the old man, “at your age, they probably just remained polite.” And now she tells him how the will-o'-the-wisps approached the gold and licked it so that they could shake it off again. If only that were all, but look at the pug. He ate some of the gold pieces, was transformed into a gemstone, and died. Now he is dead. And the old woman continues: If I had known that beforehand, I would not have promised them that I would pay off their debt to the ferryman. That is: three cabbages, three onions, and three artichokes.
Well, said the old man, take the pug with you, carry it to the beautiful lily, which has the property of transforming everything that is a gemstone into something living by touching it. — So she takes the three times three fruits to pay off the debt she has taken on with the ferryman, and adds the pug.
Now comes a very significant twist in the fairy tale: as she carries the basket, it seems extraordinarily heavy to her, even though the dead weight means nothing to her; the basket with the dead pug alone would be as light as if it were empty; it is only the living things, the cabbages, onions, and artichokes, that make the basket heavy. On the way to the ferryman, however, something strange happens to her. The giant places his arm so that his shadow falls across the river, takes a cabbage, an artichoke, and an onion from her basket, and eats them, so that she now has only two of each. She therefore wants to pay the ferryman only part of the debt, but he says that it is absolutely necessary to bring the whole amount with her.
After much back and forth, the ferryman said that there was still a way out, which would be if she provided a guarantee that she would bring the three missing fruits. She must therefore put her hand in the river as a guarantee that she will keep her promise. She does so, but then notices that the part of her hand that was in the river has turned black and become smaller. “It only seems that way,” said the old man. "But if you don't keep your word, it may become true. Your hand will gradually shrink and finally disappear completely, without you losing the use of it. You will be able to do everything with it, only no one will see it." But she would rather be seen, even if she cannot do anything with her hand. If she brings the tribute at the appropriate time, says the ferryman, everything will be fine again.
On her way to the beautiful lily, she meets a wonderfully handsome young man who, as he says, has lost all his former strength and power; and from the conversation they have, we learn how this came about. The young man had developed a keen desire to reach the beautiful lily. She had become his ideal. But her beautiful eyes had such an unlucky effect on him that they had robbed him of all his strength, and yet he was still drawn to her again and again.
Finally, the two reach the beautiful lily. Everything that surrounds the beautiful lily is highly significant, but we can only pick out a few individual features here. The beautiful lily is the image of perfect beauty, but it has the property of initially killing everything living by its touch, and then bringing everything that has gone through life and fallen into death back to life.
The old woman now presents her request. The young man has come to satisfy his longing for the beautiful lily; but we also see that the beautiful lily feels longing as well. She feels far from all fruitful life; plants thrive in her garden, but only until they bloom, not until they bear fruit; she is beautiful, but far from all living things. The old woman then says a meaningful word. She repeats what the man in the underground temple said, and this gives the lily new hope. But that was also the last moment in which she could hope, for the last living thing that had formed a kind of bond between her and the living had also been lost to her. She had a canary in her vicinity and had been very careful not to touch it, because that would have killed it. But now a hawk had come near, and the canary fled from it, flew toward the lily, and was killed. And with that, the beautiful lily was now in complete spiritual loneliness and separation from what humans have.
Now the old woman gives the pug to the lily. The lily touches it and brings it back to life. The young man seeks to satisfy his longing by embracing the lily. This kills him completely. The life within him is utterly destroyed.
The snake now forms a magic circle. The young man and the canary are placed inside this circle. This is supposed to change what is bleak in the very near future, as the snake meaningfully indicates. And indeed, it does change. We learn that the old man is now approaching with his lamp, and that through him a solution to the whole situation can indeed be attempted. For it is just the right moment when the old man approaches: the bodies of the canary and the young man have not yet begun to decay.
The old man leads them to the underground temple that the snake had already scouted out. He says to the will-o'-the-wisps: You are also suited to serve us. When we reach the gate of the temple, it will be you who will have to unlock the gate for us. Now the snake forms a bridge across the river. The whole procession crosses the snake bridge. When they arrive on the other side, we see that through contact with the snake, which now decides to sacrifice itself, the young man, though not yet spiritualized, comes to life. Because the snake is willing to sacrifice itself, he enters a strange state. He can see, but he cannot yet comprehend what he sees.
The snake divides into wonderful gemstones, which the old man lowers into the river, creating a bridge across it. Led by the old man, the procession moves into the underground temple. When they enter, we see that meaningful questions are asked between the newcomers and the kings, suggesting that a great mystery is hidden there. For example: “Where do you come from?” “From the world.” “Where are you going?” “To the world.” “What do you want with us?” “To accompany you!” namely the kings.
Now the group moves with the temple. They go under the river and then rise again with the whole temple. When they have risen above the river, something like a wooden structure falls into the temple from above: it is the ferryman's hut. It transforms and becomes a small temple within the large temple. And now a scene takes place that is important for the young man, who until now was animated but not yet spiritualized.
We have seen that the first, the golden king, represents wisdom; the second, the silver king, represents appearance or beauty; the third, the bronze king, represents strength or will. We now see a symbolic act taking place. The young man is given three different gifts by the three kings. The bronze king gives him the sword, and as the sword is handed to him, the meaningful words are spoken: “The sword in your left hand, your right hand free.” — Power of will. — The silver king gives him the scepter with the words: “Feed the sheep.” We will see that the young man is filled with the emotional power of the soul, which expresses itself in beauty. The golden king places the crown on his head, saying: “Recognize the highest.” And the power of mental image takes hold of the young man. At this moment, he is spiritualized and allowed to unite with the beautiful lily. We are then made aware that everything is rejuvenated.
Of particular significance is the peculiar role played by the giant, who has no strength in himself, but does have strength in his shadow. He stumbles very clumsily across the bridge, and the king is displeased. However, it turns out that the giant's arrival has a good purpose. Like the hand of a large sundial, he is held in the middle of the temple courtyard. We see the power we find in the sundial, in the giant who shows the time and brings harmony, and we see how the bridge that leads across the river to the temple is formed from the body of the snake. We then see that not only pedestrians, but now also carriages, horsemen, and herds can cross back and forth. We are shown how, in union with the beautiful lily, the young man regains the former power he lost through contact with her, how he is now allowed to approach the lily, embrace her, and how both are happy and blissful.
When we let the images of the fairy tale sink in, who would not say: These are riddles! At first, we can sense very little of what lives in this fairy tale. But if we take a historical approach, if we consider how it came into being in the middle of 1795, at the beginning of his friendship with Schiller, from what happened between Goethe and Schiller, then we will understand what Goethe set himself to do in the fairy tale. This period saw the writing of a work that was the fruit of Goethe's worldview and became deeply significant for the education and cultivation of German intellectual life: Schiller's Letters on the Aesthetic Education of Man. We can only sketchily indicate what Schiller wanted to achieve with these letters.
He asks himself how human beings can develop their powers ever higher and higher so that they can penetrate the mysteries of the world in a free and perfect human way. This work is written in the form of a letter to the Duke of Augustenburg, and in it Schiller wrote the meaningful sentence: “Every individual human being, one might say, carries within himself, according to his disposition and destiny, a pure ideal human being, with whose unchanging unity in all his vicissitudes it is the great task of his existence to agree.” And now Schiller seeks to explain how man must develop himself to the higher stages of human existence.There are two things that make man unfree, that prevent him from seeing freely into the mysteries of existence. On the one hand, it is being dominated by sensuality; on the other hand, it is the insufficient development of reason. And now Schiller explains these things as follows: Let us take a person who does not feel the compelling, logical nature of concepts, nor the concept of duty, but follows his inclinations and instincts—he cannot freely develop the powers of his nature, he is enslaved by his drives, desires, and instincts, he is unfree. But neither is the person free who initially fights his desires, drives, and instincts and follows only a purely conceptual and logical necessity of reason. Such a person becomes either a slave to natural necessity or a slave to rational necessity.
How can man develop his inner powers? Schiller answers: He must develop his inner divine states, strive to purify and refine them, and bring them into harmony with what we call logic. When his drives and instincts are purified so that he willingly does what he feels is his duty, when the necessity of reason is not felt as compelling, then man will willingly do what is reasonable out of ordinary instinct, then reason has led man down to sensuality, and sensuality leads him back up to reason.
Let us look at a person standing in front of a work of art. He is looking at something sensual. But through every limb of the sensual, something spiritual is revealed to him, for the sensual expresses what the artist has put into the work of art as spiritual. Spirit and sensuality in the contemplation of beauty become a mediating state. Thus, for Schiller, art, life in beauty, becomes a great educational tool, a means of aesthetic education, a liberation of nature so that it can unfold its own powers. So how does man develop in Schiller's sense? He must bring his nature down so that it proves itself in sensual nature, and develop his senses so that they prove themselves in rational nature.
Goethe says something wonderfully beautiful about these letters: They affect me in such a way that they represent to me what I have always lived or wished to live. — It can be proven that Goethe was inspired to write his fairy tale by what Schiller expressed in his letters on the aesthetic education of man. Goethe expresses the same idea in his own way. Goethe did not want to express the mysteries of the soul in abstract terms. For Goethe, the individual mysteries of the soul were too rich and too powerful for him to grasp in terms of natural necessity and logic. Thus, Goethe felt the need to personify the individual powers of the human soul in the characters of his fairy tale. Goethe answered Schiller's question in his fairy tale, and we will see how Goethe's psychology is wonderfully characterized in the fairy tale. We see how the soul always absorbs and gives of itself in the depiction of the will-o'-the-wisps, how certain powers are personified in the snake, which works only on the earth, like human research, human understanding, and experience, which remain on the horizontal plane, while the idealist rises upward. The power of the religious mind is characterized in the old man with the lamp, and we finally see how, through the events that are told to us, Goethe depicts the way in which each soul power must work.
The day after tomorrow we will see how Goethe shows in his depiction how each soul force must work in moderation together with the other soul forces in order to shape the soul into a complete picture, so that it can develop upward to human perfection, to an understanding of things. If a person wants to grasp knowledge before they are mature, they will be killed, like the young man. There is a maturing of knowledge. In the fairy tale, Goethe depicts the evolution of the soul in a correct and pictorial way, creating a parallel work to Schiller's “Letters on Aesthetic Education.” Goethe knew that there is a goal of human soul development that in ancient times was called initiation into higher mysteries. He knew that such a possibility existed, and he also knew that there were societies that developed the powers of the soul in hidden places, in temples of initiation. He also shows how modern times must increasingly lead to humanity being able to attain this initiation on a larger scale, to develop the soul. In the processes that take place between individual human beings, he shows the process of initiation up to the highest levels, up to the point where the soul becomes capable of grasping the highest mysteries. This is exoteric, viewed purely from a historical perspective.
Through Goethe's coexistence with Schiller, Schiller experienced what Goethe had experienced during one of the most important periods of his life. And even if it was difficult for Schiller to understand Goethe, we must nevertheless say that what Schiller says in an abstract way in his aesthetic letters and what Goethe had to say in a much more comprehensive way, in a way that can only be achieved by expressing oneself in images and personalities, is one and the same thing. The fairy tale is Goethe's psychology in the deepest sense. We see that Goethe's nature of striving made him so fruitful that we still like to orient ourselves by him today. Goethe still seems contemporary to us today. We read him like a writer of our time. He is so fruitful because he has so much of eternity in his work and in his whole manner. Thus he works in the sense of that truth which he himself regarded as the right one, and he once spoke a meaningful word: “Only what is fruitful is true.”This means that human beings must take possession of truths that have such an effect that, when they enter into life, they find confirmation in the fact that they prove to be fruitful. For him, that was the criterion of truth: only what is fruitful is true!
These lectures, which Goethe wants to illustrate to you, are intended to show us that Goethe himself tested this saying. All those who delve deeper into his work will feel this. They will feel that something of genuine truth lives in Goethe, for Goethe is fruitful, and what is fruitful is true.